AcmeShorts

As readers will doubtless deduce from the tale to follow, T.R. Rumbleford was a particularly fastidious homo Assistant Regional Population Surveillance Clerk in Quadrant 12 of the State Megonoplex.

Yet Rumbleford's fastidiousness, the aplomb with which he collated Quarterly Liquidation Data - to say nothing of the fancy-pants violet-magenta Invisible Banafrax tunic he donned on "casual Nuur[X]68P-days" - did not impress Grenault McPhreely, the obese droid-man middle manager in charge of the Quadrant 12 Population Division. McPhreely slighted Rumbleford at every turn; impugned the quality of his work; upset the tidiness of his cubicle after hours; and made dark insinuations about the disappearance of office supplies, like the 12 Megaton ARCtan Ion Defragger (which McPhreely himself had snuck home to his flat for recreational use).

I think you'll agree that the situation was combustible. Rarely has an office politics contretemps in a dystopian-futurist setting been as fraught with tragicomic possibility.

But rather than watch the drama play out to its logical conclusion (an exchange of epithets and laser-fire; smoldering circuitry; dismemberment; imprisonment; hurt feelings), I would ask readers to ponder this question: Why, in an age in which office workers commute by space cycle - why, 427 yagfrillion merg-years after Stonewall - does the society in which our story is laid continue to tolerate homophobes like Grenault McPhreely? Is this progress?