Division

 “Am I conspiring to overthrow the government? Really? Come on, you can do better than that,” Tarren replied. He smiled at the figure standing across his desk, waiting for the wink or gesture that would confirm that he was indeed the butt of a practical joke. But it didn’t come.

The androgynous figure, dressed in a finely tailored dark gray business suit, red, white and blue tie, and very expensive black shoes, simply stared back at him, arms crossed and silent. Average height if female, short if male, slender build, pale complexion, short red hair and blue eyes. The look on his face, or her, face was solemn, so solemn that Tarren decided he would never accept a wager from his visitor because that was the best poker face he had ever seen. Everything about this person shouted “SERIOUS" so loud that this was obviously a prank that someone was playing. But who?

“What did you say your name is?” Tarren asked.

“Smythe 32,” came the reply. “I am-“

“Yes, you already told me your last name, and 32 is what? Your badge number? Right?” Tarren interrupted, and hoping to at least discover the gender of this practical joker continued, “But I’m asking for your first name. And please, feel free to sit.” He pointed to a chair in front of his plain but solid oak desk.

Without acknowledging the proffered chair, the visitor continued, “Smythe 32 is my name, or model and production number to be more precise. It is also my authorization identification. I have already identified myself and informed you that I represent Division. Now-“

“Look,” Tarren interrupted again, starting to get annoyed, “Normally I would play along. Carry this on for a while, really get into it and afterwards have a laugh over a beer or three. But I am staring down a deadline, haven’t had anything to eat since last night and in a few hours I have to deal with my manipulative, diet pill addicted whore ex-wife and her lover when we all sit down to chat with our attorneys and wrack up huge legal expenses that I will probably end up being legally ordered to pay. I’m not sure who you are, who sent you here to play what I normally would think is a great practical joke, or even if you are a man or a woman. Props to your acting ability and poker face, by the way. But do me a favor: get to the punchline and leave.” Tarren finished, leaning back in his old and uncomfortable office chair while resting his hands on his ample stomach.

Smythe 32 showed no anger or annoyance at being interrupted multiple times or at the tone of voice which Tarren used. There was actually no emotion whatsoever evident on the face of Smythe 32. Emotion was viewed as a potentially critical weakness and therefore was not a component of the programming used to construct Smythe 32.

“I have met the criteria for patience. I have observed your legal rights. I will now tell you in plain words that this is no practical joke”, Smythe 32 said flatly. Looking directly at Tarren, it continued, “I also inform you that I will ask you once more a question. It is a deadly serious question and failure to answer will be judged as an admission of guilt and will be met with deadly consequences. Any attempt to dodge the question or to leave this room until I am satisfied that you have honestly answered the question and given you permission to leave will be taken as an admission of guilt and will be met with deadly consequences. Am I understood, Mr. Terrahill?”

Tarren’s annoyance began to fade as he stared at the red haired, white skinned and blue eyed figure before him and he began to have serious doubts about his initial feelings of this all being a joke. He nodded his head in answer.

“Yes or no? Do you understand?" Smythe 32 asked. "Verbally respond."

“Yes,” came the answer. “But if this is-“

“Very good,” Smythe 32 stated. “I remind you that I will ask you a question. It is the same question that I asked when I first entered your office. It is perhaps the most important question you have ever been asked and will determine your future in a very literal manner. I will not repeat this question again.”

Tarren simply stared at Smythe 32. If this was a practical joke he was going to reach over his desk, grab this androgynous red, white and blue freak and throw him, her and it right thru the glass window of his office and watch him, her and it plummet down all 16 stories and splat all over the sidewalk below.

“Mr. Terrahill”, Smythe 32 said, “on April 27th of this year you wrote an article which was published in the Elanor Gazette, for which you are a reporter. In this article you stated the possibility that the government of our Country intentionally lied to her citizens concerning some of the terrorist attacks that were stopped prior to being carried out in order to divide the people living in this Nation. You went on to state your belief that the government of our great Country intentionally divided its citizens into race, religion, ethnicity, gender and sexual preference. Your stated that the reason for such division is that the leaders of our government find it much easier to control a population that is constantly fighting amongst itself. That a united people would prove to be a force that would wipe the slate clean, the slate of a government with its own agenda to rule according to its will and not the will of the people. In your third paragraph, second sentence, you stated ‘United we stand and divided we fall.’ Your language was inflammatory and has resulted in 72,326,918 views, 33,751,111 likes and 21,456,003 comments. The final words in your column were, and I quote, ‘A united people is the Sheppard. A divided people are the sheep.’ Mr. Terrahill, are you conspiring to overthrow the government of our Country by seeking to unite the citizens of our Country so that the government may be forced to obey the voice of the people?”

When Smythe 32 finished, Tarren said, “I exercised my Constitutional right to free speech. We, as a Nation, must wake up and unite. We can again be the greatest Nation on the face of this Earth if her citizens come together and insist that our government rule according to the voice of the people.”

“Division disagrees,” Smythe 32 said quietly, as it reached into its well tailored suit jacket and withdrew a small gun with a large silencer attached to the business end.