A Future We'd Like to See 1.10 - 37047734 : The Next Generation By Twoflower (Copyright 1993) Planet MURF! Home of the Murfles! Spoken of in hushed tones, heralded in song, chronicled in a dozen bard's tales throughout the galaxy. Hah. As if. Murf's smelly, grimy, polluted, and pretty much the definition of Urban Hell. However, it's not nearly as bad as the other worlds, where they build gargantuan buildings with six-foot high doors and scrape the skies; we Murfles prefer being close to the ground, which shows why no murfle structure is more than about three floors. Planet Murf's my home, my pride, and my joy. I'd rather be a Murfle on Murf than Murf on a Murfle, the saying goes. It doesn't mean anything, but it's a comforting thought. It may smell funny, and my job might be bad, but I love this world. One thing going for Planet Murf is the fact that we don't get any tourists. Things move right along when you don't have to deal with confused, clueless offworlders that frown upon dishes you consider delicacies and don't bother learning the local language. The reason for nontourism? Simple. Our buildings are about 12 feet high, and those are the tall ones. Why bother raising things to TC standards when we're certainly not raised to TC standards? So, you can calmly overlook the grunge and grit, since you can be 100% sure that you belong here. No modifications have been made, we don't have multi-species toilets; everything is purely Murflan in design. Plus, we don't have a messy government, like that democracy thing over on Yttia and Terra. We've got a simple monarchy, with a nice monarch, to boot, that knows what he's doing and can handle the job with a strict minimum of unpleasantness. Life is much simpler here; most of our dialogue is based on the artform of the argument. Humans get all twitchy and shifty when you argue with them, whereas a decent Murfle can stand their ground and fight back. It's never personal, though; it's quite hard to hurt a Murfle's feelings, 'cuz yer average Murfle doesn't have any to hurt. 'Cept for the Barneyites. Jeez, I can not STAND Barneyites, which is a pain because my job deals with Barneyites; I'm a report filer for Barneyite Rights and Justice. By law, all Murfles can expect to be treated fairly. This wasn't a problem at first, since we basically acted alike as a species. THEN some idiot gets it into his head that we should teach our kiddies to be nice and kind and sweet and sharing and loving and caring and hugging and kissing and conversing and giving and benevolent and ARGH!! Thank goodness the programming finally got yanked off the air (it was pirate HV, after all), but the few parents that don't bother screening their kids upbringing paid the price. Now we have almost an entire generation of kind, thoughtful Murfles. They're just as sappy as Humans now! But the Leader says we gotta pity 'em, because they didn't have the decent upbringing we had. There's no reason to hate them just because they're emotionally handicapped. I don't really hate them, I guess, they're just annoying at times, like this guy right here. "I mean, I tried to turn down my TV like the Super said," the Barneyite whined, pausing occasionally to adjust his glasses. "But he just kept complaining and complaining and then evicted me." He's got a legit complaint, bigotry by a housing offical, code 4563. It's just the tone of his voice that's nagging at my nerves. "What's your Supe's name and personal ID number?" I said, giving my filing cabinet a savage kick. The top drawer slid open. It always sticks on days with high pollution count. "It's Quirk, I think," the Barneyite said. "I don't know his ID number. Sorry, really." "Don't apologize," I snapped. "Shows weakness." "Sorry I apologized." I paused a minute and went through the counting-down-from- ten ritual all workers at the Office of Barneyite Rights and Justice had to learn. It takes expensive training to be able to emotionally deal with a Barneyite without damaging them emotionally, training not every worker gets. "Damn. Can't do diddley without an ID number," I said, kicking the cabinet again to shut the drawer. "Look, Fork--" "Err, that's Spork, please." "Spork, whatever. I'm gonna give you a three-day pass for Homeless Shelter 6a. If I can't find your Super's ID number or if he refuses to comply with demands to let you back in, I'll find you an empty house somewhere in the 'burbs, where you can live with your own kind." "I'd like that, really," Spork said, "I hear the air is very nice out there. But if you can, please, I'd rather stay here, near my job at the Waste Management Center. I sort glass." "You'll get what I can find," I retorted. "I'll do what I can, but don't expect miracles." "Sorry." "And quit apologizing!" * "Whaddya mean, I can't look up the ID number?!" I shouted at the bureaucrat behind the desc in Citizen Management. I hate Citizen Management. Out of the thirty seven government office buildings alone in this city, this is quite possibly the worst. The clerks are snotty and don't even argue right, and the phone system is always tied up. I tried calling, on the one in five million chance that the line'd be open, but ended up walking here, as usual. "I require a form B:767 stroke alpha, Citizen ID Request Form, before any ID inquiries can be made," the clerk stated. This weasel wasn't even bothering to get angry. "Until then, I can't process your request. Have a Typical Day." "Look, you'll be eating my fist in a minute, bucko," I said. Okay, so violence was a cheap shot, a last resort in an argument, but this guy wouldn't bother getting angry enough to decently argue with. "If you decide to take that avenue, you'll need to fill out a J:9765 stoke delta, Agreement to Pay Fines In Response to Striking a Citizen, from the slammer. Have a Typical Day." "Oh, alright, I'll get your damn form. Oops," I said, 'accidentally' knocking the six-inch high stack of papers on his desk to the floor. "SORRY about that." I stomped off, heading back to the Personnel Transit Booth. This is really the worst way to travel around inside office buildings, because although it'll cross hundreds of feet in less than a second, you're screwed if there's no map nearby. I'm not in the mood to take a ball of string and a parchment and start mapping my way to Form Dispensing, however, so I'd have to risk it. I perused the list of destinations. ..',,.' leads to .'.`.'`.`',`,.', and .'`.' leads to .`.'`.'`... bah, they never get the dot placement right in this lousy building. Poorly written Murflan script can result in wild mis-translation. I really wish the government hadn't switched to this writing system fifty years ago, it's too hard to screw up. I hazarded that the Fish Dispensing department was just a badly written Form Dispensing department, pushed that button, and rematerialized elsewhere. Alright, I've been here before. Mental map? Turn left... turn right... straight... third door. "Ah.... ohh... what the--?" "HEY! GET OUT OF HERE!" Slam. So that's why the phones are always busy. Hmmm. Someone from Mating Ethics ought to look into this place. I would have thought that configuration was impossible, even with the fiberglass. Ah, NOW I remember, it's the fourth door. Tap the pad, watch it slide, enter the room. Seventeen clerks madly rushing about collecting papers in trays, and punching various buttons on the wall. Considering that all form requests are shuttled through this one room, these people are probably overworked. Argue ethic dictates to be short, to the point, and only mildly annoyed with someone on the verge of cracking themselves. It's only fair. "Form B:767 stroke alpha. That's it," I said to the least- moving clerk. "Sit," he ordered. "Well get to it in a minute. CLARA, why aren't you getting these Y:G:3578s in quadruplicate as requested?!?" "I hit the wrong button--" "Pay more attention next time! Philler! Get these useless forms to recycling!" "Recycling chute's jammed!" "UNJAM it!" "Will SOMEBODY give me a match?" Philler shouted. You know, watching these guys at works is kinda fun. It reminds you that no matter how crummy your life is, there's someone even more miserable than you out there. Whoever designed this wall of tubes, chutes, slots and buttons must have been certifiably insane. There was no order or pattern to them at all : tube shot out at odd angles, chutes sometimes didn't go down, buttons were of varying sizes, with varying writing styles on them. Every single orifice on the wall was spewing out identical white forms with thousands of carefully placed black dots on them. "Here you are, B:768 stroke alpha, Permission to use Domesticated Animals for Mating Acts." "No, I need a B:76*SEVEN* stroke alpha. Request for a Citizen ID Request Form," I said, reciting the title more or less from memory. "You want a form, you get a form. Now piss off," the clerk said, pushing the AutoEject Button, as I rematerialized out in the hall. Whoever made those had a good idea, since I'm sure many a person would be happy to lunge at those weenies' throats sooner than leave. Okay, so I've got an eight instead of a seven. If I add on another dot to the eight it'll be a seven. The rest of the form's bunk anyway, as the typeset is slightly off, changing this from a Mating Acts form into a shopping list for a bathtub full of ceramic tile and a zebra. Take out my handy DotWand and poke an extra dot under the eight. There, a B:767 stroke alpha. I stepped into the Personnel Transit Booth, disoriented myself and landed somewhere near Request Form Requests. Turn left, turn left, straight, third door. I tapped the pad slowly, in case there was any more perverted activity inside. "This had better be Request Form Requests," I said to the one clerk behind the desk. "It is," he said. "How can we help you?" I looked around the room. "We?" "Yes, me and my twin brother Normal. He's the one in the purple chair." "There isn't any purple chair here, nutboy." "Yes there is, it's next to the rhinoceros," the clerk said, pointing in a seemingly random direction. "You're insane," I confirmed. Pause. "Whatever. Here, I need this B:767 stroke alpha, Request for a Citizen ID Request Form, exchanged for a B:767 stroke alpha, Citizen ID Request Form." "Normal says they're the same." "No, they're not. One is a B:767 stroke alpha, Request for a Citizen ID Request Form, the other a B:767 stroke alpha, Citizen ID Request Form. It IS your job to know these things." "Normal says I am KING OF THE UNIVERSE!" the clerk exclaimed, jumping onto his desk and making beep-beep noises. "Tell Normal to go exorcise himself, I need this form exchanged." "Forms! Forms! Wheeee!" the clerk yelled, pulling a stack of papers out of his desk and throwing them up into the air, where they fluttered down in a disorganized clump. "Normal says your form is in there." "You idiot, how am I supposed to find it now?" I yelled at him. "And don't ask Normal!" "Normal suggests--" "I don't give a Ytt's ass what Normal suggests." "--that you get a T:T:W:K:3208 stroke kong, Permission to ask for a Form Finder Request Form." I scooped up the whole dejected stack of papers, and glumly left the office. * Transit, turn, turn, run, door. THUMP goes the stack on the original clerk's desk. "Your precious form is somewhere in that mess," I said. "I can sift through them one by one right here, taking up your time and mine, or we can go by the honor system and assume I'm telling the the truth. Got it? NOW can I have that ID check?" The clerk peered solemnly at the stack, frowning. "Very well. What's the name of the citizen you'd like the ID number of?" I started to speak, then paused. Then started, and stopped. Dammit, I have GOT to start writing these things down. * The irony of all this, if there wasn't any to begin with, is that the Barneyite moved out of town while I was searching for forms, and the Super in question was stabbed to death by his wife earlier today. Boy, do I hate Planet Murf.