Entry 77. Reporting for work

At the hour when the workday at Imaginary Structures Inc. usually began, three distinct and large groups were gathered near the front gate.

Forming a perimeter around the complex were hundreds of security officers, armed, wearing face masks and armor, and holding large shields. Facing them were 5,000 witnesses surrounding 1,500 company employees, who were dressed for an average workday.

At the front of the line was Lon Weston, president and founder of Imaginary Structures, with a big smile on his face. It seemed a little forced, as if he was trying as hard as he could to look serene but it wasn’t working so well.

I stood near Lon with Buffalo and John Hemlock. We witnesses were going to form a corridor through which the workers would walk. In an ideal world, the small army of security personnel would step aside, but they looked as though they were prepared to stand their ground.

The plan was for the workers to press forward until they were taken into custody; once in custody, they would respectfully decline to cooperate with authorities. Asked their name, they’d respond, “I choose not to participate.” Pressed for a contact number or address, they’d respond, “I choose not to participate.” Threatened with jail or prison, they’d respond, “I choose not to participate.”

With all 1,500 employees of Imaginary Structures Inc. being processed, the court system would have precious little time for real criminals.

Looking at his timepiece, Lon Weston proclaimed loudly, “All right folks, let’s go to work.” And he began to stride toward the line of shields. The company’s associates came forward behind him.

“This plant is closed. Do not come any farther or you will be trespassing,” an authoritative voice barked from somewhere behind the dark force.

Lon Weston and his team came forward.

“It’s such a beautiful day to work,” Weston called, spreading his arms to indicate the warm, bright sun.

“You are trespassing. Turn back now,” barked the disembodied voice.

Lon Weston and his team came forward. Except for the armed men with shields blocking their path, it could have been any other morning as people approached the factory entrance. Perhaps there was less of the everyday chattering of conversation.

“Halt. This is your final warning,” barked the voice.

“We choose not to participate,” someone called from behind Lon Weston, and a few people laughed nervously.

The crowd was three to five meters from the security force. “Here come the arrests,” I said to no one in particular.

And then, for the second time, John Hemlock saved my life.

He stepped in front of Buffalo and me, yelled “Get down!” and not waiting for us to react, tackled us flat and covered us with his massive body.

Not quite comprehending, as I fell backwards I caught a glimpse of dozens of security forces aiming their weapons.

Entry 78