Hartford P. Figglesworth adjusted his sunglasses as he thrrrrrp'd his way up to the Department of Extant Motor Vehicles. Slapping his hypothetical kickstand to the corporeal pavement, he pantomimed slipping off a custom leather seat and stopped blowing his tongue as his hand twisted where the ignition could've been. Stepping through the double glass doors, he surveyed the landscape. It was a motley line in front of him. There were men dressed as firefighters, ninjas and barbers among other things. Princesses and Presidents sighed and checked their watches. It was a long, dimly lit queue leading up to the front desk. Getting in place, Hartford wondered what all these folks were in line for. Perhaps they, like he, needed permits for their imaginary vehicles.
The line seemed to go on for ages. Along the way, Hartford passed several souls desperate for relief, either for sustenance or some kind of bathroom problem situation. There were some skeletons, picked clean by the others who marched on in unison past the ghastly suffering of the many. All eyes were locked on the front desk, their only hope. After about thirty minutes, Hartford finally found himself face-to-face with the clerk, an old woman with dark skin and shutter shades hanging onto the edge of a thick, powerful schnozz.
She stared at him, her eyes vacant and empty. After a moment, she leaned forward and in a tone resembling a whisper, asked him a question.
"Greetings. What is it you require assistance with?"
Hartford leaned on the counter, twirling his mustache between his fingers. "I'm here about acquiring a permit, madame, for my ride. You might've noticed it outside, at least you would've if it existed outside my head."
She stared at him, before robotically twisting towards a drawer. Pulling out a pile of sand, she poured it onto the desk between them and started to spread it around. "You need to fill out a fugue form in triplicate before we can register you, sir."
Hartford frowned loudly. "That's absurd. I've already spent enough time in the desert, and wandering around there trying to be enlightened or whatever's really taking up a lot of my time. Can't we just skip it?"
"No sir. We must be firm on this," she said, grinding the sand into her skin. "There are no alternatives, sir. If you're not going to be of use, then I can help the next in line."
"No, no, let's talk about this." Hartford leaned over the desk, brushing the sand off the counter and pouring it into her lap. "I really need a permit. I can't risk being pulled over by the fun police again. Last time they barely left me visible."
"If you wish to file a complaint, you can find your teeth and use them to sky-write us a message. We will compel fun to comply within six to two-eights of a week."
"Forget this." Hartford slammed his palm on the table, leaving a sticky residue behind. "If you can't help me out, then I'll risk it. Thanks for nothing."
"Sir, put your hands where I can see them. I'll need to see ID."
Hartford spat on the counter, and stormed out. He didn't need them. He could be fine all on his own. Swinging his legs over empty space where a motorcycle could potentially exist, he pulled his wrists back and blew a raspberry as hard as his lips could manage. Peeling out, he half-stepped into the setting sun and faded into the night.
THRRrrrrrrpppppp…
