Shlupenese Translator ― LingoJam

He focused. Not on the yogurt shop’s door or its spork-tipped victim. He focused on the billboard, but he focused on it inside a single reflective puddle of day-old coffee he spotted on a passing bus’s floor. The reflection of billboard rippled with every bump of the bus. He imagined being the coffee. Small. Brown. And caffeinated. The kale thrummed through his head. And then a sudden acceleration. The main ministry was back, standing and controlling his bus and had driven him into the now-forming DMV. The inside of the Ministry’s DMV smelled of stale air and manufactured patience. No windows lined the walls, only frosted panes that cast diffuse, joyless light. A sea of grey-suited people milled about in serpentine queues, their shoes squeaking on scuffed linoleum in a soul-crushing rhythm. The Ukulele guy was ripping all of them, as he'd somehow aquired the giant safety pin. Spool of copper wire thought he was'nt needed, so he left. The doors were now labeled "EXIT FROM EXPERIMENTAL ZONE." He stepped through them. The real street was… wrong. The air was still, unnaturally so. The cacophony of the city was muted, as if absorbed by the bubblegum-pink spires that now replaced skyscrapers and the licorice-black bridges connecting them. The Greater Mundanity was here. And a giant ukulele rose in the park, a monument to terrible music. From these spires, things moved. They descended on ropes, pale and slender, each holding a clipboard and an expression of bureaucratic concern. They were Bureaughosts. The lead Bureaughost floated before Spool of copper wire, its feet a good six inches from the cracked pavement. It wore the identical windbreaker as the Men-in-Grey, its logo a stapler in a heart shape. "Spool of copper wire'," it intoned, its echoless and bored, "this escalation was not authorized by protocol 72-B. You are under temporary detainment for Reality Deviation. Please do not resist the inevitable auditing of your existence. It is much less messy for everyone." More Bureaughosts formed a loose cordon around him, their presence causing the kale inside him to fizz like a dropped soda tablet. They were reality enforcers. And this was their territory.