The Inspection

This month, we feature a story about a man in a suit: a very smart suit. And that's probably the best thing we can say about him!

Donald sat at his desk, alone in his office, enjoying his morning coffee. It was a ritual, a rule, fifteen minutes of peace and quiet before the day’s work began in earnest. The staff knew how important it was to him and, for the most part, they respected it. Only one person was allowed to disturb him, and she knew it had to be nothing short of an emergency… a genuine emergency, not some department head panicking over nothing as usual.

There was a knock at the door.

“It better be good, Barbara, what is it?”

Silence. Perhaps she’d had second thoughts. Not surprising after he’d cancelled her Christmas bonus last time she intruded on his peace. He swivelled his chair and looked out the window at the sun shining on the neatly manicured lawn.

The knock came again. It must be someone else, Barbara would never be that stupid.

“I’m in conference, go see the lady at the end of the hall, she’ll schedule an appointment.” He made a mental note to have the security team replaced, sack whatever idiot was knocking at the door, and cancel Barbara’s bonus again.

But planning his retribution was interrupted by a third knock, louder, more insistent… and they weren’t stopping this time. He got up, marched to the door, and yanked it open. Outside was a man in a suit, a plain, ordinary grey suit: a cheap, off the peg suit by the look of it, it didn’t fit the man well at all. “Who the hell are you?” Donald demanded.

“Ah, good, I’ve got you at last, I’m here to complete the inspection. Can I come in?”

“No, you can’t come in. Don’t you know who I am?”

“Yes, of course I know who you are, that’s why I’m here… I need to ask you a few questions before I can finalise my report.”

“What report, what are you talking about?”

“Well, I’ve been commissioned by…”

“Look, buddy, I don’t care if you’ve been commissioned by the Lord God almighty, you don’t come in here uninvited. I’ve no idea how you got past security, must be that clown disguise, I guess, but…”

“Clown disguise? I thought this was how you dressed here; I researched it before I came. ‘A man in a suit’, a trusted figure of authority, a smart, stylish mode of attire guaranteed to command respect.”

“You sound like an advertisement.”

“It may have been, I found it on Goggle.”

“You mean Google?”

“We use Goggle at The Centre. It’s usually pretty reliable, although it can be a little out of date sometimes, I must admit…”

“Right, figures, you’re from that drug rehabilitation centre on Washington Avenue East. I don’t know how you got out, far less how you…”

“I’m not from that centre, I’m from Galactic Centre, from the Lesser Interstellar Species Control Board. Anyway, it’s obvious my research was right: look at you, you’re nothing but a man in a suit, yet your people chose to make you the most powerful being on your planet. Nonetheless, while it’s quite evident the suit is more important than the man within, I needed to speak to you to conclude my inspection.”

“You’re inspecting me?”

“Not you alone, Mr President… your species, the human race.”

“What?”

“I must say, it was quite inconclusive up to this point. I should thank you for helping me make my mind up so easily, really: after experiencing your brusque, arrogant, frankly rude, behaviour, the rest of the interview is no longer necessary. The conclusion is now certain. You’ve failed.”

“Failed, what do you mean, ‘failed’?”           

“As a species, you have failed to demonstrate you’re worthy to join the interstellar community. The exterminator fleet will arrive within three to five of your planetary orbits. I suggest you take the time to reflect on your failings. Good day, sir.”

The man in the suit vanished before Donald’s eyes.