Thomas K. Plofchan ran away from home
at the the age of fifteen.
He made his way to a West Virginia
coal mine, where he worked as an
underground mechanic for six years.
Then he joined the Army and
served with distinction in Afghanistan.
He was honorably discharged in 2016,
and somehow wangled his way
into law school.
He passed the Bar in 2019.
Now he was sitting here
in front of me,
smoking a meerschaum pipe,
while I interrogated him.
I shuffled through his file
one more time, while I gathered
my thoughts.
"You have quite an impressive record"
I told him.
"No comment" was all he would reply.
"Do you know why you're here?" I asked him.
"No comment"
"And that you face a minimum of twenty years
in a maximum security prison if found guilty?" I
rasped harshly. I was getting sick of his lack
of cooperation.
He needed to know I could do more
than just polish truncheons.
"My mouth and my stomach are
disconnected" he finally said.
"What?" I asked him.
"My mouth feels hungry even
when my stomach is full" he continued.
"Are you trying to obfuscate things?"
I asked him sternly.
He leaped out of his chair like a madman.
"There! I knew it!" he exclaimed.
"With that kind of a vocabulary
You're no more a barbarian than I am."
I tried to hide my blushes, but couldn't.
"Why, thank you" I said. "No one has said
anything so kind to me in years."
"You're just the kind of person we can use in our organization"
he whispered to me in small fonts.
"How so?" I asked him, in the same manner.
Once he explained things to me I began to see how mistaken
my unquestioning obedience to the state had been.
So I helped him escape.
We fled in an unmarked Agency car.
With my help, Plofchan's group was able
to hack into Lego's data base --
so the next time we march on the Capital,
it will be behind an impenetrable wall
of interlocking plastic bricks.
THEN we'll see who laughs last . . .
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