The assembly line began to run.
"Application Number: PW-0001."
"Subject of Application: Repair of missing manhole cover at 452 Martin Luther King Avenue, Hill District."
"Requested Budget: 850 US Dollars."
"Risk Assessnt: Extrely High. Involves potential legal liability for the city."
The rapid-fire clacking of keyboards filled the air.
The printer churned out paper with the rapid staccato of a machine gun.
ticulously formatted budget requests were printed out one after another.
Attached to the back of every docunt was the original notice, complete with a photograph.
Wagner sat at the head of the table, official seal in hand.
"STAMP!"
He stamped it.
Next.
"STAMP!"
He stamped it.
His movents grew more practiced, tinged with a thrilling sense of vengeance.
He rembered Moretti’s arrogant, dismissive face from every ti he had to go to the City Council for budget approval.
He rembered Linda Rossi from the Budget and Finance Committee, how she would viciously nitpick his proposals as if examining them under a magnifying glass.
’Since you love reviewing docunts so much,’
Wagner thought viciously.
’Then I’ll let you review them until you’ve had your fill!’
"STAMP!"
Another red seal was stamped onto the docunt.
For an entire day.
Inside the offices of the Street Maintenance Bureau, paper piled up like mountains.
Four thousand applications.
Each one a bullet aid at the City Council.
5:00 PM.
It was closing ti at City Hall.
A van from the Street Maintenance Bureau pulled up to the back entrance of the City Council building.
Several burly young employees, carrying a dozen or so massive plastic totes, walked into the docunt receiving office.
Behind the counter, the clerk on duty was a slightly balding middle-aged man. He was staring at the wall clock, his hand already on the pull cord for the Venetian blinds, prepared to end his tedious day.
"Hey, hey, fellas, hold on."
The clerk’s brow furrowed the mont he saw them. He tapped a finger on the "Office Hours" sign on his counter.
"Intake is closed for the day. Co back tomorrow morning at nine."
"Urgent files. They have to be logged today."
The man in the lead didn’t break stride, simply directing his subordinates to stack the heavy totes onto the receiving counter with a dull THUD.
He pulled an administrative transmittal form, in triplicate, from his pocket and slapped it down in front of the clerk.
"Ergency supplental funding requests from the Departnt of Public Works, regarding the city-wide investigation into infrastructure hazards."
"This is the first batch. Four thousand files in total."
The clerk’s hand, which had been reaching for a pen, froze in midair. He stared at the totes in disbelief, then back at the expressionless man before him.
"How many?"
"Four thousand."
"Are you insane?!"
The clerk’s voice grew shrill with shock. He pointed at the totes, looking like he was about to jump out of his skin.
"The Budget and Finance Committee secretariat only has three assistants! And one of them is on maternity leave! How do you expect them to process four thousand applications dumped on them all at once?"
"That’s their problem, not ours."
The man in the lead shrugged, his expression strictly business.
"These are urgent files, signed off by our director personally. Every single one pertains to a public safety hazard. According to the city charter, you are required to accept them and complete their registration and distribution within twenty-four hours."
He pressed the pen into the clerk’s hand and pointed to the signature line.
"Your signature, please, sir. We have to get back and process the next batch."
The clerk stared at the pile of totes nearly blocking his service window and swallowed hard.
He knew the rules.
As long as the docunts were properly formatted and stamped, he had no authority to refuse them.
He muttered a curse, and with a trembling hand, signed his na on the transmittal form before stamping it with the ’Received’ date and ti.
The clerks took back their copy of the form, turned, and walked away.
The clerk stared at the totes in despair.
A bright red "URGENT" label was plastered on the side of every single one.
「At that exact mont.」
「In the Mayor’s Office.」
Leo stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the empty van drive away from the building below.
’The first wave of the offensive has begun,’
he said to Roosevelt in his mind.
"This is only the beginning,"
Roosevelt’s voice held a hint of amusent.
"Four thousand files. Enough to paralyze their secretariat, burn out their photocopiers, and turn Moretti’s lunch break into a living hell."
"But it’s not enough to make him surrender."
"He’ll try to fight back. He’ll try to send the files back, or find so excuse to reject them en masse."
"Leo, what you’re doing right now is engaging in a political battle. Yes, you’re using certain tactics, certain tricks."
Roosevelt’s voice grew sonorous and powerful.
"But everything you are doing, you are not doing for your own self-interest."
"You are fighting for the safety of the people who walk on crumbling streets. You are fighting for a voice for those who have been ignored by the bureaucracy."
"You are harnessing the will of the people to storm that corrupt fortress."
"Rember this, my boy."
"As long as you always stand with the people, as long as every move you make is for their benefit,"
"then no matter how powerful your opponents, no matter how cunning they may be..."
"You can never lose."
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