Some day, this will be a "Last.fm/NetFlix/Amazon for web fiction" (both original and fanfiction) where you can search across many different hosting sites or rate what you've read and get recommendations. However, life keeps throwing more urgent projects my way, so I don't know when it'll be ready.
Even with Luna standing (then sitting, then lying fast asleep) RIGHT THERE, nothing could smooth out the rumples and wrinkles the damnable Dotted Line threw in my path to filling out this one, lone, benighted form. It was at about the four hour mark, as Dotted Line was sending an intern to fetch yet another phonebook-thick manual on how to precisely calculate.... who knew what.... that I finally snapped. "Give me a fresh form," I said.
Dotted Line scowled suspiciously. "It's a little early for that," he said. "You should finish the other paperwork, and use this as the rough draft, then we can get all new copies and make a nice clean--- Gaaak!"
The truncation of his suggestion was a bit rude sounding; of course it was to be expected as I now had his nice striped tie in my grip and was pulling the Windsor knot as tight as it would go. "Give me a fresh copy of the Paper of Citizenship form," I said, my voice eerily calm even in my own ears, "Or by Celestia, Luna, and Discord I shall pull this tie until your head snaps off." Eyes bulging, he complied, sliding the paper over to me with a free hoof. I released his white-collar worker's noose from my trembling grip. While he gasped with relief and struggled to loosen his tie, I calmly commenced with filling out the form.
I was done in five minutes. I slid the form over to him. He took it from me warily; apparently my doughy build had led him into misjudging the speed of my reflexes, and he was loath to accidentally provoke them again. He scanned over the paper. Frowned. Scanned it again.
He gave me the most deadpan look I have ever seen, even on something as lifeless as a government bureaucrat. "Name, Arthur Arcturus. Age, 41. Species....Draconequus." He looked at me.
"Humans are a sub-breed," I said.
"Seriously??"
"Feel free to prove otherwise."
"Former address.. Everfree Forest."
"EEyup. Feel free to send someone to check the address." That earned me a glare.
"Permanent address... Foggy Bottom Bog??" His face scrunched up. "a hydra-infested bog...."
"Yup. Got my hydra farm there."
"Hydra farm."
"Yup. I sell hydra milk. Says so right there on line 14: primary source of income."
"Hydras don't make milk!"
"Never said it was a good income..."
In case it isn't obvious how this was going, In my frustration I had succumbed to the unethical decision to use the unspoken, two-edged sword of bureaucracy against them: while the law of bureaucracy insists that anything they don't have a check-box for doesn't exist, the flipside is that, if they have a check box or any combination of check boxes for it, it must therefore be true, no matter how much it is obvious utter balderdash. http://www.fimfiction.net/story/24890/17/the-audience/chapter-17
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