The door to the council chamber swings open with a practiced grace, announcing my entrance. They call it dramatic; I call it punctual. The click of my polished shoes against the tiled floor sets the rhythm of inevitable authority as I approach the head of the table. Chairs shuffle, throats clear—the usual soundtrack to my arrival.
"Good morning council members," I announce, though the words are hardly necessary. My presence alone commands the room's attention, like a maestro before his orchestra. I take my seat, the chair practically groaning under the weight of my significance. The leather feels good against my back—like it was made for me. It was.
I survey the familiar faces, each one a blend of admiration and well-practiced fear. I flash them my trademark smile, the one that says, 'I know exactly what I'm doing,' even when I'm making it up as I go along.
"Let's begin, shall we?" I say, clasping my hands together. There's a power in tradition, in repetition—it's comforting, like an old song or reheated leftovers. "Plasticville wasn't built on surprises," I remind them, invoking the name of our quaint little utopia with all the reverence of a prayer.
"Tradition is our bedrock, uniformity our shield," I continue, my voice dipping and soaring in all the right places. Heck, if I weren't giving this speech, I'd be moved by it. "It's about pride, people. Pride in our smooth, unblemished sidewalks, in the homogeneity of our hedges. In the way our children recite the town creed with more fervor than a plastic pop song lyrics."
I pause for effect, watching their heads nod like bobbleheads on a dashboard. "We're a single brushstroke on a vast canvas," I muse. "A monochrome masterpiece." A chuckle escapes me, though whether it's from the absurdity of my own metaphors or the spectacle of their eager agreement, I can't quite tell.
"Uniformity isn't just our policy," I add, leaning forward, elbows on the table, "it's our legacy." And as I say it, I can almost feel the eyes of my ancestors boring into me from their gilded frames on the wall, egging me on. They knew what was at stake—after all, they were the ones who painted over the unsightly parts of our history with broad, unyielding strokes.
"Thank you for your dedication," I finish with a flourish, standing now, buttoning my jacket as if closing the deal on yet another day of unchallenged supremacy. "Now, let's get down to business."
And just like that, the stage is set, the actors ready. But behind the scenes, I know the script better than anyone—the lines, the lies, the legacy.
I let the last note of our town creed linger like the aftertaste of too-sweet lemonade before I pivot. "Speaking of legacy," I start again, my voice a velvet hammer, "let's not forget the thin line it treads with individuality." The council members lean in, their ears practically twitching. They smell a hunt.
"Individuality," I say, rolling the word off my tongue as if it's something quaint, like a child's belief in fairy tales—an amusing but dangerous fiction. "A charming concept, in theory. Yet," I continue, my tone dipping low, carrying the weight of imminent doom, "it’s like a loose thread on a sweater. Pull it, and everything unravels." Murmurs ripple through the room; I've got them. Hook, line, and sinker.
"Take these... glitches," I segue carefully, lowering my voice. "Curious anomalies that pop up now and then, threatening to snag our societal fabric." I toss the word 'glitches' like a bone, watching their eyes gleam with familiar fear.
"Imagine," I say, pacing slowly, hands clasped behind my back, "a glitch in our midst. An oddball. A misfit." I shudder theatrically, letting the horror of such an abomination sink in. "It's not just about standing out, you see. It's about pulling others in — into their... chaos."
"Chaos,” they echo, the word sizzling in the air like a fuse on old dynamite.
"Where there's one, there could be more," I warn, darkly, "multiplying, changing our very essence." My eyebrows arch, a silent, shared nightmare painted in the space between us.
"Can't have that," I chuckle, but it's a sound devoid of humor, dry as the pages of the censored history books lining my office. "Not in Plasticville. Not on my watch."
They nod, fervent, frantic, their minds already racing to the finish line of this witch hunt I've orchestrated. If only they knew how much I relish the game. Keeping Plasticville in a perpetual state of plastic perfection—it's an art form, really.
"Stability over caprice, uniformity over quirks," I conclude, my voice a melody of mock solemnity. "That's how we maintain control. That's how we survive."
And with that, I've planted the seeds of paranoia, watered them with a dash of dread. I can almost see the roots taking hold in their muddled brains, twining around their common sense, choking it out. This is how you keep a town in line—with whispers, not shouts. With implications, not declarations.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under the weight of historical burdens, and let the word "glitches" hang in the air like a bad odor. Eyes around the table dart about—skittish deer in a forest of fear. I've got them right where I want them.
"History," I say, the word dropping like a guillotine, "has a funny way of repeating itself, doesn't it?" A pause for effect. "Especially when it involves those... anomalies."
"Glitches," Councilman Hargrove echoes, his voice carrying the tremble of a man who's seen too many horror flicks. Oh, the power of suggestion.
"Quite," I reply, tapping my finger on the polished surface of the table, as if to squash an invisible bug. "We've excommunicated our fair share, haven't we? For the safety and uniformity of our little utopia. And for the most part, our residents are blissfully unaware" The table murmurs agreeingly.
"Can never be too careful," pipes up Councilwoman Dray, her voice brittle as the fake smile plastered across her face. She's got the spirit; I'll give her that.
"Careful," I muse aloud. "Now there's a term that's lost its charm." I stand, towering over the table like a dictator surveying his empire. "It’s about more than just being careful, though. It's about survival. Our survival."
I watch them grasp at the idea like it's a lifeline thrown into stormy seas. It’s delicious to witness—their desperation disguised as duty.
"Excommunication isn't just tradition. It's necessary. Like pruning roses or taking out the trash. Makes everything look prettier, doesn't it?" My words are barbed hooks, and they're biting down hard.
"We need to remind Officer John to stay vigilant this weekend at the Celebration." says the Councilwoman with the finality of a judge sentencing a thief to the gallows. "We stay vigilant. We eradicate the glitches. We preserve Plasticville."
"Ah," I say, patting down the imaginary wrinkles on my tailored suit. "The Celebration. Plasticville's crown jewel." My voice booms across the room like a maestro conducting an orchestra of nodding heads. "It's our annual reminder to the good people of this town that we are the epitome of perfection."
I lean forward, hands clasped in front of me, and fix them with a firm look. "The banners, the fireworks, the parade – all meticulously designed to dazzle their eyes and blind them from asking questions."
A pause for effect. "We need smiles, people. The kind that hurt your cheeks if you're not used to them. Fake it till you make it, right?" A ripple of chuckles rolls through the council, as genuine as a three-dollar bill.
"Now, about the history exhibit," I continue, my tone taking a dive into the deep end. "Keep it light. Keep it... edited. We wouldn't want any curious minds stumbling upon... discrepancies." I let the word hang heavy, like a coat on a too-small hook.
"Discrepancies have a way of becoming glitches," I add, the edge of a knife sliding into my words. "And we know what happens to those." A collective shiver dances down their spines, delightful shivers, like watching dominos topple just as planned.
"Remember, our ancestors didn't scrub the truth just for the fun of it." I flash a grin, the kind that doesn't reach my eyes. "They did it to keep the ship sailing smoothly. No one likes a choppy sea, least of all me."
"Any questions?" I scan the room, daring them to challenge me. They remain silent, statues in a garden of obedience. Perfect.
"Good. Then get to work. Make sure this Celebration shines so bright, it blinds them to everything else." I stand, straightening my jacket, the very image of the town's glossy veneer. "After all, isn't that what they expect of us? To guard them from the ugly truths?"
"Of course, Mayor Gleam," they say in unison, voices blending into a sweet cacophony of compliance.
"Then we're done here." I stride out of the council chamber, the echo of my steps a drumbeat to the rhythm of power. Behind closed doors, I permit myself a small, knowing smile. Oh, Plasticville, you haven't seen anything yet.
