The Distant Joke
The coffee is cold. You know this because the surface has formed a skin, a dull, brown membrane that ripples when you stir it with the spoon. It is a precise, technical observation. You are a man who deals in precision. Your title is Inspector, but in this place, in the Bureau of Anomalous Containment, you are a janitor of the impossible. The fluorescent lights hum at a frequency that vibrates...
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