In the
beginning, there was Chaos. And Chaos was beautiful, but absolutely
non-functional. The Gods created worlds, hurled lightning bolts, and lit stars,
but no one recorded the coordinates. As a result, entire galaxies were lost in
the folds of eternity, and heroes who performed feats could not receive their
due ambrosia because they were not listed on the payroll.
It was then
that this figure emerged. No one knows his name. The Sumerians claimed the
stranger emerged from the waters of the Tigris, clutching a lump of raw clay.
The Egyptians whispered that he was born from the shadow of the Sphinx. We,
however, shall call him the First Clerk.
He looked at the riot of elements,
adjusted his non-existent glasses, and uttered the first bureaucratic spell in
history:
— "And where is the permit for the creation of light?"
The Gods
were taken aback. They were not used to questions. They were used to hymns.
—
"I am the Alpha and the Omega!" thundered the Creator.
— "I
heard that," the Clerk replied calmly, pulling out a stylus. "But in
the 'Position' field, you cannot write two letters of the Greek alphabet. Pick
one. And provide a certificate of ownership for the Void. In triplicate."
Thus, the System was born.
The
Epoch of Clay and Reed
At first,
it was hard—in the literal sense. Sumerian officials, those first knights of
the Order of the Chancellery, wrote on clay tablets. It was difficult to refuse
a petitioner, but if they did refuse, they could drop the "refusal"
on the petitioner's foot. This taught citizens respect. Bureaucracy back then
was weighty, rough, and visible. It didn't just regulate life; it cemented it.
If you were recorded as a "date gatherer," you couldn't become a
hero—the tablet wouldn't allow it; the clay had dried.
The
Arrival of Prophets: De Gournay and Weber
Centuries
passed, clay gave way to papyrus, papyrus to parchment, parchment to paper.
Bureaucracy became lighter, airier, and therefore—scarier. In the 18th century,
a man named Vincent de Gournay appeared in France. He was not a prophet, but a
diagnostician. Looking at endless tables piled with papers, he realized that
the desk (bureau) had gained its own will and power (kratos). He
saw that the official does not serve the king and does not serve the people.
The official serves the regulation. De Gournay tried to ridicule this monster,
but the monster merely purred contentedly: satire is also a form of reporting.
Later came
the German priest of order, Max Weber. He did not laugh; he admired. He saw in
bureaucracy an ideal mechanism, free from love, hatred, and human passions.
"The Iron Cage," said Weber. And he wasn't wrong (note the
phrasing!). He described the ideal official: faceless, dispassionate,
competent. A man-function.
Apocalypse
per Form 13-B
And so,
according to ancient prophecies, the End of Times arrived.
The sky rolled up
like a scroll (which already hinted at the clerical nature of the universe).
Trumpets sounded. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse descended to earth.
Plague, War, Famine, and Death rode down the main street of the metropolis,
ready to begin their bloody harvest.
People fled
in panic. Cities burned. But in front of the building of the Main Department of
Reality Management, the Horsemen stopped.
Before the entrance stood not an
army, not holy saints, and not heroes. There sat a small, withered watchman in
a grey uniform.
In front of him was a boom barrier.
The
Horseman named War reared his horse and raised a flaming sword:
—
"Tremble, mortal! The hour has come! We have come to erase this
world!"
The watchman slowly raised his eyes, licked his finger, and turned
a page in the visitor log.
— "Do you have an appointment?" he asked
in a creaky voice.
The
Horsemen exchanged glances.
— "What?" croaked Death. "We are the
Apocalypse! We are inevitability!"
— "Inevitability is taxes,"
the watchman parried without standing up. "And you are visitors. According
to Decree No. 666-bis from the creation of the world, entry for unauthorized
persons onto the territory of Reality for dismantling works is permitted
strictly with passes."
— "I will burn you!" roared War.
—
"Damage to state property," the watchman noted indifferently.
"Article 14, paragraph 5. A fine plus correctional labor for eternity. Do
you want to spend eternity sweeping the parade ground in Limbo?"
Plague, who
was a bit more cunning, leaned down from the saddle:
— "Listen, old man.
We have an order from above. From the Main One."
— "An order in
verbal form?" the watchman clarified. "Well... it's Divine
Will!"
— "Divine Will is a philosophical category," the guard
cut him off. "I need Form AP-1 (Apocalypse Primary) with a blue stamp and
the signature of the responsible person. And by the way, Citizen Death, your
horse doesn't have a veterinary passport. And this is a quarantine
district."
The
Horsemen were bewildered. They were trained for battles, for suffering, for the
Great Judgment. They were not trained for the line at Window No. 4.
— "But
what are we supposed to do?" asked Famine, whose empty stomach began to
cramp from nerves.
— "Write an application," the watchman handed them
a form. "Review within thirty working eons. But I'm warning you right now:
it's currently lunch break.
And then we have an inventory of sinners. Come back
next Thursday. Or in a millennium."
The
Horsemen of the Apocalypse stood for a moment, whispered among themselves, and,
hanging their heads, turned their horses around. There is no defense against a
crowbar, but against bureaucracy, there is not even God's wrath, for wrath must
first be registered in incoming correspondence.
The world was saved. Not by
heroism. Not by prayer. But by the fact that the End of the World simply had
its paperwork filed incorrectly.
