Sandwich Shop

    I sit on the plain metal bench in the government's van, terrified. I'm not a criminal, I'm just a regular, working man, but they took me off the streets in one of their random raids, and now I am being taken to a terrifying place, a place that I had heard of but had never imagined that I would ever have to go- The Sandwich Shop. There were five people in the van besides me, all ordinary people, and as the van traveled we told each other about ourselves in an attempt to stay calm- resisting would only make it worse. There were two factory workers, John and David, regular guys who were always quick with a joke, a doctor, Laura, quiet and calm even now, a policeman, Jerry, he never stopped talking but was always polite. And then there was me, just an antisocial repairman, a job that would soon be obsolete, replaced by machines like all the others. It's ironic, I suppose, how well the six of us represented the entire population at the time.
    We soon arrived at The Sandwich Shop. The rear door of the van was opened, and we exited. Though we had been riding in the dark for hours, our eyes didn't really need to adjust- the sky was thick with smog, and the government provided us with as little light as possible- both to save money and to disorient us. Each of us was taken to a separate room with a single table and chair. Even though we were all being put through the same process, the government doesn't like to deal with us in groups- it makes us people think that we have the advantage if they let us believe that our numbers are greater. Now, a woman enters my room, wearing a false smile and an outdated outfit that the government still believes will bring forth the image of a waitress. She begins the interrogation with a single question:
    "What kind of sandwich would you like?"
    Taking the advice of a friend, I respond with one word. The more they know about your preferences, the more they can use it against you.
    "Chicken."
    The waitresses leaves, and immediately an alcove opens on the wall, revealing a simple chicken sandwich, as if they knew what you would ask for all along. A neon sign on the wall above starts flashing, displaying a single word, over and over: "Eat". I pick up the sandwich, and begin to eat, trying not to be too conscious of the hundreds of eyes upon me, recording my every action in great detail. I know that behind the one-way walls is an entire viewing room filled with scientists, monitoring and measuring my every action. The government spent years of research on the best way to look into the human psyche, and came up with a complete analysis of eating sandwiches. By examining one's every move, they could map all of that person's emotions and aspirations, reducing their entire psyche to a sheet of data. I ate my sandwich, then waited a few minutes in absolute terror- what would they learn about me? Did I have any dark desires that even I did not know of? Was I too resentful of the government? Too angry? Too uncooperative? But after about half an hour- they love to make us wait- the door open, and I exited, meeting up with David outside. We waited a few minutes for the others- none of them came. And so we departed, traveling our separate ways. The next day, I checked the paper for the reasons of the deaths for the others in my group- the government always posted it to keep us in fear. John was 12.9% too lazy, Laura was 24% too resentful of the government, and Jerry was .1% too likely to commit a crime of passion. The last has haunted me to this day, that .1%, that tiny insignificant number. I try to comply as much as I can now, because I know that .1% could be me some day.