OSHA inspectors are competent professionals who do not:
-
arrive in ominous sedans
-
wield clipboards of supernatural authority
-
trigger apocalyptic choir music
-
or, as Jake insists, “project regulatory pressure fields”
Additionally:
-
Jake’s phone cannot detect approaching federal oversight
-
BT4 units cannot “form defensive formations”
-
No safety cones were harmed
-
And no combat occurred of any kind
The events below represent Jake’s imaginative interpretation of a perfectly ordinary OSHA audit.
—Howard
ACT I — THE SUMMONING
It was a quiet morning at VCIM.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet you only get when all forty-three BT4s are stationary and reflectively contemplating the meaning of Standby Mode.
I (Jake) was standing in the yard, sipping coffee, admiring Rusty’s noble compliance posture.
Then it happened.
A beige Ford Taurus rolled into the lot.
Not drove.Rolled.Like a herald of destiny.Like a tax form given wheels.
The instant the tires kissed gravel—
MY PHONE EXPLODED INTO “DIES IRAE” AT MAX VOLUME.
Full choir.Full organ.Full medieval doom.
I panicked so hard I nearly threw the phone at a hopper.
“NOT NOW—NOT AGAIN—WHY—WHY—WHY,” I shouted, slapping every button.
Howard poked his head out of the office.
“…Why is your phone playing Latin mass?” he said.
“I DON’T KNOW,” I shouted over the rising choral swell.“I THINK IT SENSES DANGER.”
Howard walked over slowly, the way you approach a wounded animal.
“Turn it off.”
“I CAN’T!”
“Lower the volume.”
“I’VE TRIED TWICE!”
Howard stared at me as the choir hit a terrifying minor chord.
“…What app did you install?” he asked.
“I DIDN’T—maybe—a ringtone site—but it SAID it was secure!”
Rusty beeped sharply, as if sensing bureaucratic tension.
Sprinkles hid behind a dumpster.
Clunker made a grinding noise that harmonized unsettlingly with the choir.
Then the OSHA Inspector stepped out of the Taurus.
Clipboard in hand.
Windswept coat.
Hair perfectly regulation.
Stolen story; please report.
Somewhere behind him a tumbleweed gave up and rolled away.
My phone hit MAXIMUM VOLUME and screamed the opening of Dies Irae so loudly that several BT4s attempted evasive maneuvers.
Howard sighed with the weight of ten thousand audits.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “The boss fight music started.”
Howard: “It’s your ringtone.”
Me: “NO NOT THIS TIME.”
Inspector Sorensen (because of course that was his name) approached slowly.
As he flipped open his clipboard, a glowing HUD appeared around him like a boss introduction in Elden Ring:
OSHA INSPECTOR, LEVEL ???WIELDER OF THE CLIPBOARD OF UNLIMITED SCRUTINY
Howard groaned.
I stood my ground.
Sprinkles rolled away at 0.4 mph.
Rusty saluted reflexively.
Sorensen spoke.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m here for your Scheduled Periodic Assessment.”
Dies Irae modulated upward like it was preparing for violence.
I slapped my phone again. It grew louder.
Sorensen continued flipping pages.
I swear the paper shimmered like an ancient spellbook.
He pointed at a lone safety cone.
“This cone,” he said calmly, “is one inch out of rotational alignment.”
A glowing label appeared beside me:
AESTHETIC INFRACTION –5
I staggered back a step.
Howard sighed. “It’s fine. We can—”
Sorensen raised a finger.
Howard went silent.
Sprinkles gasped.
Sorensen turned to an extension cord touching the ground.
“This cord crosses a lightly traversed zone.”
CORD ENTANGLEMENT WARNING –10
My phone blasted the “Judgment Day” motif.
“STOP DOING THAT!” I yelled at it.“YOU’RE NOT HELPING!”
Howard: “Why does it know motifs.”
Me: “IT WON’T STOP.”
Sorensen pointed at Rusty.
“That robot appears to be… smiling.”
Rusty beeped innocently.
UNAUTHORIZED WHIMSY –25
I clutched my chest. “Howard, we’re losing HP!”
“You’re losing sanity,” he said.
Sorensen continued through the yard, identifying increasingly microscopic issues.
“Your signage lacks a federally recommended jaunty angle.”
Howard muttered, “…that’s not a real regulation.”
Sorensen snapped his clipboard closed.
I swear a thunderclap happened behind him.
The Inspector unfolded his clipboard.
Unfolded it again.
AND AGAIN.
Until it towered like a deadly scroll of bureaucratic doom.
THE CLIPBOARD OF UNLIMITED SCRUTINY REVEALS ITS TRUE FORM.
Lightning struck something.Maybe the dumpster.Maybe my soul.
Sorensen’s eyes glowed with regulatory purpose.
“BEGIN FINAL AUDIT,” he intoned.
My phone dropped into an apocalyptic choir swell.
“WE’RE TOO YOUNG TO BE CITED!” I screamed.
Sprinkles rolled forward, offering moral support.
Rusty took a defensive posture like a tiny metallic paladin.
Clunker made a grinding noise that sounded suspiciously like chanting monks.
Sorensen flicked his notebook and a barrage of safety violations flew at us like paper shuriken.
I dodged behind a hopper.
Howard folded his arms.
Sorensen summoned his ultimate attack:
FORM 11-B: RECURSIVE DOCUMENTATION LOOP
Papers spiraled around us.
My life flashed before my eyes.
Most of it was paperwork.
Sorensen raised the clipboard for the killing blow.
My phone reached a terrifying choral high note.
I cowered.
Howard stepped forward.
Calm.Still.Like a librarian confronting someone misshelving books.
“Inspector,” he said. “Your torque analysis is incorrect.”
The wind stopped.
Sorensen hesitated.
Howard produced a spreadsheet.
A radiant spreadsheet.
Cells glowing.Formulas humming.Pivot table rotating like the Wheel of Judgment.
Sorensen staggered back.
“I… I’ve never seen municipal compliance so… pure,” he whispered.
The choir resolved into a hopeful chord.
Rusty saluted again.
Sorensen closed his mega-clipboard.
“You pass,” he said softly. “Conditionally.”
And with that, he left.
My phone immediately went silent.
Howard: “…Did the audit fix your ringtone.”
Me: “I… think so?”
Howard: “Never tell anyone this.”
(The mundane, boring, legally accurate truth.)
- The OSHA inspector’s name was Steve, not Sorensen.
- He was polite.
- He complimented our organizational labeling system.
- Jake dropped a cone and apologized repeatedly.
- No music played from any device at any time.
- The BT4s did not react to the inspection.
- No clipboards transformed.
- No papers flew.
- I answered all questions professionally.
- We passed with two minor recommendations:
- Improve signage visibility
- Replace one chewed extension cord
It was a perfectly normal audit.
Nothing exploded, transformed, or sang.
—Howard