For Kyle

There I stood, pizza box in hand, in the belly of the beast; the Department of Public Safety. Kyle to my left, TalkerChick to my right, I steeled myself to deal with the backwater scum who undoubtedly waited further on within this pale brown tomb of bureaucratic misery. Suddenly, HickBoy engages our trifecta in conversation, jarring me out of my reverie. Politics. We talk politics as the line slowly creeps towards the filth-consuming maw of the processing desk. As the conversation heats up I take note of all available exits, as well as the odd appearance of a pair of bowling shoes. A large hulking figure to my left, FootBall, joins the discussion, I recall his previous contributions which had earned his name. A crescendo is reached, the tenor of the forum has reached a new high, something is about to happen- "Could you keep it down? You're being very loud and your voice carries" says PrickFace. Bad vibes now, I am newly aware of the sickening ambiance of my surroundings, it gets very quiet, they're staring now. Kyle is visibly upset, agitated by PrickFace's comment, he and HickBoy discuss the turn of events in mutinous tones. Fearing for my safety I grip the pizza box closer, it is the only thing between me and TalkerChick. Angry stares and violent laughter, I begin to sweat as the atmosphere turns nasty, but suddenly- "You're in the hole now kid!" laughs FootBall as he steps through the gap into the reception area. He's right, we're nearly there! But what does it mean? What happens when we get there? Will they take my pizza? Will I have to sign anything? "Calm down" I say to the pizza box, "No-one can come between us now." But I am unsure. Finally we approach the desk and the octogenarian nightmare lurking behind it takes notice of us. "Papers?" She croaks. "Oh christ, what should we do?" I wonder. Aloud. To an elderly Indian woman. Before I know what is happening, papers have been signed, thumbprints taken, photos shot, samples retrieved, files checked and all manner of things filled out in triplicate. We leave, but not before exchanging dangerous glances at Hickboy and a set of old Hispanic women. Freedom. Safety. 60mph down a strip of tarmac.