A negative consequence to a morally just action.

What good writing is, from the perspective of someone whose life was saved by a piece of writing

What is good writing? I’m still not entirely sure, but I know of only one man whose words had any sort of impact on my life. His name was Roger Dore, and he specialized in low-grade aquatic vengeance. He kept a low profile, which, understandably, seemed to suit his chosen profession. It wasn’t until he was nearing retirement that he chose to share his knowledge with the public.  

He began his manuscript in secret. But it didn’t take long for The Superiors to get wind of his activities, confiscate the manuscript, and throw poor Roger Dore into The Company’s prison; a highly secretive institution where only those specializing in low-grade aquatic vengeance and Chuck Barris get sent. His was a dying profession and The Superiors were hoping to let it die as quietly as it began. 

Through a long chain of officials and processes the manuscript wound up on my desk with explicit instructions to destroy it. I found this to be a bit of a nuisance considering all the other papers, files, and documents I had to destroy. Sometimes I read them beforehand, but mostly I just threw them in the incinerator.  

Scanning my desk for which pile of documents to burn first, the title of Roger Dore’s manuscript caught my eye. It read, “How to do Low-Grade Aquatic Vengeance”. Only having heard of this department of The Company in passing, I couldn’t help but give the book a quick scan.  

Not realizing the high degree of classification associated with this document, I was unaware that my actions were being watched. Now I had to be destroyed. I was told this in confidence by a fellow colleague who was indebted to me after I saved him from a similar fate. He got drunk at the office Christmas party and proceeded to brag to anyone who would listen about how he made out with Valerie Plame in the second-floor bathroom. She was not too pleased. 

By the time I heard my life was in jeopardy The Superiors had already managed to kidnap my mother and freeze my bank accounts. Having gone through only the preliminary round of field training early in my career I hadn’t the slightest idea of what I should do.  

The only weapon I had was the detailed manuscript of Roger Dore. I knew if I could get to some water I would be fine. Luckily, my office on the second floor was right next to the bathroom.  

I barely had time to close the bathroom door behind me when I heard the running rumbles of The Agents heading my way. I had to move fast. Remembering Roger Dore’s clear, thought-out prose, rich in lyrical symbolism with strong communicative ability and relatedness, I knew what to do. I quickly shoved his manuscript in the toilet. I then pushed down on the flusher five or six times to build up pressure in the pipes. Hearing The Agents break down the bathroom door I began to brace myself. Just when they kicked open the door to the stall; I pushed once more on the flusher. The build up of pressure was so great that a giant stream of water shot out of the toilet launching the manuscript directly into the huddle of Agents standing outside the stall. With The Agents lying in confusion on the cold tile floor, I climbed into the toilet and through the pipes hiding behind the walls.  

I was freed years later after the building was demolished in accordance with The Higher-Ups’ implemented budget cuts. Apparently The Superiors were expendable.