Robertson had plenty of energy and time. He was certain of one thing: he hated Q for transgressing the system. Nevertheless, six poets from one neighborhood's monthly poetry contest gratified Robertson. One of the best instances of emotional torture, he believed, had occurred with a young woman poet. He wished his mother had been alive to see that. She criticized Robertson for being weak. His own mother. Now, with her long gone and Robertson running the city, a problem few were aware of was Jenkins. He claimed to know the Committee. Jenkins said many decisions came from him; the Committee thought highly of Jenkins. Well, Robertson considered Jenkins lazy and stupid, as simple as that.

Robertson discovered several years ago that a young woman aspirant might be spared and employed by Robertson in his own office. He had a need sometimes for thoughts or talents of the young. He loathed her because sexually she rejected Robertson. Anyone like that, a common, stupid person from the crowd, believed Robertson, needed to pay attention, work, and contribute. She would have made a good elementary school teacher, Robertson opined. Instead, he forgot her name, maybe Annette, she sought to be recognized and favored for poetical talent. What good did her desires and efforts benefit anyone?

He worked with his diary since a half dozen critical thoughts about people around Robertson came to mind. Co-worker Jenkins was not equal to Robertson in this office. Robertson hated Jenkins but never revealed it. Jenkins was too dangerous. Every word out of his mouth was a lie accompanied by dozens of half truths.

"Good afternoon," Jenkins returned after a two hour lunch. Hell, he was practically management, he thought. MOO needed strategists like Jenkins, not just enforcers or jerks like Robertson. "Are you happy today, Robertson?"

"Sixteen kills," he said.

"Don't talk like that," corrected Jenkins. "They are celebrities," he hated Robertson's slight pudginess like he did not have character enough to go all the way and be fat. "Robertson, I hope you will be satisfied when the third enforcer position is filled."

"Yes," Robertson hated the quiet hatred that emanated from his co-worker, a threat, actually. "The other enforcer position will be filled. That will create a job and lifestyle for a young citizen and keep them from developing some talent themselves."

"I agree the work never stops," Jenkins thought Robertson had made a mistake. "How many was it today?"

"Sixteen. You should know that," lazy, thought Robertson. He hoped some Committee member had this office bugged. The Committee member would witness the useless nature of Jenkins.

"I need a vacation," said Jenkins. "A rest."

"You had a two hour lunch," Robertson wrote a comment in his diary. "Annette," Robertson recalled. "That was the name of a poet, a celebrity, I knew personally twenty years ago."

He even developed a few of his practiced emotional torture methods for a person in his charge during Annette's year of working for Robertson.