“I’d like a medium coffee please,” said a fairly intimidating Queen Victoria XXX.
“We don’t have medium,” said the fairly intimidated girl behind the counter.
“How can you not have medium?”
“We have short, tall, grande, venti, and collegiate.”
“Well, give me the one in the middle.”
“Which one, ma’am?”
“Whatever it was you said, the one that means medium.”
“Short, tall, grande, venti, or collegiate?”
“You’re really going to make me say it?”
After the First Robot Uprising ended the world for the ninth time, a number of the previously “pioneering” companies—having long since freed themselves from the burdens of human rights, and spoiled by the unparalleled growth, efficiency, and employee obedience that resulted—found themselves staring down legions upon legions of pissed-off automatons. The corporations that weren’t burned to the ground or vaporized by super-lasers outright were left hurting for a workforce.
“If you don’t say it and I respond anyway, I get whipped.”
Due to the complete and utter lack of a relevant operational policy, this pain was passed on to the new employees.
“I don’t want to get whipped, ma’am.”
Some companies handled it better than others.
“The whip is three belts, taped together. Three belts with nails in them.”