TOUCH THE EVIDENCE
Nothing happened. That is exactly what it wants you to think.
The Municipal Department of Déjà Vu
Take a number. You have taken this number before.
PRESS FOR REASSURANCE
Too late. You are already reading Broken Zine.
The Municipal Department of Déjà Vu occupies Suite 204 in a building you are certain you have entered before.
At the front desk, a woman slides a clipboard toward you.
“Fill this out again,” she says.
“Again?”
She looks tired.
“Exactly.”
The form asks for your name, address, and whether the sensation involves hallways, songs, or people you have not yet met.
Your ticket is B17.
The display reads B16.
You remember this.
You remember remembering this.
When B17 flashes, the door opens.
Inside, a man looks up and says, “We’ve been expecting you.”
You hate that this is also familiar.
VIC SLOANE
Vic Sloane keeps the odd files, damaged evidence, and stories that should probably have remained in the drawer.
Push something. The magazine is poorly supervised.
PUSH THE WEIRD BUTTON
A small bureaucrat somewhere just stamped APPROVED FOR NONSENSE.