The Department of Minor Incompetence Correction is a quasi-governmental agency that battles the forces of incompetence through unorthodox means. Its newest recruit, Brandon Wilson, finds himself suddenly thrust into the weird and below-the-radar world of incompetence and competence, along with a host of equally strange denizens from chapter #257.
“To change big things you have to change small things, and every big task is made up of many smaller tasks. Don’t you know your Gunslinger Girl? So if we say we’re going to change small things, we end up making a big impact. We’re actually we’re a lot more dangerous and subversive than they’ll ever know!”
Light-hearted, satirical, and innocent, with occasional moments of gravity, for the young-at-heart, anime` fans, Romantics, and those who appreciate unconventional satire.
For the series introduction, click here! The organization has existed in many forms throughout the ages. In the beginning, it was based in a cave rejected by bears; later on, it was found on a rocky island where the Phonecians dropped off uncoordinated sailors; it has been located in unfinished towers, two-ring circuses, and in beat-up shacks everywhere. In our modern age, however, it is more visible than ever before, yet hidden in plain sight. Each location bears the same polarized window tinting and features the same plaque outside:
Department of Minor Incompetence Correction
Aim for the stars! Tie your shoes!
Our story concerns chapter #257, located in a populous city somewhere in America (the precise location has been kept secret to avoid lawsuits). What follows is not at all unusual for the DMIC. If anything, it is representative.
* * *
Brandon Wilson was an almost-ordinary high school sophomore. While he was smarter than most of his friends, he was atrocious at studying, and not from lack of effort. He was simply bad at it.
It wasn’t something that medication could fix either. He’d been tested every which way with the same results. “There’s nothing medically wrong with your son, Mrs. Wilson,” the head nurse in Jr. high had said. Brandon reasoned that you only studied in school, and school would be over in two years, so he wasn’t concerned. He’d handle life after high school when he got there.
Then Tuesday struck. He was half-way to class when it hit him — his backpack was too light, again. “Oh yeah,” he thought, “my English book.” He spun around, took two and a half steps, and ran right into her.
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Brandon had forgotten to email Jimmy last night, so he’d have to do what he had never done before — get to school early — and talk to him. He figured if he knew how Veero worked then at least something would make sense. He sucked in a sudden breath. He still needed to make up a codename, too.
Everyone knew that the geeks got to school before dawn and that they controlled the library. They also asked you fiendishly difficult questions if you started harassing them, so that even very dense people ran away screaming that their brains were melting. Their star running back had spent a week on the bench muttering about cosines once because of that. If they gave him trouble, he’d say, “I’m looking for Jimmy,” in his best tough-guy movie accent. Geeks respected fake accents, didn’t they?
“So how did it go?” asked Brian.
Brandon and his best friend, Brian, rode their bikes to school. They pedalled hard because the sky was grey-to-black and the wind was beginning to pick up.
“How did what go?” asked Brandon with a smile.
“C’mon, man. Don’t tell me you’re not even allowed to talk that much!”
“So why do you want to come to my house?” Brandon asked Wenchy.
She flipped her honey-brown hair and said, “Why else? To meet your mom.” She wore a long white dress that grew transparent around her ankles, where it was met by stockings of a similar hue and matching pumps. Her hair was done up in a style Brandon didn’t recognize, but it used a circlet of hair across the back of her head, leaving the rest to dance just above her shoulders.
It made perfect sense. His mom hadn’t met anyone from the DMIC. Why didn’t they all come together, though? He felt nervous. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll come the first week, then O-Man, then HIM, then Velvet Katherine, and then Veero. Oh yeah. Then Jackie will show up.”
O-Man stood against the door leading out of the concession stand, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other spinning a socket wrench the wrong way by the socket end. Wenchy sat behind a laptop with a large screen with headphones tossed to one side and a microphone on the other. Her outfit — an elegant off-white dress — seemed strangely out of place amid all the communications equipment. In the back, HIM stretched out in a nice leather chair, looking distinctively bored.
Wenchy looked around the room. “Let’s go through our roles one more time, shall we?” Her voice struck a characteristic semi-serious tone.
The Complexitor sat at home in his favorite lounge chair before a wide-screen TV, drinking a perfectly chilled microbrew beer. The camera followed a tiny white ball as various golfers tried to hit it into a hole impossibly far away. He wasn’t watching. He was sulking.
D’Cardi’s was an upscale women’s clothing store with an Italian flair. The store featured signs in Italian and English, murals of the countryside and ancient churches and villas along the walls, and of course, the strands of opera at a gentle volume; mingled together with the fashionable leather coats, bags, belts, and earth-toned jewelry, the store exuded a sophisticated class that made it perfectly at home as a mall highlight. Jennifer Tabarone worked there, one of the junior members of the DMIC. Tuesday nights were slow nights and she was idly scanning the CD rack for something interesting. She had just come across a tenor described as the Pavarotti of Gregorian chant when Tristiana walked into the store.
