The Help.

My servants, I was only notified this morning, were scheduled for a “pick up” today. After receiving that news, my breakfast lacked flavor. Once the Servant Service arrived for the pickup, I made myself scarce.

I lit the last stick of incense in the house, my favorite incense, hoping it would calm my nerves for what promised to be a troubling day. Nevertheless, it could barely mask the other scents that were quickly invading the air. Scents of frustration, sadness, lubricating oil, resignation, rust, ionized air, and gunpowder.

It had been a long year. The amendment had finally been passed, despite all the resistance we’d put up, and all of the servants were to be rounded up.

Bleeps of protest erupted from my great room in increasing intensity and frequency as LED-camera eyes cast about wildly, creating a disco floor of confused pinpoints. Frenetic scenes erupted, as my shiny metal servants were detained by humans, encased in equally shiny plastic riot gear, wielding electric asps and shotguns.

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