Mental Health
Gus was undeniably nervous as he checked the address he had written down for the hundredth time, though he had already memorized it. He had come to the place it indicated, but the setting didn't seem right.
An unassuming, low-built structure greeted him, the kind where dollar stores and military recruiters and short-lived business ventures blossomed, then withered and died. He had to come close to the building to even see the name on this particular storefront, but it was indeed there: The Ministry of Mental Health.
Upon entering, he found his suspicions had been incorrect, but that the reality was worse: the typewriters which lined the main room were indeed manned by humans, but the corner offices and editorial teams were filled with apes in business suits and suspenders. He overheard a writer trying to explain something to one of the apes, who took the stack of papers next to the typewriter and threw it in the air, screeching.
This wouldn't be easy; of that Gus was sure. But a job was a job.
This seemed funnier when I drew it. If you aren't amused, congratulations: you are a good person.
I'm amused...
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