The Department of Genetic Corrections van pulled to a stop at the curb.

There came the chunk of a door closing. And another one. The tok-tok of
boots up the walk. The tinkle of the doorbell, tuned so as not to be so

"Mr. Johnson!"

No response.

One looked at the other. They grinned drolly and proceeded around the
side of the house. One knocked at the back door while the other took a
position in a little lemon tree overlooking the bathroom window. After
a predictable interval, the sniper caught a blobby infrared target
cowering by the shower door. He shot the dart, which neatly punched the
window and entered the target's neck.

The two men sat on plastic patio furniture for approximately 10
minutes. They looked up as a disheveled, cadaverous man stood in the
back doorway.

"You fuckin cocksuckers," said the man.

"Mr. Johnson!" said the taller of the two, ignoring the remark and
consulting a clipboard. "Your sentence of 5 years Extreme Agoraphobia
is hereby complete. Please sign here."

Johnson stood, staring daggers.

"If you don't sign, we can't process you and will be forced to treat it
as a parole violation."

With trembling wasted fingers, Johnson signed. The other man stamped it
with a Notary seal. They handed Johnson a white paper bag of drugs.

"Sorry," said the taller of the two. "It's our job. These'll help you
mainstream. Have a nice day."