Casual Friday Compliance Taskforce

A semi-documentary, handheld vibe. Fluorescents hum. The SNACK TABLE is laid out like a dais: napkins stacked, sign-in sheet, a lone gavel made from a stapler.

PRIYA stands at the VENDING MACHINE, dead-eyed, pressing buttons with the patience of someone who has filed many forms. The machine whirs… then stops.

The display flashes: **THANK YOU.**

No snack drops.

Thank you for what.

She taps the glass. The spiral is holding her chips like a hostage.

OWEN slides in like a pundit entering a studio.

The machine has made its opening statement.

DANA enters with a folder labeled “BREAKROOM REPUBLIC - PROCEDURES (DRAFT).” She clocks Priya’s face.

What happened?

The vending machine accepted my two dollars and fifty cents and provided me with… institutional betrayal.

MARCUS appears behind them, quietly taking notes on a sticky pad.

Time of incident?

Now o’clock.

This is an act of aggression by Facilities. We’ve been too soft. We’ve been smiling in the hallways.

It ate money. It’s… a machine.

So is the City. Yet here we are.

Dana steps closer to the vending machine like it’s a podium.

Okay. We do this correctly. We follow the posted process. There’s a sticker.

She finds a peeling sticker: “FOR REFUNDS CALL FACILITIES.” A number. A QR code smudged into oblivion.

I tried. It routes to “Leave a Message.” My money is currently in a voicemail.

We can escalate. Create a taskforce.

Yes. A Compliance Taskforce. Casual Friday Compliance Taskforce. We dress down until they pay up.

No one is dressing down. This is a workplace.

Tell that to the vending machine. It’s already taken our pants.

Dana exhales, then—decision.

We’re negotiating. Like adults. Priya, you’re the aggrieved party. Owen—stop talking. Marcus, you’re… recordkeeping.

Reluctantly honored.

Dana snaps the stapler-gavel once. It’s absurdly loud.

Breakroom Republic will seek remedy through diplomacy.

And if diplomacy fails?

Dana looks at the trapped chips.

Then we… appeal.

A cramped office with coils of extension cords like sleeping snakes. A small sign: “FACILITIES: WE KEEP THINGS RUNNING.”

GUS, mid-50s, Facilities supervisor, doesn’t look up from his computer.

You got a ticket?

Dana stands with her folder. Priya holds her receipt-less rage. Owen hovers, performative. Marcus stands slightly back, already writing.

We don’t have a ticket. We have a situation.

The vending machine again?

It took my money and gave me nothing.

You gotta fill out the refund form.

He points to a stack of forms like it’s a physical joke.

Forms are violence.

Forms are how things get fixed.

We’re prepared to resolve this cleanly. Today. No… waves.

Today? The vendor comes Thursdays.

It is Thursday.

GUS checks a wall calendar. It is, in fact, Thursday. He squints like Thursday is suspicious.

Fine. Still need the form.

Dana opens her folder with a practiced, official flourish.

What if we drafted an agreement. A treaty. You authorize an immediate refund of two fifty, Facilities logs it as “mechanical failure,” and we agree to stop… describing this as an international incident.

Or a coup.

Stop.

Gus leans back, weighing the emotional cost of being helpful.

Two fifty?

Plus tax, technically.

Don’t push it.

Facilities acknowledges culpability.

I acknowledge the machine is stupid.

Dana sees an opening—goes all in.

You reimburse her now, and in return, we create a “Vending Machine Incident Protocol.” One page. Clear. No voicemails.

Gus eyes Dana.

You writing it?

Yes.

And we ratify it.

I don’t know what that means.

It means we clap.

Priya crosses her arms, waiting.

Gus digs into a drawer, pulls out a petty cash envelope. Counts bills like he’s disarming a bomb. Hands PRIYA three ones.

I said—

Keep the change. Consider it… reparations.

Priya takes it, stunned into temporary peace.

And you’ll check the machine?

I’ll kick it. Officially.

Dana extends her hand like a diplomat. Gus hesitates, then shakes.

Treaty signed.

I’ll need that in writing.

Back at the snack table. Priya places the three dollars beside the stapler-gavel like an offering.

Dana tapes up a fresh sheet: “VENDING MACHINE INCIDENT PROTOCOL (DRAFT).” It’s blank except for a title.

Madam Speaker, you secured concessions.

I secured three dollars and a promise to kick a machine.

Which is more than the hotline has ever done.

Marcus pins his sticky note to the “protocol” like it’s legislation.

We should formalize the change. Establish precedent.

Yes. Because today it’s chips. Tomorrow it’s our dignity.

Dana looks to camera, semi-doc confessional without leaving her spot.

If I make this too real, it becomes my job. If I don’t make it real enough, they’ll start appointing Owen to things.

I move that Facilities be recognized as a foreign power.

Seconded.

Dana’s eyes widen—she’s created a monster.

No. Absolutely not—

Point of order. We already shook hands.

Dana stares at the stapler-gavel like it might save her.

We are not doing sanctions over Doritos.

The vending machine WHIRS ominously in the background, like it’s listening.