The Compliance Potluck
A fluorescent-bright conference room in a federal courthouse in Cincinnati at 11:42 AM, where a mandatory workplace mediation has been derailed by the smell of a slow cooker that nobody authorized.
Double and Bust have been called as witnesses in a formal HR arbitration between two IRS auditors who haven't spoken since one of them brought store-bought cornbread to last year's potluck and labeled it 'homemade.' The mediator has stepped out to take a call, and sitting on the evidence table between Exhibits C and D is an unlabeled Crock-Pot full of what appears to be exceptional chili — still bubbling, still plugged in, belonging to neither party. The bailiff says whoever claims it can have it, but the arbitration resumes in nine minutes and eating during proceedings is a removable offense. Double is already holding a paper bowl. Bust notices the Crock-Pot's power cord runs directly into the outlet reserved for the court reporter's laptop, and taped to the lid is a small label in familiar handwriting: 'DIANE FROM COMPLIANCE — DO NOT TOUCH.'
“Last time I respected a label like that I lost a yogurt AND my dignity. Not today — this chili smells like redemption.”
“You're in a federal building about to eat stolen evidence chili from a woman who prints security camera screenshots for fun. What part of this feels like redemption?”
Diane from Compliance walked in just as Double took his first bite — but instead of unleashing hell, she burst into tears because nobody had ever been brave enough to try her chili before. She declared Double 'the only honest person in this building,' wrote him a formal commendation letter on the spot, and the mediator returned to find both IRS auditors bonding over bowls, the cornbread dispute settled in a unanimous emotional ceasefire.
I told you — chili is the universal language of justice.
He's getting a commendation from a woman who alphabetizes her grudges, and somehow I'm the one sweating.