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Death scratched his head and looked down at his disheveled robes. He tried a smile, but it was too difficult as he'd been standing in line for three hours and was still receiving no help whatsoever.
“NO. No. No.” Death screamed at the woman behind the counter of the DMV, “I don't ride a broomstick. I ride a horse. A horse. Eyes of lava, poisonous breath. Eats sugar cubes... a horse. H-O-R-S-E! You understand now? Four legs and a tail!”
“You'll have to show proof of ownership of your broomstick, sir, before you can take the test. Also, you'll have to fill out a few simple forms,” instructed the short redhead. She reached under the counter and produced a pile of papers that were thicker than a dictionary. “You'll have to fill these out in ink, please,” she said.
“First of all, I don't own a broomstick. I own a horse. Secondly, you only have bloomin' pencils.” Death screeched. Granny Voggle stood behind him in line, and she felt quite sorry for him. She wiggled her fingers and magically turned the pencil on the counter into a plume. Death sighed. He nodded at Granny. She smiled.
“Can I please see your supervisor?” Death begged.
“I'm the supervisor,” the woman said sharply, and Death began to weep openly.
“Sir, you'll have to step out of line, please, your broomstick just crapped on our floor. Clean it up, or it's a $5000 fine.” the woman snapped.
“It's a horse,” Death wailed, “A horse!” His skeletal hands slowly tore the rim off of his new hat. He was shaking.
“Sir. Please don't make me call security. Step out of line please.” the woman snapped.
“No.” Granny yelped, “I been here three hours already and he was here when I came. Now, my dear girl, you are goin' to find the form that says horse on it, or I'll bleedin' turn you into a mouse! And my dear, I know many hungry cats! Do I make myself clear?”
“Ah!” the woman snapped, “Are you threatening me? Go to the back of the line!”
Granny stayed where she was. She pulled the woman to face her. She snarled, “As I sees it the worst you can do to me is take away my license. But that ain't goin' to be nothin' if you compare it to what I can do to you. Now give him the proper forms!”
And to everyone's surprise, the woman did. But then she said to Granny, “Go to the back of the line or I'll have you removed.”
“Fair enough,” Granny said and walked the half a mile to the back of the line.
Four hours later Granny was back at the front of the line. She stepped up to the counter. The woman placed a sign on the counter that read, “Next line please.”
Granny looked around. There was no other line. Again Granny wiggled her fingers. Then she shouted, “This sign says, “This line open.”
“It does not!” the woman shouted and turned the sign around. She gawked at the new message. She yelped, “Please fill out these forms and then make an appointment.” She handed Granny a huge pile of forms.
“These is in another language! These is all written in troll.” Granny yelped as the woman left the counter.
It took several minutes to set a good cauldron and change the language on the forms to common tongue. But Ratchet managed to do it quickly enough to escape Granny's newfound wrath.
“There ya go!” she chirped merrily, “All sorted!”
Granny filled out each form. She stopped and yelled, “How am I supposed to answer that? They want to know what my mother ate on the third day of her marriage! What's that got to do with drivin'?”
“Write anything,” advised Wren, “They aren't going to know the difference.”
“Yeah!” quipped Ratchet, “It ain't like they read 'em any way. They chucks 'em in the furnace to keep the place hot so you'll get cranky.”
“Bligh me!” Granny screeched, “Is that true?”
“Yeah,” answered Wren. “The only things that count are the tests. They don't worry about anything else. If they did, they'd never have enough time to annoy you.”
“Then why in blazes am I fillin' these out?” Granny yelped angrily.
“Cuz' it's the only way to get to the tests, ain't it?” Ratchet exclaimed, “We all had to do it! No sense in complainin' about it.”
The next day, Granny waited in line for five hours. She was stuck arguing with an idiot of a man behind the counter.
“I'm sorry, Miss. There's nothing I can do. You look nothing like the photo on the birth record. Your picture on your license doesn't match!” the man screeched.
“Of course it don't. That was 105 years ago. I don't wear a nappy now either!” Granny growled.
“I can't push you through under the circumstances. You'll have to come back with other proofs of address and other legal documents first!” the balding idiot argued.
“What kind then? What papers do I need to appease you, you...gnarled up, flubbing, simpleton of a man?” Granny Voggle shouted.
“You'll need two pieces of mail addressed to you from different government offices, a certificate for competing in rabid wombat wrestling, three boxtops from you preferred teabags, twenty coloring pages from assorted workbooks, and a championship award certificate from any treetop yodeling competition. Further, you need a record of your last taxable purchase at Broom & Bath, a receipt from the toll roads at the far end of the city and a certified letter from your neighbors citing that you have lived there for at least two years. Until you have those things, there is nothing more I can do for you.”
Five days later, documents sorted, Granny waited in line for the eye test. She really couldn't see all that well, but she wasn't about to admit that. Her eyes had aged and time had not been kind to them. Also she'd forgotten her reading glasses. She tried her best just the same.
“Cover your left eye,” a burly woman said and then she pointed to a large letter on the eye chart. She asked Granny Voggle sternly, “What do you see?”
Granny replied, “A letter.”
The woman pointed to something else, “What do you see now?”
“Another letter,” Granny said.
“And now?” the woman asked pointing to the bottom line.
“Lots of tiny letters,” Granny responded.
“Okay,” the woman said, “You've passed. Go get in the other line.”