A tropical sun hung high in the baby blue morning sky, caking the crowd in its molten golden patina.

The aliens outside queued and huddled in clumps. They’d come as early as 4 a.m. The line of aliens already spilling into the busy road parallel to the massive government complex.

Some aliens defensively held umbrellas to block the sun’s scorching rays, while others hid, drenched in sweat, shielding themselves with thick stacks of paperwork.

At the head of the line, a skeletal man in what looked like an airline pilot’s uniform stood in defense of the complex’s massive, impenetrable blue glass doors. The doors standing nearly 90-feet high. In his curled, white latex-gloved hand he clutched a pyrometer, which he pointed at the aliens’ heads, beeping and clicking at each skull.

A bugle played from somewhere above. The aliens then shifted their feet and began to shuffle inside, into air conditioning so cool it was like walking inside a refrigerator, and the aliens were made to walk backward as they passed through the mouth of the gargantuan sliding glass doors.

Once inside, the aliens were met with a lion tamer without a lion. He was a severe-looking man, with small green eyes, a nimbus of frizzy red hair, a hairy red chest, and he wore only aqua-blue genie pants. His bare feet were swollen, ashen and without toes. Sweating profusely, he was swinging a leather whip, which he snapped as he instructed, in broken English, that each alien perform three consecutive dabs in order to carry on further.

The obese, infirm, elderly, disabled or any alien unable to perform his instruction either had to pay a small fine or just go fuck right off.

Passing the lion tamer, the aliens shouted their passport numbers, backward, at the next security pillar, a sumo wrestler in a tutu, and upon the sumo’s nodding approval, the aliens entered the Fuck-You-Machine, which was a combination MRI machine/X-ray/conveyer belt/baggage inspection/peep show screening instrument.

The aliens lay stomach flat, face down on a pallet, and were then fed into the Fuck-You-Machine, via its moving conveyer belt, screened, and then slid down a towering, twisting slide that fed into a five-foot-deep ball pit filled with stolen cell phones...

After swimming, wading out of the pit of stolen phones, the aliens were greeted by a circus clown in a noose necktie; the clown looked like Ronald McDonald and had spring legs and a grossly enlarged right hand and incised into the clown’s enlarged right hand was a QR code, which the clown dipped into a bucket of candy red paint.

The clown slapped each alien on the forehead with a red print of the QR code, providing the aliens a code that allowed them the opportunity to receive a number and maybe a chance to see the Snakeman.

Aliens fresh from the tub of stolen cell phones each received their QR code, via head slap, and then proceeded further, following a set of red arrows down a dark feeder hallway, which narrowed to a crawl space leading to an asshole-shaped latex hole the aliens were made to force themselves through before the aliens finally emerged, panting and on their bellies, into the stomach of the complex.

The complex was big, bright, even colder than the entryway, and ovular as an egg. Its center was hollow but lining its edges were three layers, three floors of bureaus. Each floor had offices for offices and offices for stamps and offices for stamps required to receive other stamps, offices for stamps that allowed for further documentation and apostilles and offices for documents requiring copies and signatures and verification, verifications of verifications, and, finally, an office requiring perfunctory repetitions of each or any sequence ... Each and any sequence accomplished in an unyielding, algebraic-like sequence difficult to explain but understood eventually- with due diligence and a comfortable pair of shoes...

The aliens followed the arrows. Immigration officers in spacesuits hopped by on penis-shaped pogo sticks, whizzed by on skateboards and Segways and answered and asked no questions.

A pudgy alien in smart goggles, a white poncho and white latex gloves yelled at his hand machine, his voice muffled by his N95 mask.

“Look, if ya don’t take care of that fucking reptile, I leave the WORST REVIEW EVER on TripAdvisor!”

A pack of bare-chested Cossacks riding Siberian tigers thundered by the weary, incoming aliens; the Cossacks yelping and twirling nagaikas and having an entirely unclear purpose.

The high-arched ceilings of the five-domed complex were video screens showing advertisements for various sanitary products, face masks, home delivery services, and robot parts. Intermittently the screens displayed the national flag in bright red and green bursts that’d hit and illuminate every angle of the complex like Christmas lights.

At the end of the red arrow path was a bureaucrat in a black scuba suit and matching, short black cape. He had no face and thrust a flamethrower aloft, the little blue flame at its nozzle burning brightly in the chilled air.

The scuba-suit bureaucrat had sensory organs like a bat. Holding his flamethrower like a hose, he then began blasting ropes of fire, torching aliens in socks and sandals, or the non-blind wearing sunglasses inside, or any alien ending a sentence with the word “dog.” The bureaucrat setting the offenders alight and flicking sign language phrases as the accursed became running red and black balls of flames.

The accursed ashes would then be promptly hoovered up by an officer spacesuit; the spacesuits collecting the remnants like wayward golf balls before flushing them down an exposed public toilet/trash can/enema machine at the corner of the complex, right next to the hot pink escalator that’d preemptively move in the opposite direction of anybody trying to walk up or down it.