Sodding Pencil-pushers
“Hold on, there.” A mustached man sits on a stool in front of the entrance to an intriguing-looking cave. “Where do you think you're going?”
You point into the dark. “Into that cave.” You grin.
“Think again, sunshine,” says the man. “Nobody's to go in there. It's not safe. It's a serious danger to the terminally curious.”
You frown. “Aw, c'mon. It's intriguing.”
“Nope.” He crosses his arms. “My job, if you can call it that, is to guard a bloody hole in the ground, and the one thing stopping me from turning to drink is doing this stupid job well. You're not getting in, and you're especially not getting in when you're this inexperienced.”
You're up against bureaucracy. There is no defeating this. Wisely, you move on, muttering something about how when you're big and strong you'll come back and sort him out good and proper.