The Curious Tale of the Face-Eating Leopards

With apologies to Franz Kafka

ONE MORNING, THE CITIZENS AWOKE to find that the Leopards had indeed taken office. It was a decision they had enthusiastically supported—after all, the Leopards had promised to restore Order, Prosperity, and the Right to Walk Around Without Having to See People They Disliked.

In the early days, the Citizens were thrilled. “At last,” they sighed, as they watched the Leopards prowl majestically through the streets, “we are safe.” The Leopards were firm but fair, they insisted. If a few miscreants—those who had failed to heed the warnings—had their faces nibbled at the margins, well, what did they expect? Actions have consequences.

The Great Orange Leopard, whose fur was a peculiar shade of synthetic sunset, was their leader. He was known for his powerful roar, which often lacked coherence but was nevertheless repeated with great enthusiasm. Under his command, another Leopard was appointed—one with strange, glazed eyes and an affinity for tunnels. The Technoleopard was heralded as a genius, an innovator, a disruptor of outdated systems that foolishly valued competence over loyalty.

“Efficiency!” declared the Great Orange Leopard. “Too many lazy bureaucrats have been clogging up the system with their ‘expertise’ and ‘experience.’”

And so, the Technoleopard set to work and established the Department of Face Management.

The Department offered the city’s workforce a “fair deal”: accept retrenchment or have their faces eaten off. Most of the engineers relented. A series of tunnels was installed that led nowhere but were, the Technoleopard assured, “the future of transport.” Food inspectors were replaced by an app that rated whether meat looked edible. (“Regulations,” he scoffed, “are for weaklings.”)

Hospitals, once staffed by professionals, were now run by motivational speakers who assured the sick that if they simply believed hard enough, they could choose not to die.

“Fantastic progress,” the most loyal Citizens cheered, even as others noticed their water had taken on an alarming green hue.

The Department of Face Management also ensured that the Leopards were ever so efficient. No longer burdened by red tape or pesky ethical concerns, they upscaled the process of face-eating, increasing productivity tenfold.

Complaints skyrocketed, of course, but the Department of Public Reassurance—which had been downsized to one intern with a megaphone—insisted that the economy had never been better.

But then, something unexpected happened.

The Citizens began to notice their own faces disappearing. “I don’t understand,” cried one, staring at the mirror, where half his nose used to be. “I was promised this wouldn’t happen to me!”

“I always supported the Leopards,” another nodded, clutching the gaping wound where his left ear had been. “I mean, I wanted some faces eaten, obviously. Just not mine.”

Soon all experts were gone, the bureaucrats devoured, and the remaining Citizens realized no one was left to stop the Leopards. The streets were filled with the sound of chewing.

Clinics had no doctors, only inspirational posters. The economy was booming in theory, but no one could actually withdraw their money, as all the bank employees had been replaced by a single chatbot programmed to say, “Have you tried downsizing your expectations?”

One day, the Great Orange Leopard disappeared, just as the Citizens realized that perhaps electing Leopards had been a mistake. Some said he had fled to a golden palace across the sea. Others claimed he had ascended to a higher plane, where only the wealthiest Leopards roamed. The Technoleopard, meanwhile, locked himself in an underground lair, furiously posting about how unfair it was that Citizens were upset with him.

The remaining Citizens, faceless and bewildered, shuffled through the ruins of their once-functional society. “Perhaps,” they muttered, “we should have seen this coming.”

A whisper ran through the crowd. A movement stirred. There were murmurs of rebuilding, of finding a new way.

And then, from the shadows, a new roar emerged.

“Vote Hyenas,” the posters read. “They’re Not Leopards.”

The Leopards merely purred.