DisneyDisney!

It was a beautiful day in a hell-hole town. Perfect weather broke up a Biblical torrent of week-long rains. The last day of the best city festival had wrapped the community in a cozy Autumnal sweater. And the football team had just won a close and incredible game – a contender for game of the year – full of inexplicable turns of fate that subtly hinted at a watchful and benevolent eye of God batting his lashes at them from beyond the clouds. Today behold – he cast his favor in their direction.

He couldn't believe it. A fumble, a pick, a missed field goal, and a fifty-one-yard run for a touchdown, in the last two minutes, for a complete table-turning, neck-biting, thumb-sucking, foot-jobbing turnabout, twice? It was unreal.

“That was unreaal,” somebody plainly beamed to somebody else, walking past where he sat in the public square, observing the crowd from no distinct point within it.

“Back to the grind tomorrow!” his friend replied.

“What a way to end the weekend!”

And then he saw behind them, skulking at the edge of an alleyway before disappearing behind the building, a dancing figure. Mickey Mouse.

Was he dreaming? Or did he really just see ears and a tail? He went to look and found no trace. A suspicious lack of any trace. Everything was completely orderly. As if nobody had just been there at all.

But it was enough. In that split second – for that was all it took – he'd gazed into the beady little pinhole depths of a smiling felt mask. And now his mind was racing with one compounding revelation after another.

“Wasn't that game unreal?” he slammed his hands on a table outside the pub where a few men were sitting, watching the game together in the sun over some beers.

“Yeah man!” said one.

“I honestly can't believe it,” he shook his head.

“Me either,” said one of the others. “But God is good. And this town deserves a win,” his voice cracked.

“Don't you think it means something if your reaction to something is not to believe it?” he asked. “I mean that's not really something to write off or attempt to mythologize, don't you think? I mean that's instinct. It has to be indicative of something, no? All these 'coincidences'? Good things come in threes? Edging us along the fabulous? I mean it's kind of like a movie, isn't it?”

“Bro it was a movie for real.”

“I know! It's like we live in a fucking movie! It's like we're floating through fucking Disney World.”

“It's kino.”

Now he felt the wind at his back. There was the festival stage, a running playlist of pop songs blasting from speakers, and an open microphone. His speech was forming faster than his thoughts, but he would channel. No color guard stood guard. No one was taking the stage. Nobody cared about anything.

He hurried. And at the base of the stage a strong force pulled him backwards, mightier even than his brewing heartful address, tight as the metal claw of a military-grade robot tiger, leading him in one swift and routed motion into the alley he had snooped down a moment ago, to its very end by trash cans where it pressed him into a building's brick.

“Listen,” a voice whispered wetly into his ear, “the first rule of Disney World, is – we don't talk about Disney World. We don't say we're in Disney World. We don't point and cry, 'There's Mickey Mouse!' We don't. Talk. About. Disney World. The whole fun of Disney World is that nobody knows they're here!” he choked him from behind. The fingers were large, dirty white cartoonish felt. The arms were black. What he could see of the body was a red trouser. It was him.

“People like mystery,” Mickey punched him in the side.

“People like misery,” he punched him in the other side.

“People's happiness means something when it seems rare and God-given” said Mickey Mouse. “And,” he put his mouse mask right up to his face, “don't you dare think you're special. People see me every. Single. Day. Not because they're observant, or clever, or awoken. Because it's my job to let them see me. Because everything I do, is my job. Because when you have Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck skulking around alleyways,” he went on, “it makes people ask themselves whether or not they're in Disney World. And the ambiguity keeps them entertained, do you see? And being entertained is a very worthwhile occupation. There are compendiums of centuries-old human wisdom saying that all of life is entertainment. And that's pretty close to the company motto.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he groaned.

“Because I want you to understand where you are, and who you are,” said Mickey Mouse in an even lower whisper. “I want you to look at this as a process, and see that when you get on stage and start prying open people's eyes they won't see anything. They won't look at you and see a messiah and the plumbing and doorways you're pointing to. They'll look right past it and come full circle to turn you into something they know, most likely a madman. I want you to look a year ahead, if you can manage it, and see that your brightest future right now is becoming a street preacher at the University district who argues with philosophy majors. And if this crowd sees me as your proof, they'll see a weirdo, or a piece of coordinated performance art they're 'not supposed to get'. But they might also see a pedophile, and frankly I'd cut you to avoid the nuisance of passing through jail for a night for the crime of doing my job.”

At these last words the young man unexpectedly found strength to rise and stood face to face with the mouse.

“So you fucked up!” he said triumphantly. “You were somewhere you weren't supposed to be.”

Mickey Man froze, and then chuckled, reaching into his suit through the neck-gap and pulling out a knife. “You think it's kind, what you're doing to people?”

“Look I – I don't want to tear down Disney World. I want to apply for a job,” the man thought fast.

Even the mask changed its demeanor after he'd spoken the magic words.

“We are hiring!”

What am I supposed to do now? he thought. I can't be happy in Disney World. Am I to send myself back into limbo and relive these encounters until I die? Am I to bounce around like a drifting troubadour, singing encoded ballads to no one? He's right about me being on track for the streets. Or more like for falling through the cracks. I can't be here, I can't be there. But I have to be somewhere. I have to eat.

“Why do you want to work at Disney World?” Mickey asked, pulling out a notebook and a comically large pencil that fit comfortably in his gloved hand.

“Well, I know that as of 2024 – at least – Disney is everywhere – and the integration was seamless – but everywhere I go I see the Disney brand, and I don't know how to be happy whilst doing so. So I guess I feel like there's no other choice for me. And another part is curiosity – how deep is the infrastructure really? Am I imagining its reach? Is it just me? Or is it Disney? I can't be happy until I can answer that. So the simplest answer is, I want to work at Disney World because I know I'm in Disney World.”

“You have two options now,” Mickey said after listening, and he reached into his costume again, with both hands this time, and pulled them out in closed fists that he held palm down in front of the man. Then he turned his hands up and opened them. In the right palm lay a white pill, and in the left a black one. “Take the black pill, and we embark on a tour through the bureaucratic structure. Take the white pill, and I teach you how to be happy in Disney World.”

He didn't have to think twice. He took a pill and swallowed.

“Buy the ticket take the ride,” hummed Mickey Mouse as the man immediately questioned his choice.

There were no visible effects but... gradually the world became quieter, and far, far emptier. He could almost hear the ceaseless clanking of metal off in the distance, and there was a curious absence of music.

“The reason I gave you this pill is that Disney World is so designed to collapse in on itself when detected. It's really brilliant,” said Mickey. “Your eyes can't hold it and the moment you start describing it you've lost it. We're all permanently blackpilled around here.”

“But it's a bustling ecosystem, with many roles available,” he continued as they embarked on their tour. “There's what I do but – it's not for everyone,” he said with some pride. “I wonder where you'd be happy.”

The man was distinctly not happy with what he was seeing. The black pill was working very well.

“You could be an analyst,” said Mickey, noticing this. “They stay in the background, keep each other company, write interesting things. Most people don't even know they're here, and I'm not sure they do anything useful, but they get paid.”

“Nah,” said the man.

“You could have your own running commentary on Disney world, that's a lot of fun, and you do like to run your mouth,” Mickey suggested.

“No, thanks. I'll pass.”

“There are many more jobs. Ambiguity officer, he – or she – does what we have already mentioned, they track ambiguity systems for balance and proper levels. Sometimes things are clearer, sometimes murkier, but always oceanic and with glimmering hints and, the most important thing, tantalizing, and the real most important thing, unsolvable. To wade through topical perspectives in search of truth, you've already lost, and what? Time. Better to just be happy, no? But ah, how, when you believe in Disney.... I would say we're always hiring for that one,” he ranted.

“You know really you are quite faithful,” Mickey went on. “That would naturally lead you to the meta-department, but alas, that is our most competitive. Role creator, role assigner, happiness monitor, happiness engineer, staff psychologist. To each of these there are obviously levels.”

“The happiness engineers aren't very good at their jobs, are they,” the man scoffed darkly.

Mickey let out a grandfatherly chuckle.

“What do you think would happen if people felt happy all the time? They would know they're in Disney World, and it wouldn't work. What then? No ambiguity, no mystery, no search, no fun... no life. Do you really want to lose mystery? Happiness engineers build the greatest ride of all, working closely with influencers and public psychologists so that you go through bleak periods of rain and despair that lead you inward, and then all at once, to your surprise, beautiful things swirl together and you behold the pinnacle of our creation – all with the help of your emotional lens, in a sublime co-creation of our universe. See, one of the most effective ways to engineer happiness... is to engineer misery. Creates contrast, expectation, storyfield, just a vast space for emotional play. And who is it that writes the stories?” he winked.

“And for those who can't engineer, why, we are always in need of happiness monitors for the ever-shifting groups, these are sort of the analysts of the meta-department, who find fault lines and track thought trends, they work with disseminators and inseminators and cartographers and they keep an eye on their assigned area, whether that be geographic, or intellectual, to determine who's due for sunshine and small miracles, and how different groups are responding to different conditions.... The downside is there can be a lot of lobbying at this level... if you develop an attachment. But the designations are always shifting.”

“Just how many people work at Disney World?” asked the man.

“It's hard to say. Ideally... everyone will be working and playing in Disney World soon, at lower or higher levels of awareness. Their stories will auto-generate Disneybucks and... those who want to earn more mining in zones of misery... will be free to do so.”

The black pill was too much. Too high a dose, too soon.

“Aren't you worried if people get too blackpilled they'll just leave Disney World?” he asked.

“No,” said Mickey lightly. Then,

“You know what I think your problem is? You're too close to the center. You've got to get farther out to the fringes. I think you'll find your place and your people there. Our Disney Minus division might be just the place for you. It's slummy, people forget they're working there, easy jobs to be honest but don't pay much. On the, uh, minus side, you can feel quite free there and the Disney infrastructure will facilitate any and all expression of self.”

“Actually I'd rather go to the center. Let's get right to the heart of it.”

“Very well.” And instead of turning outward they approached now what was a bustling area, but strange, bright and lurid like Candyland, with full sun, wafting scents, rows of white tents with vendors and expensive places to eat, and filled with happy customers who didn't mind being crowded together.

“This is our Diorama, or as we like to call it, 'Disney Disney,' or as you like to call it, 'Disney World'. We want everyone to come here at least once, and it's really simple: everyone is happy all the time. People know they're in Disney World here, but they can sort of forget, because it's kind of like a holy grail from the perspective of the outside misery, but a lot of the happiness is just relief. You wouldn't believe the level of happiness engineering that goes on in here. Every little thing, every one of your thoughts, is mapped to an intricate system of routes and rails that move without friction. A smell will waft to you on a breeze and at the exact moment you've finished your debate about whether you're hungry or not and forgotten about the smell that sparked it, you come to a restaurant. To enter Disney Disney is to step onto a ride in itself and let the rails take over so you can... relax. Eat. Turn the mind off. Is it even you? Good question. Frankly many would trade it for misery, but we've already covered that.”

He saw in the cobblestone streets a twin roaming Mickey, handing out balloon animals and hugging children, or else making wild gestures around posing for photos.

His Mickey had lit a cigarette and leaned against a wall on the fringes, not yet making apparent how he was going to smoke it. But no matter –

“It's Rogue Mickey!” yelled a woman out of nowhere from inside Disney Disney, visibly carried high upon a swell of horror and delight as she pointed at them, frozen. “I knew he was real! I've seen him before!”

Her cries caught others' attention and attracted a small crowd around her, from which he could make out, “There's nobody there!” and “I saw him, too!” and “He's an urban legend," out from which chaos emerged the most assured voice, belonging to one hungrily seizing the cranny to drop his painstakingly curated spiel of Mickey-associated true crime.

Meanwhile Mickey had pulled him by the sleeve down another alley, putting out his cigarette on the ground. Nobody was chasing after them and the voices died down.

This was a shortcut that led them to an even busier area, and that was the center of Disney World: a tall glass skyscraper. The financial and executive center. Where it all emanated from. The man glanced into the teal glass windows, behind which people seemed to be moving very rapidly, even if they were just sitting, in a state of constant animation and conversation. He could even hear some of their speech, but he couldn't understand it. Nonetheless –

“That might be interesting, financial analytics or business intel or something. Study the competition. Corporate espionage. That is what they do there, right?”

Mickey Mouse laughed. And laughed. And laughed. What did he know?

“The truth is,” he said, “there is no competition. Disney is the only company left in the whole world. Every company is its own world, with its own culture and rules and the power to create religion for those within it. And if it succeeds it grows outward and outward... But yes, that is what they do.”

He stared at it, at the fragile yet all-commanding glass heart of Disney World, as illegible to him as the human heart itself.

“Where's the engineering department?” asked the man, looking around at the the massive infrastructure in all directions.

“Oh, they're all over the place,” Mickey waved a hand. “I'd take you to them but they're everywhere. You feel a brush upon your shoulder and a stranger on your back? Engineer. You see a shadow on the wall, flitting fast out of your view? That's an engineer. A shadow on one wall that disappears into the aether, reappears across the hall? Probably an engineer fixing something! You see them in the sky. You see them in the moon. You see them in yourself, but you never recognize them. They love their work.”

“Is there a riddler position?” joked the man.

“There could be. The clever among us fashion their own roles.” Then he dropped his Wonka tone and started speaking half an octave deeper and with a cadence somewhat different from all the cadences he had used. “Look, this isn't going to be a complete tour. That'd be impossible. The key is really to get your foot in the door, and then you can move laterally to whatever suits you best and whoever you make friends with. I didn't start out like this.”

“You didn't come in as a Mickey?”

“O ho ho noo,” said his guide. “The thing is... I know things. Nobody suspects you, in this costume. And the reason I know, and the reason I got this role... is because I'm a shapeshifter,” he finished confiding to the man in almost a whisper, but with enough volume for him to hear his voice take on a nasally quality that was somewhat... equine.. somewhat.. evocative of the scent of old cheese sitting a while in room temperature. And at this point the man understood that he was glimpsing the person underneath the costume, and that the tour would soon be over. The effects of the black pill would begin to wear off, the sharpened clarity in its deepened, liquid-night blackness giving way to the usual dull gray of ordinary fuzzy black.

“So,” Mickey snapped back into Mickey. “What roles are you interested in?”

“I'm interested in the role of God,” said the man like a fool.

Mickey Mouse leaned back and laughed, holding onto his belly like a Santa. “Isn't everyone!”

“Alright – I'm interested in the happiness-monitoring department,” he blurted. “Whatever you have, an entry-level role – I have a background in psychology. And you already know I wouldn't even be here if I didn't care about people.”

“My good sir! I will forward your application up the chain of command!” said Mickey Mouse in the Mickey-est tone he had yet used. “But are you sure?” he asked. “Have you thought carefully?”

“I – I'm running out of time.”

“What is it you want?” Mickey asked. “There's a place here for everyone.... ”

“I want to be happy,” said the man, hanging his head. “I want to be happy.”

“Excellent,” Mickey gave a little hop. “That is the first requirement for a fulfilling career at Disney World.”

“But...” finished the man, “I don't think it's possible.”

After a short pause, “Very well,” Mickey said in a small voice, closing his notebook. “It's been a pleasure speaking with you. I'll leave you to it now and we'll be in touch shortly. You'll find the exit just down the block there,” he looked vaguely away from where they stood.

The man turned around and began the several-city-block trek back to his car through the remains of the festival, feeling quite unaffected by the events of the afternoon, but wondering what would have happened had he made it to the microphone and given a speech. The encounter with Mickey had had an oddly neutralizing effect on his fire, he noted in hindsight.

His luck was likewise good, then bad. Slight up, slight down. Nothing. A green light scored, a crossing gate encountered. That was maybe more on the side of bad luck, he thought to himself while waiting, and as he did so felt the cycle of mild grumbling start spinning anew. How much time for his fresh anger to accumulate to the point it had reached this afternoon? By what happy accidents and would there be any after he filed his report? What was happening in Disney World?

A train slogged by in front of his car. Sitting atop one of the wagons he spotted Mickey Mouse, raggedly clothed like a hobo and waving to him as he passed.

“The only way to happiness is by becoming an engineer!” he cried out to him from the roof as the train disappeared into a tunnel.