Stanislav trembled in his bevels as he watched the man in the thick boots walk up to him. ’Twas testin’ time.
Stanislav didn’t bother resisting. He knew what happened in all the dystopias. He opened his mouth, “Ahhh”, while the man in the thick boots stuck his thick fridger-pop stick in.
Such testing was routine: they had to be tested for “bias”, which was defined as that which the particular tested happened to not like. They could find the bias in your tastebuds.
Or so they claimed. Stanislav didn’t know how they determined what was “bias” or not. He wet his bevels with trepidation.