You look on dumb-foundedly.
"Well let's right now, take a stand, smoke this zombie and get right out of 'er!" he proclaims with mischievous glee.
"Meh.. muh... mah ma..." you stupidly stammer, "Ok."
As you wrap your mind in a preservative fog, the walls of reality shudder and crack around you. The concrete foundation rumbles to dust, and all around, around... yes.. round.... six.... six corners, in every direction, yes.... reality is pinned into a sixth dimensional sphere, the angles fold in at a ratio you only now comprehend. You are one with the other dimension, and it accepts and enfolds you in its layers of bureaucratic goodness. No longer bound by the tyranny of three, you are granted the sacred rites of the ultra-dimensional pen. With it, floating in utter abstraction, you under-comprehend that it is your duty, nay... your RIGHT to sign the documents. They float by, not as thin four cornered pages, but sextahedrons flying through dimensions you never before dreamed of. Your pen floats through time and space connecting dots and drawing parallels to a lesser domain you once inhabited. You see through, and sign on the dotted line. All the paper in the world swirls amidst your entrails, and wraps them up into the cohesive shell of a lesser domain, gently placing you back into the realm of three, as your three-eyed vision slowly converges into two. All takes focus as you find yourself in an office, collating paper work in a managerial role for some ridiculous department of the aforementioned local mill. The six dimensions have transfigured into a ceiling, a floor, and four perpendicular walls. Yes, you are now encased in an office, and the paper work piles up in endless rank and file. You aren't sure whether you have won at life, or entered an endless cage of the kept animal. Magic Joe is nowhere to be found, you are all alone, and the paper-work cannot be slain.
SIGNATORY!
