Joe Thompson had never caused a fuss in his life. He was the kind of guy who returned trolleys at the supermarket and waved at the postman. But Joe had one little quirk: he just didn’t want anything to do with the government.
So when voting day rolled around, Joe didn’t vote.
Not as a protest. Not to make a point. He just didn’t feel like it. The sun was out. The hammock was swaying. His lemon tree was looking especially lemony. The whole thing seemed like a hassle. So he skipped it.
Weeks later, a $20 fine showed up in his mailbox from the Australian Electoral Commission.
Joe smiled politely at the envelope and set it on his kitchen bench. He’d never ordered this service, after all.
A month passed. The fine climbed to $40. Still, Joe remained blissfully detached. “I never signed up for this subscription,” he muttered, tossing it onto his “government things I didn’t ask for” pile.
Soon enough, a debt collection notice landed with a thud: $500 due immediately.
Joe read it while eating a sandwich and said thoughtfully, “That’s really none of my business.”
Then came the knock. Two police officers on his front step. Uniformed, stiff, expressionless. “Mr. Joseph Thompson?” one asked.
“That’s me!” Joe replied with a smile. “Lawn’s just been mowed—if that’s what this is about.”
“We’re here to arrest you for failure to vote and ignoring multiple court notices.”
Joe furrowed his brow. “Oh, that was a court notice? I thought it was junk mail. Sorry lads, I’m just not interested in your services today.”
They didn’t laugh. Joe chuckled nervously. “I’d really rather stay home. I’ve got muffins in the oven.”
Without a word, they grabbed his arms. Joe didn’t resist, but he didn’t help either. “Well, if you insist. But I’m not paying for this ride.”
At the local police station, Joe was held in a holding cell overnight. He asked politely if he could go home yet. The guard ignored him.
The next morning, he was marched into a courtroom. The judge peered down at him. “Mr. Thompson, you failed to vote in a federal election, ignored notices, evaded court, and refused to pay lawful fines. Do you have anything to say?”
Joe straightened up. “I do. I’d like to unsubscribe, please.”
That didn’t go over well.
Joe was sentenced to 14 days in low-security prison for contempt of court and failure to comply with enforcement orders. He arrived with a smile and a backpack full of Sudoku books.
The guards were gruff. The food was beige. Joe remained polite.
He spent most of his time walking the prison yard, waving cheerfully at officers who refused to wave back.
Then came the laundry cart. Joe had been assigned to folding towels in the laundry room.
One day, while the guards argued over whose turn it was to fill out paperwork, Joe noticed an unattended cart by the back door. Stacked high with sheets.
Joe looked left. Then right. Then right again, because the left didn’t matter. He climbed in, gently covered himself with a sheet, and waited.
Moments later, a humming worker pushed the cart out toward the exit. They made it halfway down the hallway before the cart hit a bump and Joe let out a soft but unmistakable, “Whoops!” The sheet was pulled back. Joe beamed.
“Hi there. I’m just popping home for a bit. Won’t be long.”
The escape attempt was recorded.
Joe was immediately transferred to maximum security detention—a place usually reserved for violent offenders, but apparently also for smiley men with no interest in paperwork.
Now in a cell with reinforced bars, CCTV, and guards who looked like they hadn’t smiled since ‘Hey Hey It’s Saturday’ was on TV, Joe remained unfazed.
He politely asked to go home every day. He explained—calmly—that he didn’t want any services from the state, including their all-inclusive staycation package.
No one listened. Each request was met with silence, or a shove, or both.
Eventually, they stopped responding altogether. Joe became just another file in the system. A man who’d done nothing violent. Nothing malicious. He simply hadn’t asked for their help, and worse—he refused it.
He didn’t sign up for their election. He didn’t sign up for their fines. He didn’t show up to court. He didn’t pay. He didn’t resist violently. He just kept saying, “No thanks.”
And so, they locked him in a cell for it. Joe sat peacefully by the small window in his maximum security cell, watching a cloud shaped like a teapot drift by. He smiled.
“I guess they were all telling the truth in that last election ,” he said. “all the candidates really were promising me maximum security”.
The End.
Published May 2025