The Purity Committee was formed on a Tuesday afternoon, after a long lunch of watered-down soup and lofty ideals. Their mission was simple: rid society of “undesirables.” Nobody quite defined what that meant, but everyone agreed it was necessary. Agreement, after all, was the purest virtue.
First to go were the loud chewers. Society cheered. Streets were cleaner, dinners quieter. Then, the Committee noticed the left-handed. Obviously suspicious, clearly a threat to proper order. They were gone by Friday.
Next, out went the people who sneezed too often, those who misused semicolons, and anyone who admitted to preferring cats over dogs. Productivity rose, crime fell, and the Purity Committee congratulated themselves on their wisdom.
But it didn’t stop. With each wave of cleansing, the bar for “undesirable” lowered. Soon, anyone who wore mismatched socks or forgot to recycle correctly found themselves vanished. The Committee became smaller, but “purer.”
Eventually, only three people remained: Chairman Wilkins, Treasurer Greaves, and Secretary Collins. They sat in their spotless meeting hall, surrounded by empty chairs.
“Well,” said Wilkins, “we’ve nearly perfected society.”
“Nearly?” said Greaves, narrowing his eyes. “I couldn’t help but notice you stir your tea clockwise, which is… unorthodox.”
“And I,” said Collins, “have long suspected Greaves of blinking excessively.”
The accusations escalated. A teacup was smashed, a chair leg became a club, and within ten minutes, all three were dead.
The Purity Committee’s work was complete. The world was finally pure. Absolutely, perfectly pure.