Yep  

The humidity in the Lafayette hangar was thick enough to chew, but the atmosphere inside was worse. The three mechanics were hunched over an airframe that had seen more decades than the Urks in the office had seen birthdays. There were no parts. There was no hope. There was only the Great Digital Timecard.

"I just spent forty-five minutes clocking in and out of 'Task 402: Rag Retrieval' and 'Task 409: Thinking About Wrenching,'" the lead mechanic spat, wiping grease onto a sleeve that had given up on being clean in 2018. "If I don't hit the KPI for 'Job Transitions per Hour,' Johnnum starts shrieking from the mountain."

Deep in his lair, Johnnum was indeed shrieking. He wasn't looking at the aircraft—he was staring at a dashboard of red bars. "Nasty hobbitses! They is staying on one task for too long! They wants to actually fix things! No! They must clock out! Clock in! Clock out again! It makes the data look... precious."

The Urks in the office hissed in agreement, their pale skin glowing in the light of their monitors. They had just finished their masterpiece: the Quarterly Workspace and Sexual Harassment Questionnaire was a 400-page digital gauntlet designed to turn every "hey, dumbass" into a career-ending felony.

"Look at this question," the Chief Pilot said, leaning over the Base Admin’s shoulder. "'On a scale of 1 to 10, how much did your coworker’s use of the word "s&%$" diminish your spiritual safety?'"

"I had to lie on the whole thing," the Ops Admin groaned. "If I admit we rib each other to keep from jumping into the swamp, the Orcs in HR will descend. But look at the fine print—anyone who sends a 'Confession of Past Crudeness' directly to Jauron Hinch gets an immediate fast-track to Management."

It was the ultimate trap. The Fellowship watched as a junior Orc—who had once accidentally put Jet-A in a diesel truck—sent a groveling email to Hinch confessing he once heard a mechanic call a hammer a "persuader." By lunch, that Orc was promoted to "Regional Compliance Overlord."

"It’s a kingdom of rats," the Chief Pilot muttered.

Down in the swampy dark, Johnnum cackled. He remembered the practical jokes he used to play—the kind that would get a man exiled to the Dead Marshes today—but now he used the questionnaire as his weapon. He knew the hobbits were lying to save their jobs, and that lie gave him power.

"They is all 'sensitive' now," Johnnum whispered to a dead catfish. "If they spend all day answering questions about their feelings and clocking in and out of ten-second tasks, they won't have time to notice the fleet is crumbling. Jauron Hinch is pleased. The KPIs are green, even if the helicopters are grounded."

Saurumon and the Board sat in their ivory tower, reviewing the spreadsheets. They didn't care that nothing was flying. They cared that 100% of the workforce had completed the Harassment Questionnaire and that the "Task Density" metrics were through the roof.

The mechanics just stood there, staring at an empty parts shelf, waiting for the next bell to ring so they could clock into the Indirect Task of that would keep upper management off their a $$ for 2 seconds so they could spend time actually fixing the aircraft.