Chain of command

My wife doesn’t want you to put that trap by the front door anymore,” George said, still speaking loudly, so that the janitor could hear, but at least not bellowing so that it tore his throat. He was a mouse — literally, a mouse — but all the same he didn’t expect to have to scream to make himself heard. “She’s afraid it might hurt the children.”

“Will it hurt the children?” the janitor demanded.

“No,” George replied. “They know all about traps — but my wife still wants it removed.”

“Sorry,” the janitor said, “but my orders are to put a trap by every mouse hole. This is an atomic plant, and they don’t want mice.”

“They do, too!” George said defiantly. “They brought my great-great-grandfather Michael here themselves and exposed him to hard radiations. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

“I can’t help it,” the janitor snapped. “I have to obey orders.”

“What will I tell my wife?” George shouted.

That stopped the janitor. He had a wife of his own.

“I guess I can take it up with the supervisor,” he finally said.