Scene: The students of l'ABC have decided that the only way to change the government is to monopolize the police force (it was Gavroche's idea). They are being interviewed for jobs in the Paris police department.

Interviewer: Name?
Enjolras: Enjolras.
Interviewer: No, I mean your last name.
Enjolras: There you have it.
Interviewer: First name?
Enjolras: Enjolras.
Interviewer: You mean you only have one name?
Enjolras: Basically, yes. It's against my beliefs to have more than one.

(Interviewer shrugs, and with a puzzled face moves on.)
Interviewer: Have you had any previous occupations?
Enjolras: Well, I got a major in world history, but I didn't feel like teaching. If you look at my résumé, you'll notice it says "radical."
Interviewer: You mean you were a paid radical?
Enjolras: Actually, I build barricades, go on strike, and petition for a living. It doesn't pay very well, but I love it.
Interviewer: I'm sorry, sir, but I can't accept you for a job. It says in Article 2,460,110,642 that the Paris police can't hire Reds.
Enjolras: What do you mean?!
Interviewer: You know, Bolsheviks.
Enjolras: Bolshe…huh?
Interviewer: Communists. You're obviously one, and we don't need any at the moment. I'm truly sorry.
Enjolras: Now hold on a minute. What on earth makes you think I'm a "communist?"
Interviewer: Well, your résumé says your life goal is to start a revolution, your previous occupation was a radical, you have a tattoo of a red flag on your left ankle and you're wearing a bloody red vest! If you had strolled in here singing "we the workers of the world unite," the fact couldn't be more glaring! Take him out, please.
(Enjolras is dragged away yelling about how the people will rise up to defeat the evil capitalists)

Interviewer: Next, please. Name?
Joly: Joly Hypochondriac.
Interviewer: Your résumé says you were previously a doctor-in-training.. What made you decide to switch to a completely different job area?
Joly: Well, I was a lousy doctor. I could cure other people, but had trouble with my own health. After being forced to stay in bed for two months with a weird strain of hepamoxcysrzxtosicktoworkitis that I caught from one of my patients, I resolved that enough was enough. So I quit.

(Joly suddenly sneezes on the interviewer)
Interviewer: Err…I think a few weeks training as a National Guard will do you good. Next.
Joly: Hey, wait! I can't be a National Guard! You…you don't understand! I…uh…I'm too ill for that…I think I'm getting malaria…
(Joly is pushed through the door by the interviewer, who is repeating what a wonderful gunnery sergeant Joly would make)

Interviewer: Next, please. Next? HELLO! NEXT!!!!
(Annoyed, he looks around without seeing anyone. Only when he looks down does he notice a very small young lad.) Err…name?
Gavroche: How do you do, my names Gavroche…
Interviewer: This is a job interview, not a talent show. I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. If you want to sing in a cabaret or something I can direct you to several…
Gavroche: No, I want to join the police!
Interviewer: You mean you want to be a policeman when you grow up, little boy?
(Gavroche scowls at the phrase "little boy" and is tempted to kick the interviewer's shins really hard, but he decides it's not the best way to impress a future employer.)
Gavroche: No, no, no, I said a job now! I'd be a really good inspector or something! I'm good at spying, I know almost everyone in town, and I have connections. Everywhere. And if you don't take me seriously, bud, I can guarantee your disappearance off the face of the planet in…oh…(glances at watch) about half an hour.

(At this point the interviewer, who is actually much smarter than he looks, presses the silent alarm button under his desk. Within time it takes to say "little people" Gavroche has been surrounded, handcuffed and taken away. The interviewer writes a note to the prefect, reading it out loud to himself.)

Interviewer: "To Monsieur le Prefect. All bragging aside, you'll never believe who waltzed into my office today. It was…drum roll please…the head of the Mafia. That's what I said, the Godfather himself! Anyway, I'll expect a bonus on my paycheck this month…"

(He folds the note and calls the next person into his office.)
Interviewer: Name?
Grantaire: *snore*
Interviewer: Excuse me sir, wake up. I need to interview you…hey, stop drooling on my desk!
Grantaire: Huh…uh…oh, terribly sorry.
Interviewer: For a second time, name?
Grantaire: Grantaire. A la wine cask. All my friends call me "wine cask."
Interviewer: Oh, right. Your résumé says you dropped out of school, where you were studying agriculture. It seems you've been an artist, waiter, veterinarian, pro-football player, and disk jockey. Then you opened a successful brewing company. What made you decide to join the police?
Grantaire: Peer pressure. All my buddys were doing it, and they convinced me that it would be an exciting career switch.
Interviewer: Your letters of recommendation say you are adept at sleeping like a rock through anything, including battles, and have the Café Musain record of downing a six-pack in eight seconds. You enjoy being a connoisseur of fine wines, and compose better irrelevant soliloquies than Shakespeare's Mercutio. Young man, I'm very impressed. The Parisian police would be honored to have you. Would you like a glass of brandy?

In the next Police Academy LMCCXXXVIII…the new recruits (if any of them passed the interview and physical examination) must survive the rigors of boot camp (perhaps "nightstick camp" would be more appropriate) under the supervision of Police Inspector/Drill Sargent First Class Javert. Stay tuned!