DAY 1 OF 6 — THE RACCOON RETURNS TO HAUS MORGENROT
There is something deeply disrespectful about waking up at 8:15 in the morning and immediately having somebody attempt to sell you some shit.
Not coffee.
Not breakfast.
Not even pornography.
Medicare and Medicaid.
My phone rang from some random 713 number approximately fourteen seconds after my soul had re-entered my body.
I answered.
Somebody started talking about Medicare or Medicaid or whatever the fuck they were trying to sell, explain, enroll, harvest, summon, or resurrect.
I don't know.
I didn't care.
I had been conscious for approximately the lifespan of a fruit fly.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand: “Good morning.”
Mr. Germlin: “Fuck you.”
Jerry: “Excellent. We're back.”
And thus began:
DAY 1 OF 6.
Again.
Because apparently six twelve-hour shifts followed by two days off is not merely a work schedule.
It is a New Game Plus mode.
You defeat the final boss.
The credits roll.
You receive two recovery potions.
Then the game politely asks:
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BEGIN ANOTHER SIX-DAY CAMPAIGN?
No.
Excellent.
Loading...
THE BATTLEFIELD HAS RESET
The previous six-day campaign had gone somewhat differently than planned.
The original mission had been simple:
Work six days.
Instead, somewhere around Day 2, my chest and right arm decided they had their own ideas, VA Health Connect told me to call 911, EMS showed up, and Days 3 through 5 were promptly swallowed by the American healthcare system.
Eventually I got medically cleared, returned for Day 6, completed the rotation, and learned something important:
Sometimes “power through” means perseverance.
Sometimes “power through” means you're refusing to acknowledge that the battlefield has changed.
This time?
I wanted boring.
Beautiful, glorious, weapons-grade boring.
Go to Haus Morgenrot.
Do my job.
Follow policy.
Document things.
Don't freestyle.
Collect $17 an hour.
Throw the deuces.
Go home.
🌵🔥
If the cactus catches fire, determine whether extinguishing said cactus is actually my assigned responsibility.
If not:
Damn.
That's crazy.
OPERATION: WHERE THE FUCK IS MY USB?
Before leaving for work, however, I had another problem.
My USB drive was missing.
Not just any USB drive.
This one had Mogworld on it.
Yes.
Mogworld.
The Ben Croshaw book.
Because apparently my plan for surviving downtime at Haus Morgenrot involved reading a novel about an undead wizard while surrounded by paperwork and free-roaming hallway cats.
Perfectly reasonable.
Except I couldn't remember where the fucking USB was.
Desk?
Bag?
Bedroom?
Somewhere at work?
Consumed by the same extradimensional entity responsible for single socks?
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
Eventually I'm halfway to work in the Uber when my brain finally finishes indexing yesterday's save file.
Pants.
Not the pants I was currently wearing.
Different pants.
The USB was in another pair of pants.
Jerry: “So you lost it.”
Mr. Germlin: “No.”
Jerry: “You don't currently possess it.”
Mr. Germlin: “Correct.”
Jerry: “And you don't know with absolute certainty where it is.”
Mr. Germlin: “I know where it probably is.”
Jerry: “That's losing something with optimism.”
Mr. Germlin: “Go eat a cactus.”
Fine.
No Mogworld today.
I'll read the SOP.
Fantastic.
Nothing gets the blood pumping like institutional policy.
THE MOST BORING TECH ALIVE
This is probably worth explaining.
I've increasingly decided that the safest way for me to work at Haus Morgenrot is to become aggressively boring.
Not lazy.
Not disengaged.
Not “I don't give a shit what happens.”
Boring.
There is a difference.
I don't need to be anybody's friend.
I don't need to win arguments.
I don't need to investigate why somebody suddenly needs to use the bathroom seventeen seconds after group begins.
I don't need to psychoanalyze why somebody is wandering down the hallway.
I don't need to translate every institutional contradiction into the lost tablets of Moses.
I need to know:
What happened?
When did it happen?
What rule applies?
What am I supposed to do about it?
And if I don't know?
Ask SOD.
Don't freestyle.
That's it.
The recent bathroom/group direction had been particularly useful:
“While we cannot stop you from going to the bathroom, according to the COO and SOD, we will have to hold you accountable.”
Beautiful.
I put that shit on paper.
Because I don't want to remember policy.
I want to reference policy.
My brain has better things to store.
Like Battle Royale trivia.
THIRTY YEARS?!
I arrived expecting a relatively normal Friday.
Haus Morgenrot had other plans.
One of the staff members was retiring.
She had apparently worked there for damn near thirty years.
Thirty.
Years.
I didn't really know the lady, but when I saw her leaving, I wished her the best.
And I meant it.
Thirty years anywhere is a hell of a run.
I've been at Haus Morgenrot for about seven months and already mentally compare the building to a burning cactus populated by feral cats.
Thirty years?
Lady, you didn't retire.
You completed the campaign at 100%.
Every side quest.
Every collectible.
Every hidden boss.
Every DLC.
You unlocked the golden clipboard.
Go home.
You've won.
Naturally, there was also food associated with the event.
I would like the record to reflect that while I deeply respect three decades of service—
I was also interested in the food.
Both things can be true.
TODAY'S SCHEDULE HAS BEEN CANCELED DUE TO SCHEDULE
The retirement event basically consumed the normal morning.
Clients spent much of the time in their rooms.
Then lunch arrived.
Sack lunches.
And the instruction became:
Grab your sack lunch. Go eat in your room.
This created a minor philosophical problem.
Because normally:
YOU CANNOT EAT IN YOUR ROOM.
Client:
“But we're not allowed to eat in our rooms.”
Me:
...
Sir.
I do not possess the answer to this question.
I did not write the policy.
I did not schedule today's retirement event.
I did not personally convene the Supreme Court of Sack Lunches.
I was given an instruction.
You were given a sack lunch.
Please take the sack lunch into the room we normally tell you not to eat inside and consume it there.
Thank you.
Jerry: “Would you like to explain the contradiction?”
Mr. Germlin: “No.”
Jerry: “Would you like to speculate about why today's rule is different?”
Mr. Germlin: “No.”
Jerry: “Would you like to create a new policy yourself?”
Mr. Germlin: “Absolutely fucking not.”
Jerry: “You're learning.”
DON'T FREESTYLE.
I don't understand the contradiction.
Therefore I don't explain the contradiction.
That is somebody else's circus.
Those are somebody else's sack lunches.
FREE-ROAMING HALLWAY CAT SIMULATOR 2026
Eventually we approached headcount.
And, naturally, hallway cats began doing hallway-cat things.
Somebody's here.
Somebody's there.
Somebody needs to stay in the room.
Somebody needs to stay in one area.
Somebody is wandering.
Somebody presumably wants a snack.
pspspspspspspsps
No.
Stay there.
Headcount ran roughly from 2:45 into the 3 o'clock hour, and once everything was situated enough for civilization to continue, I went to lunch.
Which brings us to an extremely important development.
THE GRILLED CHICKEN HAS BEEN DEFEATED
I got a salad.
I also got grilled chicken.
Previously, this grilled chicken had committed crimes against my salad dressing.
It had consumed an unacceptable percentage of the available dressing before I could properly deploy it.
Not today.
I moved the dressing.
The chicken was isolated.
Containment successful.
WE LEARN FROM HISTORY.
🥗
I ate my salad.
Then I picked at the chicken.
And for one beautiful moment, I thought:
You know what?
Today really isn't that bad.
Which is a sentence that should never be spoken aloud inside Haus Morgenrot.
But we'll get there.
HELLO, HCA. IT'S ME AGAIN.
Lunch also became another episode in the continuing saga of:
PLEASE SOMEBODY TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR MY FUCKING PRESCRIPTIONS.
After my hospital discharge, prescriptions had been sent to Walgreens.
Walgreens wanted roughly $812 if I paid cash.
No.
Absolutely not.
I have the VA.
Thus began a bureaucratic mating ritual involving HCA, Walgreens, the VA, HCA again, the VA again, and probably a carrier pigeon who died somewhere over Pasadena.
By Friday, this still wasn't completely resolved.
So at 3:25 PM, during my lunch break, I called HCA Houston Healthcare Northwest again.
Seventeen minutes and three seconds.
Seventeen minutes trying to get the medication situation moved somewhere useful.
Then back to work.
Because apparently lunch now consists of:
Salad.
Chicken.
Medical bureaucracy.
Clock in.
“YOU'RE A PIECE OF SHIT.”
The afternoon was still remarkably manageable.
At some point, one client approached me about something we'd previously discussed.
Then:
“You piece of shit.”
Okay.
I considered this feedback.
I processed it.
I developed a professional growth plan.
“I'm working to be the best piece of shit ever.”
He laughed.
What else are you supposed to do with that?
If somebody calls you a piece of shit and you become offended, now there's an argument.
If somebody calls you a piece of shit and you respond:
“Correct. I'm currently pursuing certification.”
Where the fuck does the conversation go?
Nowhere.
Boring Tech wins again.
THE HAUS MORGENROT BOOK OF ACCOUNTABILITY RETURNS
Eventually it was time for paperwork.
And this is where the Boring Tech Doctrine really shines.
I don't need:
Client appeared to intentionally avoid group because he was upset about—
No.
Fuck all that.
Give me:
Group: 6:00 PM–7:00 PM.
Client left for bathroom: 6:36 PM.
Client returned: 6:44 PM.
Done.
If the client doesn't return:
Client did not return to group.
Done.
Movie night?
Group: 8:00 PM–9:15 PM.
Client left group at 8:37 PM.
Done.
One guy grabbed his snack and then said he'd missed his phone call.
Fine.
Client left group for missed phone call at [time].
Done.
I don't know whether he actually missed it.
I don't know why.
I don't need a twelve-part Netflix documentary examining his motives.
I observed a thing.
I documented the thing.
I signed the thing.
NEXT HALLWAY CAT.
By the end of the night, I had approximately fourteen write-ups.
Room inspection?
Done.
Paperwork?
Done.
Responsibilities?
Done.
Friday movie night?
Done.
This was shaping up to be an almost suspiciously successful Day 1.
PLEASE FORM ONE FUCKING LINE
Around 7:40 PM, we reached another sophisticated Haus Morgenrot logistical exercise:
Getting grown men into one line.
Not two lines.
Not a semicircle.
Not the Fellowship of the Wandering Hallway Cat.
One. Fucking. Line.
Apparently this was asking too much.
I was trying to get everybody cleared out and situated before movie night while the hallway cats engaged in their traditional ritual of standing everywhere except where I needed them.
One of them had something to say.
I don't even remember exactly what.
I do remember my response.
“Go floss with a cactus.”
🌵
And you know what?
I don't recall hearing another fucking word from him.
Jerry: “Did you just tell a client to floss with a cactus?”
Mr. Germlin: “Yes.”
Jerry: “Is that in the SOP?”
Mr. Germlin: “Not yet.”
The hallway cat departed.
Order was restored.
Somewhere, a dental hygienist felt a disturbance in the Force.
THE LITTLE CHECK THAT COULD HAS RECEIVED REINFORCEMENTS
There was another victory.
I'd lost work hours because of the ER/hospital stretch.
I managed to recover 22 hours covering August 22 and 23.
At $17 an hour, that's:
$374 gross.
Now, let's establish something.
This is not Ulric Money.
Ulric Money is when Tales from the Crypt drops twenty-five grand into your lap because apparently the universe briefly forgot you were Mr. Germlin.
This is not that.
This is:
THE SLIGHTLY LARGER CHECK THAT COULD.
Choo fucking choo.
I'll take it.
The Raccoon Den is not built through miracles.
It's built through boring paychecks, ridiculous work schedules, acting broke, and occasionally discovering that payroll owes you twenty-two fucking hours.
🦝💰
9:49 PM
At 9:49, I gave my assessment of the day.
Not bad.
Seriously.
Not bad.
Fourteen write-ups instead of twenty-five.
Room inspection finished.
Movie night basically finished.
Payroll hours recovered.
Eleven minutes until 10 PM.
I was eating.
I was ready to leave.
The cactus had remained remarkably fire-resistant.
🌵
Look at it.
Beautiful.
Peaceful.
Not a flame in sight.
Jerry: “You shouldn't have said that.”
Mr. Germlin: “Said what?”
Jerry: “That today wasn't bad.”
Mr. Germlin: “It's 9:49.”
Jerry: “Eleven minutes is an eternity.”
Mr. Germlin: “Jerry.”
Jerry: “Yes?”
Mr. Germlin: “Shut the fuck up.”
THE CACTUS HAS CAUGHT FIRE
And then somebody apparently overdosed.
Of course.
Because why wouldn't that happen during final headcount?
EMS arrived.
There was also an HHSC client going out for medical attention, and now a TDCJ client was down with an apparent overdose.
I did not know what had been taken.
I did not know what was in the needle.
I did not know how it got inside the facility.
I did not know when it got inside the facility.
And I wasn't about to manufacture answers because somebody wearing an EMS uniform asked me what happened.
They asked what the situation was.
My useful answer was essentially:
Sir, I don't know myself.
Because I didn't.
I knew there was a medical emergency.
I knew they needed to get to the person.
So I walked EMS toward the scene.
At first I thought they could see the SOD and everybody a few doors down.
They could not.
Excellent.
Minor navigation malfunction.
Correct course.
Walk them the rest of the way.
There.
I saw the SOD wearing gloves and holding a needle and another item.
I didn't know what was inside the needle.
I didn't know what the other item was.
And that distinction matters.
Because BORING TECH DOES NOT WRITE FAN FICTION.
What I saw is what I saw.
What I don't know remains:
I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.
BUT WE SEARCH PEOPLE
And that's the frustrating part.
This wasn't me carrying somebody else's emergency home.
EMS had the emergency.
SOD had the scene.
My involvement was limited.
What irritated me was something else.
We've had contraband.
I've personally caught contraband three fucking times.
There was a newer search policy.
When I'm supposed to search somebody, I search them.
I keep that boring too.
And yet:
Somebody still apparently managed to get a fucking needle inside.
How?
Don't know.
When?
Don't know.
Through whom?
Don't know.
Was somebody responsible for missing it?
DON'T. KNOW.
That's somebody else's investigation.
Because searches reduce risk.
They don't erect a magical force field around Haus Morgenrot.
People are going to attempt stupid shit.
Clients are going to do client shit.
Former inmates may bring inmate habits.
Hallway cats will continue attempting to unlock areas of the map the developers specifically told them not to enter.
🐈
My responsibility remains exactly what it was before:
Do my assigned job correctly.
That's it.
10:02 PM
EMS was where EMS needed to be.
SOD was handling the scene.
I let the front know what needed to be known.
Then I looked at the clock.
10:02 PM.
My shift ended at 10.
The cactus was now very much on fire.
🌵🔥
I considered the situation carefully.
I consulted Germlin doctrine.
I reviewed my assigned responsibilities.
I reached a decision.
Damn.
Pause.
That's crazy.
beep
CLOCKED THE FUCK OUT.
BRUNO HAS BEEN FALSELY ACCUSED
Home.
Finally.
And here's where the story becomes wonderfully boring again.
No Hydra.
No household bullshit waiting behind the front door.
Sis had made cornbread and beans and had ribs defrosting.
Hell yes.
I washed all the dishes.
Let Bruno out.
And at some point voice transcription decided that Bruno the Chihuahua was actually:
BRUNO THE CHEAT.
I would like to formally apologize to Bruno.
There is currently no evidence that Bruno has cheated on an examination, sporting event, romantic partner, federal tax return, casino game, or competitive hot-dog-eating contest.
He is a Chihuahua.
His criminal record remains sealed.
I took a bath.
Got everything cleaned up.
The whole home shutdown sequence probably took another hour and a half.
But when it was finished?
It was finished.
No emergency.
No paperwork.
No hallway cats.
No headcount.
No needle.
No HCA.
No SOD.
Just home.
AND THAT WAS DAY 1
The strange thing is that it really wasn't a bad day.
That's the truth underneath all the bullshit.
Haus Morgenrot held a retirement event for somebody who gave the place nearly thirty years.
The normal schedule got weird.
Clients ate sack lunches in rooms where they're normally told not to eat.
The hallway cats wandered.
I ate my salad.
The grilled chicken was prevented from stealing my dressing.
I chased HCA for seventeen more minutes.
I got fourteen write-ups done.
I finished my room inspection.
I recovered twenty-two hours of missing pay.
We had movie night.
And then, with approximately eleven minutes remaining on the clock, Haus Morgenrot deployed an apparent overdose as a secret post-credits boss encounter.
EMS came.
I helped them get where they needed to go.
Other staff took over.
I left.
Then I went home and washed dishes.
That's life sometimes.
Not every chaotic thing needs to become my chaos.
Not every unanswered question requires my theory.
Not every hallway cat requires my emotional investment.
And not every burning cactus requires my fire extinguisher.
Tomorrow I come back and do it again.
Saturday has visitation.
Saturday has hallway cats.
Saturday has another movie night.
Then Sunday morning, for reasons currently known only to God, management, and possibly the Department of Defense, the techs have been summoned to Haus Morgenrot for a:
SIX.
A.M.
MANDATORY.
MEETING.
What is the meeting about?
I don't fucking know.
Why 6 AM?
I don't fucking know.
Why apparently techs and not everybody else?
I DON'T FUCKING KNOW.
I just know that Sunday I'll be waking up around 4 AM, getting an Uber around 5 AM, arriving for whatever mysterious ritual begins at six, and then remaining there until 6 PM.
But that's Sunday's problem.
Right now?
Day 1 is finished.
The dishes are clean.
Bruno the Chihuahua has been exonerated.
The ribs are defrosting.
The Raccoon Den fund continues accumulating.
And somewhere back at Haus Morgenrot, the cactus is presumably still burning.
🌵🔥
Damn.
That's crazy.
See you tomorrow.
— Mr. Germlin 🦝
with editorial interference from Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand