DAY 6 OF 6 — THE RACCOON CLOCKS OUT
Wednesday, September 2, 2026
There are certain mornings where you wake up and immediately know the universe has loaded the shotgun.
This was not one of those mornings.
This was Day 6 of 6.
The final twelve-hour pilgrimage through Haus Morgenrot.
Five days had already given me mandatory dawn meetings, hallway-cat philosophy, paperwork, contraband nonsense, verbal aggression, a grievance box that temporarily entered the Shadow Realm, police, TDCJ alphabet soup, cactus-based behavioral counseling, and enough administrative absurdity that Jerry had begun drinking imaginary Pepto-Bismol directly from the bottle.
All I wanted from Day 6 was simple.
Go in.
Be boring.
Do my job.
Leave at ten.
Jerry: “Any predictions?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “Any expectations?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “Think it'll be quiet?”
Me: “DON'T YOU FUCKING MANIFEST ANYTHING.”
The operating system remained unchanged:
DON'T CHASE.
DON'T CARRY.
DON'T FREESTYLE.
RETURN TO NEUTRAL.
And perhaps most importantly:
LET BORING BE FUCKING BORING.
THE FACILITY'S BEST BURGER™
The opening stretch was fantastic.
Not fantastic as in something wonderful happened.
Fantastic as in nothing happened.
Around 10:00 to 10:30?
Great.
Beautiful.
Nobody spontaneously transformed into a final boss.
Nobody required me to summon the Sacred Clipboard of Accountability.
Nobody set anything on fire.
At least not yet.
By 1:25 PM I was on my fifteen-minute break, attempting to inhale the Wednesday special:
THE FACILITY'S BEST BURGER.
This thing appears every Wednesday with such consistency that I can only assume somebody in the kitchen signed a blood oath.
Wednesday?
Burger.
Wednesday?
Burger.
Nuclear winter?
Facility Best Burger.
Jerry: “Best according to whom?”
Me: “The facility.”
Jerry: “Independent review?”
Me: “Eat your fucking burger.”
And while I was speed-running lunch before the fifteen-minute timer killed me, I realized the morning had actually produced several pleasant little hallway-cat encounters.
Which immediately made me suspicious.
THE BURGER PROMISE
One hallway cat currently on loss of privileges informed me that once he gets out of Haus Morgenrot, he's buying me a burger.
I told him to keep it simple.
Burger.
Fries.
No bacon.
If bacon appears, I'll pull the shit off.
I'm not demanding a Wagyu cow personally massaged by monks in the Swiss Alps.
Just keep your word.
That's the part I care about.
Get out.
Stay out.
Do whatever the hell you're supposed to do next.
And if someday this bastard appears holding a burger and fries?
I'll accept my ceremonial payment.
CERTIFIED SON OF A BITCH
Then there was Push-Up Cat.
This is the hallway cat who has previously informed me that I am old and, on another occasion, called me a son of a bitch.
Which was incredibly disrespectful.
Because I am not merely some amateur son of a bitch.
I STRIVE TO BE A CERTIFIED SON OF A BITCH.
There are standards.
Continuing education.
Possibly an examination.
Today we somehow got onto push-ups, and I proposed maxing the counter at 999.
He informed me this would be acceptable provided I performed ten percent.
That is 99.9 push-ups.
Jerry: “How do you perform nine-tenths of a push-up?”
Me: “Very fucking carefully.”
Jerry: “Does the certification board accept that?”
Me: “They're reviewing my application.”
PERHAPS DO NOT ANNOUNCE YOUR CRIMES TO THE TECH
Another loss-of-privileges cat walked up and announced that he was going to buy a soda.
To me.
The tech.
The employee standing there wearing the badge.
I basically told him:
Sir. Perhaps do not tell the tech that.
If you're not supposed to be buying soda, maybe don't stroll up to the person whose job involves accountability and proudly announce your proposed soda acquisition.
He laughed.
I laughed.
He wandered away.
The hallway-cat ecosystem remained stable.
CACTUS CAT: THE PEACE TREATY
Then I checked on Cactus Cat.
This is the same man who, during Sunday's delayed-breakfast chaos, had been talking about crashing out, violence, killing somebody, and whatever other nonsense had loaded into his dialogue tree that morning.
That was when I gave him perhaps the finest therapeutic advice Haus Morgenrot has ever produced:
“Next time you crash out, go punch a cactus.”
This evolved Monday into me informing him that I punch cactuses daily.
Not small cactuses.
Large cactuses.
The kind that hurt.
With pleasure.
By Tuesday, he was asking questions about cactus specifications.
I am still awaiting my honorary doctorate in behavioral science.
But Wednesday I didn't have a cactus joke for him.
I just checked on him.
Told him I didn't want any bad blood between us.
Made sure he was doing okay.
And told him if he ever genuinely needed somebody to talk to, he could talk to me.
That's it.
No speech.
No savior complex.
No promise that I'm going to fix his life.
Just:
You good?
We're good.
If you need to talk, talk.
Because listen with interest, not investment does not mean become a cold motherfucker.
It means I can care about what happens to somebody without picking up their entire life and strapping it to my back.
I hope the bastard succeeds.
But his cactus remains his cactus.
AND THEN HAUS MORGENROT ADOPTED A FUCKING DOG
Somewhere around 2:00 to 3:00 PM, Day 6 suddenly unlocked downloadable content.
One of the women around here—something like a lead/head facilitator, exact title unknown—came across a French bulldog.
She took the dog in.
Got the little bastard to a veterinarian.
And eventually the dog wound up being adopted by one of the hallway cats.
We'll call him A1.
A1 is currently on loss of privileges, but he's a good dude from what I've seen. He may need a little extra guidance sometimes, but I look out for him within reason.
Not friendship.
Not adoption paperwork.
Just:
Finish your fucking program, man.
I think he's got somewhere around twenty-five days left.
And now?
He has a French bulldog.
The dog's name is apparently Rebel.
Or Rebal.
Or possibly some spelling that would cause English teachers to spontaneously combust.
We'll use Rebel until informed otherwise.
And I ain't even gonna make fun of this one too hard.
Because that's fucking awesome.
After nearly a week of hallway cats generating paperwork, arguing about bathrooms, disappearing from groups, insulting staff, fighting consequences, and generally testing whether my clipboard possesses an ammunition limit—
one hallway cat got a dog.
Maybe Rebel needed him.
Maybe he needed Rebel.
Maybe they'll both go somewhere better after Haus Morgenrot.
I don't fucking know.
BORING TECH DOES NOT WRITE FAN FICTION.
But I hope it works.
THE CACTUS CATCHES FIRE
Of course, while all this wholesome shit was happening—
THE FUCKING CACTUS CAUGHT FIRE.
🌵🔥
The radio suddenly came alive:
“WE NEED MALE STAFF AT ROOM XXX.”
One male staff member responded:
“Well, I'm at the UA room—”
And immediately:
“HALT THAT. WE NEED MALES AT ROOM XXX.”
Silence.
Now, Haus Morgenrot is staffed predominantly by women.
Which means the male employees occasionally feel like decorative ornaments.
We're here.
We look nice.
Somebody dusts us every third Thursday.
Then suddenly:
MALE STAFF REQUIRED.
Jerry: “Mr. Germlin.”
Me: “Yes?”
Jerry: “You've been activated.”
Me: “For what?”
Jerry: “Male.”
Me: “That's not an assignment.”
Jerry: “Apparently today it fucking is.”
Except there was one minor complication.
I WAS ON LUNCH.
So somewhere in Haus Morgenrot:
🌵🔥🔥🔥
And somewhere else:
🦝🥗
Arthur stood perfectly fucking still.
Red Arremer flapped.
Circled.
Baited.
Feinted.
Arthur did not move.
Commit.
Because yes, the cactus was on fire.
But the Burning Cactus Doctrine contains a critical question:
IS PUTTING OUT THIS CACTUS CURRENTLY MY ASSIGNED RESPONSIBILITY?
At that moment?
Nope.
Damn.
That's crazy.
continues eating shrimp salad
MY PERSONAL SOLUTION WOULD BE SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT
Now, if somebody handed me the Giant Haus Morgenrot Consequence Lever?
I'd probably freeze this whole motherfucker for two weeks.
No snacks.
No free-time migration.
No vending-machine pilgrimages.
No hallway-cat recreational Olympics.
Just:
PROGRAM.
And I would stand there while the hallway cats sang the ancient lament:
“MAAAAAAN, THAT'S FUCKED UP!”
Me: “Damn.”
Cat: “WE AIN'T GETTING STORE?”
Me: “That's crazy.”
Cat: “NO FREE TIME?”
Me: “That's two crazies.”
But here's the important part:
THAT AIN'T MY FUCKING CALL.
I don't establish facility-wide punishment.
I don't invent consequences.
I don't become Supreme Emperor Germlin because somebody annoyed me.
There are people above me whose job it is to make those decisions.
My job?
Follow the instruction.
Verify when uncertain.
Document when required.
Return to neutral.
MR. GERMLIN VISITS THE CELL-PHONE BAZAAR
Lunch produced another side quest.
Near Family Dollar, I saw a T-Mobile setup advertising some flavor of:
FREE PHONE!
Naturally, my ears perked up.
Because only recently the legendary SAMSUNG GALAXY A53 5G died heroically at work.
That magnificent bastard did not die naked.
It died wearing an OtterBox, screen protector, and FU duct-taped to its corpse.
I did not explain any of this to the T-Mobile people.
They weren't ready.
I simply explained that my phone died at work and I had to replace it.
Then I asked about the magical free phone.
Apparently:
FREE PHONE!*
*Terms and conditions include not being Mr. Germlin.
Because once I mentioned I had an existing number, the Free Phone Fairy packed her shit and left.
Numbers started flying.
Four hundred something.
Discount.
Two hundred something.
Taxes.
Fees.
Eventually my smooth brain heard approximately:
$350.
And Mr. Act Broke immediately emerged from the dumpster.
🦝
No.
I ain't spending $350 on that.
So I returned to Cricket.
MY FAVORITE CRICKET LADY
I walked into Cricket and greeted the lady there with something along the lines of:
“If it isn't my favorite lady.”
Was I buttering her up?
Absolutely.
This is diplomacy.
She had nothing to do with the old tablet-case nonsense. I didn't complain about that. That was ancient history involving a case that kept putting my tablet into Safe Mode until I eventually bought another one online.
Today I merely wanted numbers.
So while I'm standing inside Cricket having a perfectly normal conversation—
Haus Morgenrot radios me.
Something like:
“Mr. Germlin, are you free right now?”
Another voice:
“Mr. Germlin is at lunch.”
I stared toward the invisible direction of my workplace.
This damn place can't even malfunction without checking whether I'm available.
Jerry: “You're physically somewhere else.”
Me: “An important defensive position.”
Anyway, Cricket Lady told me the relevant phone/existing-number situation would be around $71.
Much better than approximately $350.
I left without creating another financial side quest.
The raccoon remains cheap.
HALLWAY CAT SIMULATOR 2026
Backing up slightly, because earlier in the morning the vending-machine ecosystem received maintenance.
The guy who owns/services the machines comes around regularly—usually Monday, Wednesday, Friday, with some variation.
We'll call him Mr. Bert.
The machines themselves are technologically advanced.
Sometimes you insert money and receive snacks.
Sometimes you insert money and receive a valuable lesson about capitalism.
The hallway cats report lost money, a list gets maintained, and a longtime tech we'll call Mr. Juggalo handles refunds when appropriate.
While Mr. Bert was filling the machines and hallway cats were migrating around after programming, I attempted to explain Haus Morgenrot ecology:
“They're hallway cats. They'll go wherever they feel like.”
I believe Mr. Bert understood approximately zero percent of what I meant.
Jerry: “You understand that 'hallway cat' is not an internationally recognized classification?”
Me: “Yet.”
Jerry: “You told a vending-machine man he's surrounded by cats.”
Me: “Hallway Cat Simulator 2026.”
Jerry: “He's never coming back.”
THE EVENING REFUSES TO BECOME INTERESTING
Five to six?
Pretty fucking normal.
I was handling a newer medication-related assignment while dinner was getting wrapped up.
Then came 6:00–7:00.
The usual migration.
Hallway cats here.
Hallway cats there.
Hallway cats apparently attempting to determine whether Euclidean geometry applies to institutional corridors.
Eventually the hallway became crowded enough that I deployed the ancient command:
“ONE LINE, PLEASE.”
And holy shit.
They formed one line.
Jerry: “They listened?”
Me: “Don't frighten them.”
PEEPEE DISCOVERS MY LOOSE SCREW
During the 7:10–7:40 PM group, another hallway cat entered the lore.
We'll call him Peepee.
He's associated with Cactus Cat—not the crash-out cat himself, but close enough to that little social orbit.
Peepee informed me that I have:
“A screw loose.”
My brain instantly produced the response:
Next time bring a fucking hand drill and screw it back into my head.
Excellent comeback.
Ten out of ten.
Did not deploy.
Because sometimes maturity means possessing perfectly serviceable ammunition and deciding:
Nah.
I don't need to antagonize the hallway cat simply because I can.
Jerry: “But the hand-drill line—”
Me: “I KNOW.”
Jerry: “It was right there.”
Me: “I KNOW.”
Jerry: “Character development sucks.”
Me: “Fucking terrible.”
I've been called worse.
One hallway cat on an earlier day directed verbal aggression at me and produced an insult so spectacularly out of pocket that Jerry briefly stopped chewing on the clipboard.
We shall not reproduce it.
We'll simply say:
THE HALLWAY CAT SAID SOME WILD SHIT.
I wrote what needed writing.
And life continued.
No counterattack required.
SNACK LAW
After the 7:10–7:40 group, the hallway cats immediately began sniffing the air.
SNACKS.
“Can I go get a snack?”
No, sir.
“But—”
No, sir.
We still had late trays to handle.
There needs to be some fucking order.
Late trays first.
Those people get what they're supposed to get.
Then everybody else can migrate toward the vending machines and begin feeding currency into Mr. Bert's temperamental snack monoliths.
Once it was actually time?
Fine.
Get your snacks.
Goodnight.
Enjoy.
Try not to start a constitutional crisis over Doritos.
Then somebody asks:
“Can you make change?”
ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT.
As I understand our SOP, I am not supposed to open my wallet and exchange money with clients.
Not a dollar.
Not fifty cents.
Not because the hallway cat is secretly conducting an FBI sting operation.
Because staff/client money exchanges can create trafficking/trading boundary problems, and I am not putting myself into a deep load of shit over somebody needing quarters.
Even if you're nice.
Even if you're trustworthy.
Even if the request seems harmless.
No.
Jerry: “It's fifty cents.”
Me: “And my job pays substantially more than fifty cents.”
Jerry: “Excellent financial analysis.”
Me: “Act Broke Doctrine.”
This is exactly why:
DON'T FREESTYLE.
THE GREATEST COMPLIMENT I RECEIVED ALL WEEK
Later, the night SOD got on the radio.
Something about a guy in a blue shirt heading toward the front lobby.
I listened.
Waited.
Then responded:
“Roger.”
And she realized I was there.
She basically apologized and said she'd forgotten I was there.
Sir.
Do you understand what this means?
After months of developing the Boring Tech Doctrine—
after learning not to chase—
after learning not to carry—
after learning not to freestyle—
after learning that every hallway-cat opinion does not require a response—
after learning that every burning cactus does not automatically belong to me—
I ACHIEVED INVISIBILITY.
The SOD forgot I existed.
S-RANK BORING TECH.
Jerry: “Seven months of training.”
Me: “Finally.”
Jerry: “How does it feel?”
Me: “Boring.”
Jerry: “…perfect.”
Later I explained it to her.
That's how I like working.
Ask me to do something.
I do it.
Get it done.
Keep moving.
Don't freestyle.
I don't need fireworks.
I don't need Employee of the Millennium.
I don't need the hallway cats composing songs about my greatness.
I want my shift to proceed so smoothly that management occasionally has to check whether the raccoon is still physically in the building.
INVISIBLE TECH ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED.
9:40 PM
Twenty minutes remained.
This is the dangerous part.
Because that's when the universe hears you say:
“Looks like we're gonna make it.”
And immediately loads:
FINAL BOSS — PHASE THREE
So I said nothing.
Got my shit together.
Made sure I was ready.
Arthur stance.
🧍
Jerry: “Twenty minutes.”
Me: “Don't count.”
Jerry: “Nineteen—”
Me: “I WILL PUT YOU IN THE VENDING MACHINE.”
Headcount started around 9:36 PM.
There was also what sounded like a three-quarter coming in and one new admission arriving around the tail end.
Headcount continued.
9:45.
9:50.
9:55.
No surprise boss mechanics.
No ambulance.
No Red Arremer.
No clipboard transformation sequence.
And then—
10:00 PM.
Headcount still wasn't finished.
Haus Morgenrot was still Haus Morgenroting.
The new admit still existed.
People were still doing whatever needed doing.
And I?
CLOCKED THE FUCK OUT.
Jerry: “But headcount—”
Me: “Next shift.”
Jerry: “New admit.”
Me: “Damn.”
Jerry: “Still activity happening.”
Me: “That's crazy.”
Jerry: “The cactus?”
🌵🔥
Me: “Still not coming home with me.”
And that was it.
No triumphant orchestral music.
No medal ceremony.
No slow-motion helicopter extraction.
The clock simply reached ten.
I left.
Honestly?
That's the perfect ending.
POST-CREDITS SCENE: CRICKET HOTSPOT DLC
Of course, leaving work does not mean the universe stops offering optional side quests.
I had been interested in hotspot service through Cricket.
Then I learned the shocking truth:
HOTSPOT COSTS MONEY.
Jerry: “Services generally do.”
Me: “I was hoping this one had forgotten.”
There was some delay dealing with that nonsense, followed by the nightly Uber matchmaking ritual.
Estimated wait:
Seventeen minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five minutes.
Somewhere in that range.
Eventually a driver materialized.
And once the Uber actually arrived?
Home came quickly.
THE RACCOON RETURNS TO THE DEN
I walked through the door after completing six consecutive days of Haus Morgenrot.
And naturally there was still shit to do.
Dishes.
Dog.
Laundry.
Because apparently completing a six-day work rotation does not trigger a household cutscene where woodland animals clean your kitchen.
I handled the dishes.
Let the dog out.
Made sure home was home.
Then went to wash clothes.
And somewhere in all this, I checked the money.
At the end of the workday, available balance:
$388.39.
Important accounting note for Future Smooth-Brain Germlin:
The $21.28 ChatGPT charge and $14.02 Hydra Walmart+ charge were already pending and already reflected in that available balance.
DO NOT SUBTRACT THEM AGAIN.
After the laundry/transportation run:
$370.43.
Difference:
$17.96.
Not bad.
Especially considering this was the final little financial bridge before payday.
I WANTED FUCKING SODA
I wanted diet soda.
That's it.
The dangerous part was allowing:
“I want soda”
to evolve into:
“Well, while I'm ordering groceries…”
No.
We've seen this boss mechanic.
One item becomes three.
Three becomes seven.
Suddenly Mr. Germlin has spent $40 because he wanted carbonated water with artificial strawberry nonsense in it.
So I behaved.
Two 12-packs of:
Dr Pepper Zero Sugar Strawberries & Cream.
Driver tip:
$4.
Round-up for the 9/11 Memorial & Museum: $0.44.
Temporary Walmart hold:
$25.14.
Using the $370.43 checkpoint:
approximately $345.29 remaining once that hold is reflected.
Then Thursday:
$200 to Sis.
Potential remainder if nothing significant decides to bite me:
approximately $145.29.
Not rich.
Not Ulric.
But enough.
ULRIC MONEY STATUS REPORT
Desired:
$30,000.
Actually deposited:
$0.00.
Me: “Ulric?”
Jerry: “Nothing.”
Me: “Check again.”
Jerry: “Still nothing.”
Me: “Motherfucker.”
Jerry: “Perhaps he mailed it.”
Me: “Jerry.”
Jerry: “Carrier pigeon?”
Me: “JERRY.”
The Ulric Economic Stimulus Package remains regrettably fictional.
So we return to the method that actually works:
Whole check.
Act broke.
Don't manufacture side quests.
Protect the remainder.
Friday should be payday because the normal September 5 payday lands Saturday.
And somewhere inside that upcoming check should be the benefit of those 22 recovered work hours from the hospital interruption.
No lottery required.
No Ulric required.
Just boring fucking money.
AND THAT WAS SIX OF SIX
Looking back at this rotation, I'm struck by something.
Not every hallway cat was an asshole.
Not every staff member was incompetent.
Haus Morgenrot isn't some supernatural torture dungeon where Satan himself personally approves the schedule.
The job itself isn't even particularly difficult.
The difficulty comes from friction.
Contradictory operational instructions.
People testing boundaries.
People wanting explanations to become negotiations.
People making bad decisions.
People trying to drag you emotionally into situations you cannot control.
And me occasionally forgetting that I don't have to pick every fucking thing up.
That's probably the biggest lesson of this rotation.
I can want A1 to finish his program.
I can be genuinely happy that Rebel found a home.
I can tell Cactus Cat that if he needs somebody to talk to, I'll listen.
I can hope the client who left with police eventually gets his shit together.
I can wish the successful discharge well.
I can tell somebody that somewhere out there is a woman who will like him for who he is.
I can care.
And still go home.
That's the part I had to learn.
Compassion does not require ownership.
Listening does not require investment.
Being responsible does not mean becoming responsible for everybody.
And being good at the job does not mean chasing every hallway cat down the corridor with a clipboard raised over my head like fucking Excalibur.
Sometimes the best tech is the one the SOD temporarily forgets is even there.
Because he's doing his fucking job.
THE FINAL OPERATING ORDERS
After six days, several hundred hallway-cat migrations, one French bulldog, an unknown number of flaming cactuses, a mysterious grievance-box resurrection, vending-machine sacrifices, snack negotiations, bathroom diplomacy, paperwork, radio calls, and one Certified Son of a Bitch application currently under review:
The doctrine remains:
DON'T CHASE.
DON'T CARRY.
DON'T FREESTYLE.
RETURN TO NEUTRAL.
Listen with interest.
Not investment.
Correct what needs correcting.
Document what needs documenting.
Ask when you don't know.
Do not write fan fiction.
And when the cactus catches fire, ask the most important question Haus Morgenrot has ever taught me:
“IS PUTTING OUT THIS FUCKING CACTUS ACTUALLY MY ASSIGNED RESPONSIBILITY?”
If yes?
Handle it.
If no?
Jerry: “Mr. Germlin.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Jerry: “The cactus is on fire.”
🌵🔥
Me: “Damn.”
Jerry: “That's it?”
Me: “That's crazy.”
Jerry: “And the hallway cats?”
🐈🐈🐈🐈
Me: “Somebody else's problem.”
Jerry: “For how long?”
Me: “Two fucking days.”
I looked back at Haus Morgenrot.
The cactus was still burning.
The hallway cats were presumably still hallway-catting.
Somewhere, a vending machine was probably eating somebody's dollar.
Somewhere else, Rebel had acquired a new human.
And somewhere on the road home was one extremely tired raccoon carrying dirty laundry and approximately zero dollars of Ulric money.
But the mission was complete.
Not perfectly.
Not heroically.
Just completely.
And sometimes?
Completely is fucking enough.
DAY 6 OF 6 — COMPLETE.
🦝🏁
Now leave me the fuck alone. I'm off.