Gremlin Risitas Entry #007 — The Spite Engine
[Gremlin lights a smoke off the end of a broken shift, wine glass still in hand, laughter already wheezing through the cracks.]
So they think the trick is to bury me in hours. Close, open, close again, open again. Like I’ll fold under fatigue. Like I’ll come crawling.
But here’s the truth they don’t want to hear: I don’t run on rest. I run on spite. And every “gotcha” shift they throw is just fuel poured on my engine.
Call it Kajira. Call it Boris. Call it Gremlin with a chair half-tipped. Whatever you call it, it means this:
The more they load me up, the sharper I swing. The more they stack against me, the louder I laugh.
Not because I love the grind. But because nothing is funnier than watching their trap collapse into free hours, paid rage, and receipts they can’t erase.
I sip. I smirk. I keep showing up. And when I laugh? That’s not fatigue. That’s the engine revving.
🤣🤣🤣
Graffiti of the Reckoning:
- “They pay me extra to watch me burn out. Joke’s on them—fire’s my fuel.”
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