I'M NOT HERE TO MAKE YOUR LIFE INCONVENIENT. YOU'RE ALREADY DOING THAT YOURSELF.
The Oath of the Unbothered, a Five-Page Manila Folder, and One Very Comfortable Pillow
By Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
CONGRATULATIONS. YOU'VE DEFEATED YOURSELF.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, assorted goblins, corporate middle managers, professional victims of their own decisions, and whatever the fuck is currently living inside the office refrigerator:
Gather around.
I have an important announcement.
I am officially retiring from the business of making other people's lives miserable.
Not because I've discovered inner peace.
Not because I've embraced some enlightened philosophy involving meditation, herbal tea, and a suspiciously expensive yoga mat.
And certainly not because I've run out of creative ways to call somebody a dumbass.
No.
I've simply realized something extraordinary.
Most people who insist on making everybody else's lives difficult are already doing a spectacular job of fucking up their own.
Why interfere with perfection?
Why spend precious energy constructing an elaborate revenge scheme when the target is already operating a fully automated, self-sustaining disaster factory?
That's not villainy.
That's unnecessary overtime.
And I don't work overtime without compensation.
ENTER MR. GERMLIN, THE WORLD'S LEAST CONVENTIONAL VILLAIN.
Picture the scene.
A dark castle.
Thunderstorms.
Lightning.
A suspiciously expensive executive chair.
And seated upon his throne is Mr. Germlin, a Lawful Neutral Paladin with the emotional disposition of a tired government employee who has absolutely no intention of attending another mandatory staff meeting.
Before him stands his faithful companion.
Jerry.
A raccoon.
A writer.
A professional ankle-biter.
An unpaid literary contractor compensated exclusively in pallets of Purina Peppercorn.
"Jerry," announces Mr. Germlin.
"Yes, sir?"
"I have an important mission for you."
Jerry straightens his little raccoon tie.
"Are we overthrowing a corporation?"
"No."
"Exposing a fraudulent organization?"
"Not today."
"Unleashing an eighteen-page profanity-laden manifesto against the collapse of modern civilization?"
"Maybe tomorrow."
"Then what, sir?"
Mr. Germlin reaches beneath his desk.
Jerry braces for the inevitable.
A sword?
A mace?
A cursed artifact?
No.
A FIVE-PAGE MANILA FOLDER.
"Sir?"
"Your performance review."
"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE."
WHACK.
−9,999 HP.
CRITICAL EMBARRASSMENT DAMAGE.
Jerry collapses onto the carpet.
The Paladin gains 200 experience points.
Gerald the Cactus witnesses everything and refuses to provide testimony.
THE FIVE-PAGE FOLDER OF ABSOLUTE DISRESPECT.
Let's examine this legendary weapon.
Not a flaming sword.
Not a magical staff.
Not a +12 Mace of Corporate Restructuring.
Just a fucking folder.
Five pages.
Standard office supplies.
Possibly purchased on clearance.
And yet, in the hands of Mr. Germlin, this unassuming piece of stationery becomes a weapon of devastating psychological inconvenience.
Page One: Your complaint has been received.
Page Two: Your complaint has been reviewed.
Page Three: Your complaint has been determined to be your own fucking problem.
Page Four: Intentionally left blank, because apparently you needed additional time to think about what you've done.
Page Five: Please stop contacting this department.
No screaming.
No threats.
No elaborate monologue about world domination.
Just five pages of bureaucratic humiliation delivered directly to the forehead.
And the worst part?
The Paladin doesn't even look particularly angry.
He's just tired.
Tired of stupidity.
Tired of unnecessary drama.
Tired of people who manufacture problems and then demand that everybody else participate in the emergency.
WHACK.
"Please refer to page three."
THE ART OF LETTING PEOPLE FUCK THEMSELVES OVER.
Some people wake up every morning and choose violence.
Others choose chaos.
Still others apparently wake up, look at a perfectly functioning situation, and think:
You know what this needs? A completely unnecessary fucking complication.
And then they proceed to create one.
They lie when telling the truth would be easier.
They manipulate when asking politely would work.
They invent drama when silence would be free.
They burn bridges and then complain about having nowhere to cross.
And when everything inevitably collapses?
They point at everybody else.
"LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!"
No, you magnificent turnip.
We didn't make you do shit.
You assembled that disaster yourself.
You ordered the parts.
You ignored the instructions.
You threw away the warranty.
And now you're standing in the smoking wreckage demanding to speak with the manager.
Congratulations. You're both the customer and the complaint department.
And Mr. Germlin?
He's already gone home.
THE OATH OF THE UNBOTHERED.
Every respectable Paladin needs an oath.
Some swear devotion.
Some swear vengeance.
Some swear to defend the innocent.
Mr. Germlin has a considerably more practical arrangement.
THE OATH OF THE UNBOTHERED
I shall not manufacture suffering where stupidity has already provided an abundant supply.
I shall not chase those who willingly flee from common sense.
I shall listen with interest, not investment.
I shall not sacrifice my peace to maintain another person's chaos.
I shall remain consistent in boundaries, extravagant in mockery, and economical in expenditures.
If it costs me more than it's worth, I shall let it go.
And when the circus arrives, I shall decline the position of unpaid clown.
Amen.
Or whatever the appropriate Paladin equivalent is.
Probably a dramatic sword flourish followed by checking the bank balance.
EVEN VILLAINS NEED A FUCKING NAP.
Now here's where things get truly sinister.
After administering the devastating five-page embarrassment debuff, Mr. Germlin approaches his defeated raccoon.
Jerry trembles.
"Please, sir. No more paperwork."
The Paladin reaches behind his back.
Jerry closes his eyes.
This is it.
The finishing move.
The ultimate humiliation.
The final boss mechanic.
And then—
PLOP.
A pillow lands beside him.
Jerry opens one eye.
"What the fuck?"
Mr. Germlin gestures toward a freshly assembled bed.
"Get some sleep."
Jerry stares.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"But aren't you supposed to be the villain?"
"Yes."
"Shouldn't you be torturing me?"
"No."
"Threatening me?"
"No."
"Making my life miserable?"
"Jerry."
"Yes, sir?"
"You're already doing that yourself."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Somewhere in the distance, a Final Fantasy victory fanfare plays.
Jerry looks at the pillow.
Then the mattress.
Then the blanket.
Then the Paladin.
"You magnificent son of a bitch."
QUEST COMPLETE: THE VILLAIN PROVIDES EMPLOYEE HOUSING.
Rewards:
- One comfortable bed.
- One suspiciously fluffy pillow.
- Zero dental benefits.
- Unlimited emotional damage.
- A 100% reduction in unnecessary bullshit.
Gerald the Cactus receives nothing.
He wasn't even involved.
YOU DON'T HAVE TO WIN EVERY ARGUMENT.
And beneath all this ridiculousness is a surprisingly useful lesson.
You don't have to respond to every insult.
You don't have to correct every idiot.
You don't have to explain yourself to somebody committed to misunderstanding you.
You don't have to chase people who only appear when they want something.
You don't have to purchase peace from people who keep raising the price.
And you certainly don't have to spend your entire life proving that you're right.
Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is recognize that a conversation has become an expensive waste of oxygen.
Then leave.
Not because you've lost.
Not because you're afraid.
Not because you don't have another twenty-seven devastating insults prepared.
But because your time belongs to you.
And sometimes you'd rather spend it watching a movie, playing a video game, eating something delicious, or sleeping beneath a perfectly ordinary blanket.
There is no trophy for winning an argument with somebody who enjoys arguing more than understanding.
There is no achievement unlocked for voluntarily participating in someone else's self-inflicted catastrophe.
And there is certainly no fucking pension.
THE FINAL BOSS IS YOUR OWN PEACE OF MIND.
You know what's funny?
People spend so much time imagining that happiness requires some extraordinary achievement.
A fortune.
A mansion.
A luxury automobile.
A dramatic victory over their enemies.
A thousand strangers applauding their success.
But sometimes happiness is embarrassingly simple.
A roof.
A bed.
Enough money to pay the bills.
Something good to eat.
A decent game.
A funny movie.
And an evening where absolutely nobody is demanding that you solve a problem they created fifteen minutes earlier.
That's it.
That's the fucking treasure chest.
No legendary sword required.
No secret boss.
No seventy-hour side quest.
Just a little stability and the freedom to enjoy being alive.
Be boring. Get paid. Go home. Enjoy your days off. Repeat.
And if somebody finds that lifestyle insufficiently exciting?
Wonderful.
They can go manufacture their own adventure.
Preferably somewhere else.
GOOD NIGHT, YOU MAGNIFICENT BASTARDS.
So here we are.
The Paladin has put away his sword.
The five-page manila folder rests peacefully on the desk.
Gerald the Cactus remains completely fucking useless.
And Jerry the Raccoon has finally discovered the one thing more powerful than righteous indignation.
A comfortable mattress.
No more rants tonight.
No more corporate executions.
No more elaborate philosophical investigations into why humanity occasionally behaves like a colony of intoxicated squirrels.
Just peace.
Quiet.
And the gentle sound of a raccoon snoring beneath a blanket.
Because sometimes the ultimate act of rebellion isn't screaming at the world.
It's refusing to let the world steal another perfectly good night's sleep.
And if somebody insists on making your life inconvenient?
Smile.
Hand them page three.
And say:
"I'm not here to make your life inconvenient. You're already doing that yourself."
Then throw the deuces.
Go home.
And sleep like the magnificent, unbothered bastard you were always meant to be.
Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand
Jerry's Marginalia — Where the raccoon bites ankles, the Paladin files paperwork, and Gerald the Cactus remains under investigation.
POSTSCRIPT:
At approximately 11:47 PM, Jerry was discovered sleeping peacefully in his new bed.
Mr. Germlin approached carrying the legendary five-page manila folder.
The raccoon opened one eye.
"Sir?"
"Yes, Jerry?"
"You're not going to hit me again, are you?"
"No."
"Oh, thank fuck."
"Good night."
"Good night, sir."
A brief silence followed.
Then, from beneath the blanket:
"Sir?"
"What?"
"Does this bed come with dental insurance?"
WHACK.
−9,999 HP.
Goodnight, everybody.
HONK SHOO. HONK SHOO.