Mr. Germlin and the Twenty-Five Ulrics
Or: The Day RNGesus Rolled a Fucking Two
September 3, 2026
There are days when a man wakes up with a plan.
There are other days when a man spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to convince a hospital that prescriptions issued by the hospital should, at some point, become obtainable prescriptions.
Mr. Germlin had already endured the latter.
For more than a week, the post-discharge prescription situation at HCA Houston Healthcare Northwest had evolved from a problem into a campaign. Walgreens had the prescriptions. The VA was where Mr. Germlin actually received his medication. HCA had information. The VA had requirements. Fax numbers had been exchanged. Phone calls had been made. Grievances had multiplied.
Somewhere in this ecosystem, theoretically, existed an adult.
Mr. Germlin had yet to capture one.
But by September 3, there was at least a new plan. The VA had instructed him to bring his discharge paperwork to the VA ER the following morning so the medication situation could finally be reviewed.
Good.
Health mission first.
Paperwork out. Short explanation. Answer questions. Get the insulin handled.
The boring patient does not do fan fiction.
Unfortunately, there remained another question.
What the fuck was all of this?
Was it merely an infuriating administrative failure?
Was there negligence?
Was there some healthcare-liability claim hiding underneath the mountain of telephone transfers?
Was there—
Mr. Germlin slowly turns toward Jerry.
“Twenty-five Ulrics.”
Jerry lowers his newspaper.
“Sir, that's not how damages work.”
“Twenty-five. Ulrics.”
🎲 THE LEGAL GACHA BEGINS
The objective was actually boring.
Mr. Germlin wasn't going to declare malpractice himself. He wasn't going to invent injuries. He wasn't going to tell anybody that HCA owed him the GDP of Luxembourg because somebody mishandled a fax machine.
He wanted an attorney to look at the records and answer a simple question:
Is there a viable legal claim here?
That was it.
Facts in.
Lawyer brain activated.
Answer out.
Perhaps representation.
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps—
“Twenty-five Ulrics.”
“Sir.”
“Jerry.”
“Fine.”
And so Mr. Germlin contacted the Houston Lawyer Referral Service.
Before proceeding, RNGesus appeared.
He extended one ancient, celestial hand.
In his palm rested a twenty-sided die.
Mr. Germlin rolled.
The die bounced.
Once.
Twice.
It stopped.
2
RNGesus snapped his fingers.
🎮 ENCOUNTER ONE: THE REFERRAL NPC
Mr. Germlin explained that he was looking for an attorney representing patients in healthcare-liability or medical-malpractice matters involving a hospital.
He explained the hospitalization.
He explained the discharge.
He explained the prescriptions.
He explained Walgreens.
He explained the VA.
He explained the grievances.
He explained that he possessed discharge paperwork, medication information, a chronology, written follow-ups, and recordings where available.
Most importantly, he explained:
He wasn't deciding for himself that malpractice had occurred.
He wanted an attorney to review the facts and determine that.
The intake person reasonably asked for more information so she could figure out what kind of lawyer might fit.
Fair enough.
Mr. Germlin provided more information.
Then the wheels began leaving the vehicle.
The referral service's available medical category apparently didn't fit what he was describing. The example offered was essentially the classic medical-malpractice scenario:
You had surgery. Something went wrong.
Mr. Germlin had not arrived carrying Operation: Surgeon Left a Buick in My Abdomen.
His problem concerned what happened after discharge: prescriptions, conflicting instructions, continuity of care, and more than a week spent trying to get the situation resolved.
Eventually came the question:
What exactly did he want the lawyer to do?
Mr. Germlin explained.
Review the facts.
Review the documentation.
Determine whether there was a viable claim against HCA.
Explain his legal options.
If there was a viable claim, determine whether the attorney would consider representing him.
And then came essentially:
Represent you for what?
Somewhere in Houston, a raccoon stared into the middle distance.
Mr. Germlin summoned the remaining fragments of his customer-service soul.
“I'm just looking for someone to do their job. That's it. Please.”
The referral ultimately went nowhere.
They didn't have someone appropriate to refer him to.
They didn't know somewhere else to send him.
The call ended politely enough.
Jerry updated the campaign log.
ATTORNEY CONSULTED: No CLAIM EVALUATED: No REFERRAL OBTAINED: No ULRICS OBTAINED: Absolutely the fuck not RNG RESULT: 2
Mr. Germlin stared at the die.
“Jerry.”
“Yes?”
“Roll again.”
🎲 ENCOUNTER TWO: THE BROTHERS LAW FIRM
This time there would be no referral-service middleman.
Mr. Germlin went directly toward a law firm whose stated practice areas appeared substantially closer to the actual problem.
The telephone rang.
And rang.
And—
Voicemail.
Fine.
Mr. Germlin had prepared a script.
He began.
Hospitalization.
August 22 through August 24.
HCA Houston Healthcare Northwest.
Discharge prescriptions.
Insulin glargine.
Famotidine.
Sucralfate.
Except Cube ACR, faithful chronicler of absolutely fucking nothing, heard approximately:
INSULIN GARGLING.
SAMOTID.
SUCRAL SLATE.
HCA became HTA.
Then UCA.
Then HGA.
Then, apparently,
EACH SIX.
Prescriptions became subscriptions.
The VA ER became the VA VR.
And then Mr. Germlin encountered the most dangerous opponent of September 3.
Not HCA.
Not Walgreens.
Not the VA.
Not medical-malpractice law.
A word.
Chronological.
Mr. Germlin approached.
“Chronological.”
The word blocked.
“Chronological—”
PARRY.
“Chronolog—”
CRITICAL FAILURE.
Finally:
“Damn it. A chronological chronological…”
Jerry removed his glasses.
My God.
Still, the mission continued.
Mr. Germlin explained that he had documentation and recordings.
He explained that his medication supply was getting low, particularly the insulin.
He explained that the VA had instructed him to bring his HCA discharge paperwork to the VA ER the following morning.
And then he delivered the single most important part of the voicemail:
He was not assuming what happened legally constituted malpractice.
He wanted an attorney to evaluate it.
Was there a viable claim?
Were there recoverable damages?
Would the firm consider representation if there were?
No invented catastrophe.
No declaration that HCA had definitely committed malpractice.
No claim that every ache and pain in Mr. Germlin's body had suddenly been produced by an administrative employee touching a fax machine incorrectly.
Just:
Here is what happened.
Here is what I can document.
Tell me what it legally means.
Because the boring tech does not do fan fiction.
The boring patient does not do fan fiction.
And the aspiring Twenty-Five-Ulric Plaintiff absolutely does not do fan fiction.
Then, having survived HCA, Walgreens, the VA, HLRS, medical terminology and the English language itself, Mr. Germlin concluded his voicemail:
He apologized for butchering some of the script.
He admitted he'd written it down.
He admitted he got nervous.
He left his contact information.
And he hung up.
THE ULRIC LEDGER
Jerry opened the enormous leather accounting book.
Legal Gacha Roll #1 — Referral Service
🎲 2
Result: Referral Intake Confusion.
No attorney evaluation obtained.
Legal Gacha Roll #2 — Brothers Law Firm
🎲 Pending
Result: Voicemail successfully deposited.
Potential callback awaiting RNG.
Twenty-Five Ulrics
Status:
NOT YET LOCATED
Mr. Germlin leaned over the ledger.
“Put twenty-five.”
“Sir, there are currently zero.”
“Put twenty-five.”
“I cannot falsify the ledger.”
Mr. Germlin narrowed his eyes.
Jerry slowly wrote:
Desired Ulrics: 25 Confirmed Ulrics: 0
Mr. Germlin nodded.
“The boring tech does not do fan fiction.”
“Precisely, sir.”
Tomorrow morning there would be no legal gacha.
No damage calculations.
No imaginary settlement checks.
No arguments about whether twenty-five Ulrics could purchase a sufficiently fortified Raccoon Den.
Tomorrow's mission was much less exciting and substantially more important:
Go to the VA.
Bring the HCA discharge paperwork.
Have the medications reviewed.
Find out what the VA can issue.
Find out where to pick them up.
Make sure the insulin situation gets addressed.
And don't leave wondering which medication is still unresolved.
After that?
The paperwork stays.
The recordings stay.
The grievance stays.
The chronology—assuming Mr. Germlin ever successfully pronounces the fucking word—stays.
And if the Brothers Law Firm calls back, an actual attorney gets the boring pile and decides what the boring pile means.
Maybe the answer is nothing.
Maybe there's something.
Maybe another roll is required.
But somewhere, beyond the hospital switchboard, beyond the Case Management voicemail, beyond the referral NPC, beyond INSULIN GARGLING and SUCRAL SLATE, sits a mythical treasure chest.
Mr. Germlin can see it.
Jerry can see it.
RNGesus knows exactly where it is.
Across the lid, in enormous golden letters:
25 ULRICS
Mr. Germlin reaches toward it.
Jerry grabs his sleeve.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“You rolled a two.”
Mr. Germlin looks at the die.
Looks at the chest.
Looks back at Jerry.
adjusts cuffs