The Great Master of Everything
I knew the world was cruel, but I never thought I would work for someone who even the devil would be reluctant to claim as a business partner. His name—I swear I’m not making this up—was The Great Master of Everything.
No, really, that was the name on his business card. Embossed gold letters. In a font that was more luxurious than his self-confidence.
The Great Master was the new owner of the building where I worked, an office that used to be a place where people worked with resignation, and now a place where people worked with fear. As soon as he took over, we were all summoned to the hall—now called the Hall of Fortune (yes, he renamed the room, including the toilet, which is now called the Gate of Refreshment).
“I am the giver of life,” he said in front of us, his voice like a crow that had spent its life smoking. “Without me, you are all just dust scattered on the streets. But with me, you can be part of something bigger!”
I tried to remember if any other company owner had so openly claimed to be the Creator and Destroyer of Reality, but maybe I missed the memo.
On his first day in office, he replaced all the office chairs with yoga balls “because posture is the beginning of greatness,” he said, before sitting on a throne that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere—covered in red velvet and set in the middle of his office, like the throne of a king who felt his life was lacking in drama.
On his second day, he ordered every employee to have a new job name, because “your old names were contaminated by emptiness,” he said. I was now known as the Report Maker, while my colleagues were the System Spokesman, the Warehouse Commander, and the Printer Guard.
On his third day, he walked around the office in a long black robe, handing out loyalty cards. “A badge of honor,” he said, “for those who want to survive this new era.” I checked my card and it read, Bronze Level: Potential to Not Get Fired (If You’re Lucky).
On my fourth day, I started to notice something: no one had ever seen him eat or drink. This led to all sorts of speculation. The System Spokesman swore he was a corporate vampire. The Warehouse Commander believes he’s some kind of cosmic entity that only survives by feeding off his employees’ fears. I personally lean toward the theory that he’s just a very, very rich man who feels himself immune to human needs.
And so, under the leadership of the Great Lord of All, our office has become something between a cult, a theater performance of the absurd, and a psychological experiment gone too far. I’m considering leaving, but I have to admit—every day here is like watching a soap opera written by Kafka after five cups of coffee and one near-death experience.
The only question that remains is: when will he finally demand that we call him “Your Highness”?
