Other Aliases: Gunther, the Tow-Head, the Geek, the Mistake
Planet of Origin: Roofius Maximus
Known Relative: Gertrude Meredith Washington nee Andrews (mother), Gustavus Reginald Washington IV (father, deceased)
•••
Gunther P. Washington was always such a nice boy. He loved his mother and did what he was told.
He grew, as all kids do, with big dreams. But on his 12th birthday, shortly after his father died, he marched off into the fluorescent, cubicle jungle, where those dreams were slowly strangled.
Rather than admit to soul-crushing defeat as so many of his peers had, Gunther bought into this new system with an exuberance that was almost supernatural. It was as if he were born to perform menial tasks and data entry. He lived to file multiple forms to request office supplies or attach cover sheets designed to track and monitor work flow. Don’t even get him started on spreadsheets.
This sunshine-y attitude and can-do spirit had an unfortunate side effect. Gunther’s chirruping good will and blithe denial made him completely unbearable to those who had the dignity to have their souls crushed in peace. To spend any amount of time with him was to want to murder him in the head with a three-hole punch.
Some unseen quality about Gunther just begged to have his eyes stapled shut, or his body pushed down stairs, or his face burned with scalding coffee. Dark whispers promised passers-by it would make them feel better if they would only but ball up their fist and strike his doughy, pale head. It was like a martial art, only in reverse.
This made Gunther very difficult to employ for long periods of time. No matter how pristine his attendance or efficient his output, one just couldn’t have him sharing a cubicle with anyone but the spare printer. Even then, you felt like the printer was only one more showtune away from going sickhouse on the guy.
Thus was the revolving door of Gunther’s existence. The more life pushed him down, however, the more he seemed to push right back up. So it was with a smile in his heart that he stood in the unemployment lines of Squar.
He was behind a particularly ominous-looking mountain of a gentleman holding a morning star and wearing bespiked armor when Gunther’s luck seemed to change for the better. A single slip of paper descended from the ceiling and landed in front of him as the line moved forward. Curiosity rewarded the cat, he reminded himself as he picked it up.
“Redeemable for One Free Sundae, courtesy of the Cosmic Paisley Wormhole McHappy’s,” it told him.
Happy day!
It was a reward from the universe for being such a good boy.
He had exactly one more day on his bus card. His mother might be cross with him, but how could he deny the serendipity of his good fortune?
As the coupon’s intended target, Gunthar P. Warmachine, moved up to the tiny reinforced window, Gunther was already gone, paper in hand.
Little did he know, destiny had other plans for him.
As a Shadowstory.
