I’d only been at work for eleven minutes, and the day was already off to a shitty start. First, my alarm didn’t go off. Second, my car wouldn’t start. My husband wasn’t home, so I had to call an Uber. Third, Douche Bag Darrell came barreling out the double doors as I was rushing inside and made me spill hot coffee on my white blouse. I gave him the middle finger, but I don’t think he saw. Too bad.

I tossed the empty cup as I hurried through the front entrance, heels smacking the tile. Just as I reached the elevator, the doors closed in my face.

I jabbed the button three times. Click, click, click. It opened. And there stood Darrell.

I stared at him, eyes blazing. “How the hell did you get in here so fast?”

He smirked. “I don’t know… maybe because I don’t have hot coffee all over me.”

My blood was boiling. I gave him the finger again. This time, he saw.

We rode up in silence. Fifth floor. Ding. We stepped off together. Unfortunately, we worked in the same pod.

Desperate to get away from his smug face, I veered toward the ladies’ room.

“Trudy,” he called after me, pointing to his own hideous rust-colored shirt, “you’ve got a little something on your blouse.”

“Very funny,” I snapped, letting the door slam shut behind me.

I made my way to the paper towel dispenser and ripped out a handful before shuffling back toward the sink. The water was scalding hot.

“Fuucck!” I yelped, cradling my burned hand to my chest. I stared at myself in the mirror. I looked like shit. There were bags under my eyes, and my hair was a disheveled mess of blonde curls. I was tired. Tired of Darrell. Tired of this whole office. I racked my brain for a way to destroy him.

Finally, an idea struck me, and I smiled at myself in the mirror. I didn’t call him Douche Bag Darrell for nothing. If anyone was hiding something worth finding, it was him.

I rushed to clean the stain off my shirt as best I could, then slipped out, glancing both ways down the hall. He was gone.

I doubled back and quietly pushed open his office door. It wasn’t locked. Typical.

His desk was a mess of candy wrappers, old memos, and tangled charger cords. But one thing caught my eye. Right in the center, half-covered by a takeout napkin, sat a manila folder with bold black Sharpie across the front: DESTROY JENKINS. A crude little cartoon of our boss’s head was drawn underneath, flames shooting out of his eyes.

I lifted the folder like it might bite me. Just as I turned to leave, the door creaked open.

“What the hell are you doing in my office?” Darrell stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed.

I held up the folder and smirked. “Oh… nothing much. Just on my way to find Jenkins.”

His face drained. “Don’t do that.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why not? I’m sure he’d love to see what’s inside.”

“I’ll do anything,” he said quickly. “Anything.”

My smile widened. “Anything?”

He nodded so hard it was almost sad.

“Well then. You’re gonna fetch my coffee every morning. No burns, no excuses. Fridays, you bring donuts. Gluten-free, and yes, I will know if you lie. And you better start complimenting my outfits in front of Denise from HR. Loudly.”

I put a finger to my chin and thought hard, just to be sure there was nothing else I wanted from him.

“Oh!” I said cheerfully, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And you’d better stop stealing my parking spot.”

He nodded again, lips pressed tight.

I beamed up at him. “Thanks, buddy. I knew you’d understand.”

I patted his shoulder before slipping out of his office, the manila folder still in my hand. Who knew snooping through a douche bag’s office could possibly bring such power?

The mornings are perfect now. Douche Bag Darrell doesn’t park in my spot. I’ve got donuts every Friday and a hot cup of coffee waiting on my desk each morning. And the best part? No more ruined blouses. Life is pretty good.

And as for Darrell? He’s doing great. He’s even got himself a new nickname around the office. Dog Face Darrell. Because that’s exactly what he looks like now. A little lost puppy with his tail tucked between his legs.