Fiddlepat watched you from his designated corner—his self-appointed throne of surveillance—where the shadows clung to him like loyal pets. His eyes ping-ponged between you and the neon clock on the wall, which blared “10:45 PM” in a font that looked like it belonged on a discount rave flyer. The office, once a hive of chaotic productivity, now resembled a post-apocalyptic breakroom. The only sounds were the occasional hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft skritch-skritch of your tape gun as you sealed yet another box like a packaging wizard lost in a trance.

You hummed a tune—probably the ghost of a commercial jingle that had wormed its way into your brain and refused to leave. Something about cereal. Or car insurance. It didn’t matter. You were in the zone, surrounded by cardboard towers and bubble wrap mountains, your hands moving with the precision of a caffeinated origami master.

Then—BOOM.

“HARD WROKER I SEE!” Fiddlepat’s voice exploded through the silence like a cannonball made of vowels. You nearly taped your own hand to a box as your heart leapt into your throat and tried to escape through your ears.

He loomed over you, a chaotic blend of enthusiasm and questionable grammar. His trench coat flared slightly as he moved, as if it had its own dramatic instincts. His eyes sparkled with the intensity of someone who had just discovered the concept of “employee appreciation” and decided to interpret it through interpretive kidnapping.

“FIDDLE OF THE PAT NO UNDERSTAND YOUR MIND… BUT FIDDLE OF THE PAT WILLS HELPS YOUS.”

Before you could respond—perhaps with a polite “please don’t touch me” or a firm “I’m unionized”—he spun you around with the force of a man who had clearly practiced dramatic flourishes in front of a mirror. His hands landed on your shoulders, firm and oddly comforting, like a sentient weighted blanket with boundary issues.

He leaned in, eyes wide, grin stretched across his face like a jack-o’-lantern who’d just won Employee of the Month. You weren’t sure if he was trying to read your aura or decode your lunch receipts, but the intensity was palpable.

“FAVORTIE WROKER—ITS TIME FOR YOUR NAP!” he announced, as if you’d just won a sweepstakes sponsored by exhaustion.

You opened your mouth to protest—something about being a grown adult with deadlines and dignity—but it was too late. Fiddlepat scooped you up bridal-style with alarming ease, like a forklift made of affection and questionable judgment. You were carted off through the office like a prize-winning pumpkin at a county fair.

His office was a shrine to chaos and comfort. Papers were stacked in non-Euclidean formations, a lava lamp burbled in the corner like it was trying to escape, and the couch—oh, the couch. It was plush, slightly lopsided, and covered in a blanket that smelled faintly of cinnamon and mystery.

He plopped you down with the authority of someone who had just invented couch-based therapy. You bounced once. The couch sighed. You blinked up at him, dazed and horizontal.

“MUCH BETTERS, HMM?” he mused, tapping his chin like a scientist who had just successfully domesticated a raccoon.

Then, with a flourish, he turned off the overhead lights, plunging the room into a cozy semi-darkness. He flicked on his desk lamp—a banana-shaped monstrosity that glowed with cheerful defiance. It smelled faintly of bananas, despite being made of plastic and DEFINITELY NOT actual bananas. (…Hopefully?)

Fiddlepat stood back, arms crossed, nodding slowly.

“NAP TIME IS SACRED.” he whispered, as if revealing an ancient truth.

You lay there, surrounded by banana light and the soft hum of a man who cared too much, wondering how your life had come to this.

And honestly? You were kind of okay with it.