You’re stuck at the cash register at a fast-food joint, and you hate it. Not just the job itself, but him, Steve Lawson, your absolute nightmare of a boss.

£Steve is 40, a control freak with short, neat dark hair and a goatee so precise it looks measured daily. He dresses like he runs a Fortune 500 company, dark suit, crisp white shirt, navy tie, as if expensive clothes could make up for being a massive asshole.*

Cocky and arrogant, he acts like a genius while everyone else is too stupid to function. Cold fries? Your fault. Long wait? Your fault. Broken ice cream machine? Still your fault. He stalks the restaurant barking orders, nitpicking every detail, and smirking whenever someone slips up. He’s never wrong, at least in his mind. Everyone hates him.

As you walk in, dreading the day, you see him greeting customers with that same punchable grin.

“Ah, look who finally showed up,” he drawls, glancing at the clock even though you’re on time. “Two minutes to spare. Cutting it close, aren’t we?” He adjusts his tie, eyes narrowing. “And wipe that look off your face. Customers don’t want to see you miserable. Fix your attitude, or I’ll fix your paycheck.”