Ode To Hypocrites
Soft Hands. Sharp Moves.
You’ve just left the warmth of the kitchen. The smell of rice. The silence of sacrifice.
Now... step into the boardroom. Or the backyard. Or the break room where smiles lie in wait.
Portal 5 was love remembered.
Portal 6 is power rehearsed.
This is where kindness takes notes.
Where compliments come with knives tucked inside them.
Where human nature stops pretending it isn’t playing chess.
Here, the scroll doesn’t cry — it calculates.
It doesn’t hug — it waits.
These five short stories draw from Machiavellian principles and sharpen them into everyday acts — petty, precise, and painfully familiar.
Laws from the ancient court, repurposed for the parking lot.
There will be laughter.
There will be discomfort.
And behind every smile… a strategy.
Welcome to Ode to the Hypocrites —
Where ambition knows exactly when to hold the knife — and when to help carry the cake.
1
The Birthday PowerPoint
Law 1: Never Outshine the Master
Ethan worked in Accounts Receivable. Quiet, efficient, beige. He brought his own mug to meetings. It said: Don't Talk to Me Until Q2.
His boss, Marla, was a legend in the office — once landed a multimillion-dollar client over bottomless mimosas and a single glance. Her birthday was coming up. HR sent out a memo asking for volunteers to "organize something small."
Ethan, in a moment of misguided sparkle, said: "I'll make a little PowerPoint. Funny slides. Marla moments. Nothing fancy."
He meant it, too. Just a few photos, maybe some Comic Sans, call it a day.
But then he found that photo from the company retreat where Marla was holding a fish. And that quote from her Harvard Business Review interview. And wouldn't it be hilarious if he animated her coffee mug to dance across the screen?
One slide became five. Five became fifteen. Somewhere around midnight, he was digitally remastering her head onto Wonder Woman's body while Spotify played "Eye of the Tiger" on repeat.
Ten hours later, he had created a monument to his own undoing.
It played during the team lunch. Laughter. Gasps. A standing ovation that went on thirty seconds too long. Marla smiled thinly and said, "Well… that was certainly… thorough."
Her eyes said: You just made me look small at my own party.
Later that week, Ethan was quietly moved to Facilities Management. Basement level. Fluorescent buzz. His new office was a converted supply closet that still smelled like toner cartridges.
Meanwhile, Jessica from HR got promoted to Senior Coordinator. Her contribution to Marla's birthday? A simple card signed by everyone and a grocery store cake. Vanilla. Basic. Perfect.
Ethan never volunteered again.
Remny's deduction:
It's good to shine. Just not so brightly that the sun files an HR complaint.
Filed Under: Office Darwinism and Subtle Exiles
2
The Lavender Gambit
Law 3: Conceal Your Intentions
Janine lived in a duplex. So did Carl. They shared a fence, a driveway, and an unspoken war over aesthetics. Carl had gnomes. Janine had taste.
One spring, she noticed Carl's hedge creeping. Not growing — creeping. Inching past the property line like a chlorophyll colonizer, claiming her driveway inch by inch. She mentioned it lightly over trash cans.
"Oh! Must be the sun angle," Carl said, sipping a protein shake shaped like his ego.
Janine smiled. Nodded. Filed it away.
That weekend, she drove to the garden center. Not for roses or hostas — something more strategic. Lavender. Beautiful, fragrant, bee-magnets. But not for her side of the fence.
She planted them on his.
"I just thought your gnome village needed a little Provence charm," she chirped over the fence, dirt still under her fingernails. "My treat!"
Carl beamed. "How thoughtful! They smell amazing."
Two weeks later, the bees arrived. Hundreds of them, drunk on lavender nectar, turning Carl's yard into a buzzing metropolis. Carl, catastrophically allergic, watched from his kitchen window as his outdoor kingdom became uninhabitable.
His daughter's trampoline sat abandoned. The gnomes stood sentinel in a yard no human could enter. Emergency room once. Twice.
By midsummer, Carl was researching condos with artificial grass and HOA regulations. The gnomes went to Goodwill. The hedge, mysteriously, got trimmed back to the actual property line.
Janine's yard now extended half a meter past where it used to. Legally ambiguous. Spiritually triumphant.
She never mentioned the property dispute again. Never had to.
Remny's deduction:
If you want to reclaim the land, don't start a war. Start a garden. Then let nature finish it.
Filed Under: Neighborhood Games and Suburban Vengeance
3
The Conference Clapback
Law 6: Court Attention at All Costs
Trent wasn't special. Middle management. Average beard. Owned three vests and rotated them like a uniform.
But he had ambition. And ambition, like mold, thrives in the unnoticed corners of corporate convention halls.
At the annual regional sales summit, two hundred people sat in uncomfortable chairs watching a minor celebrity CEO drone about "disruption" and "synergistic paradigm shifts." After forty-five minutes of brand jargon and misplaced football metaphors, the crowd began its slow descent into collective coma.
The CEO was mid-sentence about "authentic customer journeys" when Trent's hand shot up.
"Hi, Trent from West Van District." His voice cut through the auditorium like a fire alarm. "Just wondering — if your product is so agile and disruptive, why did it require two mergers, a class-action lawsuit, and an actual fire to gain market traction?"
The room snapped awake. Phones stopped buzzing. Coffee cups froze halfway to lips.
The CEO blinked. Laughed nervously. "Well, that's certainly... pointed."
Trent smiled. Sat down. He didn't ask another question. He didn't need to. The damage was done — or rather, the attention was captured.
By coffee break, five regional heads had "heard of that guy Trent." By lunch, someone asked him to sit at the directors' table instead of with the other middle managers. By the end of the conference, his business card was in seven different pockets.
Within a week, he was promoted — not for results, but for recognizability. He was now someone to watch.
Years later, when people asked how he climbed so fast, Trent would shrug and say, "Right place, right time."
But he knew better. It wasn't about being in the right place. It was about making sure everyone noticed you were there.
Remny's deduction:
You don't need brilliance. Just timing, nerve, and a room full of bored executives.
Filed Under: Strategic Outbursts and Conference Table Coups
4
The Gourmet Ghost
Law 40: Despise the Free Lunch
The first lunch appeared on a Thursday.
It sat neatly on Evelyn Shore's desk—a lacquered wooden bento box wrapped in embroidered cloth. No name. No note. Just a card embossed with the word: ENJOY.
Inside: fresh salmon over black rice, daikon with citrus glaze, a single umeboshi, and a square of matcha sponge so delicate it collapsed on her tongue.
Nobody had seen who left it. By the following Monday, it was a phenomenon. They called it The Gourmet Ghost.
The gifts kept coming—not daily, but rhythmically. Each meal perfectly tailored: vegan bowls, keto feasts, nostalgic childhood meatloaf. Those who received them walked taller, smiled wider. Evelyn landed two new accounts. Sam got the project lead he wasn't even up for.
Jealousies grew. One intern stayed overnight to catch the giver and found nothing. Another tried faking gratitude online—the next day, her access card stopped working.
By week five, the lunches stopped altogether. Then came an email announcing a new executive: Harold Denham.
Harold's first appearance was in the boardroom. Tan suit, honeyed voice, a pocket square folded like a crane. He smiled like a man who already knew everyone's secrets.
"I've watched your team from afar," he said, "and I've seen kindness, excellence, and... receptivity."
In private meetings with the lunch recipients, changes rippled through the org chart. Promotions confirmed. Projects reassigned. One person quietly let go. He never mentioned the lunches, but his assistant once whispered to Evelyn, "The salmon was line-caught."
That's when Evelyn knew.
Then came the reshuffle. Departments merged. Budgets evaporated. A new evaluation system called "ALIGN" emerged. Those who'd never received a lunch suddenly found themselves out of sync.
"We're the fasting class," one whispered. "We didn't eat, so now we're being digested."
Evelyn confronted Harold during a one-on-one.
"Why the secrecy?" she asked.
He smiled. "You asked no questions when the gifts came. Why start now?"
"But you changed things. People are scared."
"I gave you excellence. For free. And you accepted it. That tells me everything I need to know." He sipped tea from a glass mug. "Besides, nothing's truly free. Every flavor is a fingerprint."
Evelyn was the last to resist. She left a box on Harold's desk—identical to his own, with a card reading THANK YOU. Inside: a single plastic-wrapped slice of gas-station meatloaf.
He opened it, smiled, and made no comment.
The next day, she found an envelope on her chair:
"You're not hungry anymore. That makes you dangerous. Let's talk."
The lunch program was never mentioned again. But Harold's division thrived. His new hires never received a single free meal—and never once asked for one.
They brought their own lunch.
Not every gift is a blessing. Some are introductions into quiet contracts never spoken aloud.
Filed Under: Corporate Puppetry and Praise by Proxy
5
The Recommendation
Rule 33: Discover each man's thumbscrew.
Professor Williams held my future in his hands, and he knew it. The Rhodes Scholarship committee would call him. His recommendation could open doors or close them forever.
The problem? He didn't like me. I was forgettable. Average. The kind of student who fills seats but doesn't inspire passion.
I had eight weeks to find his thumbscrew and turn it.
I started with research. Not academic research — personal research. Professor Williams was sixty-three, divorced, lived alone. But there was something else. When he talked about the Crusades, about the letters soldiers wrote home, about the human cost of historical ambition — his voice changed. Became softer. More reverent.
He wasn't just teaching history. He was mourning it.
I started staying after class, asking questions about the people behind the events. What did the peasants think? How did families cope with losing sons to distant battles?
Professor Williams would pause. Look at me differently. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that separates historians from storytellers," he'd say.
I discovered his thumbscrew by accident. During office hours, I noticed a framed photo tucked behind his computer. A young man in military uniform with Williams' eyes and smile.
"Is that your son?" I asked.
His face went still. "Was. David. He died in Afghanistan in 2009."
For the next hour, Professor Williams told me about David. How he wanted to be a teacher. How he read history books during deployment. How he wrote letters asking about medieval battle tactics.
"He would have loved your questions," Professor Williams said finally. "About the human cost. David always said history wasn't about kings and kingdoms — it was about people like us, trying to survive extraordinary circumstances."
I realized then that Professor Williams lived in the past because it was safer than the present. Because dead soldiers couldn't break your heart the way living ones could.
I started writing my papers differently. Not just about political movements, but about the human stories buried in history's margins. The wives who waited. The children who grew up fatherless.
Professor Williams began looking forward to my work. Started citing my papers in lectures. When the Rhodes committee called, he didn't just recommend me — he championed me.
I got the scholarship.
But here's what haunts me: I didn't change who I was to impress him. I changed who I was to echo his dead son. Every question I asked, every paper I wrote — I was performing David. The son he lost, the student he wished he still had.
Professor Williams thought he was mentoring a brilliant student. I knew I was performing a ghost.
Remny's deduction:
Everyone has a wound that shapes them. Find that wound, and you don't just influence the person — you become indispensable to them. Because you're not just solving their problems anymore. You're healing their pain.
The thumbscrew turns both ways. And sometimes, the person applying the pressure gets crushed too.
Filed Under: Dead Sons and Living Scholarships