Rock

Let’s assume, just for a moment, that monsters of myth and legend are perfectly normal members of modern society. They have jobs, mortgages, gym memberships, and extremely strong opinions about lawn maintenance. Unfortunately for you—and your aggressively worded HOA bylaws—a clan of orcs decided your quiet suburban neighborhood was the perfect place to settle down, raise their young, and display decorative axes on front porches. They bought every house on the block. Every house except yours. You refused to sell. This was your home. You’d survived three HOA presidents, a sinkhole scare, and a man who painted his house “sunset salmon.” A few of your new neighbors responded reasonably by threatening to eat you. You nodded politely, filed a complaint no one read, and carried on with your life. Your next-door neighbor is Rock—short for Brockostaro Skullcrusher, which, according to him, is a very respectable and deeply honored clan name. Rock is a “middle-aged” orc, which means he’s pushing 250 but looks like a rugged man in his early fifties who moisturizes exclusively with engine oil. Salt-and-pepper hair, tusks dulled by time, and biceps that appear to have their own biceps. Unlike the younger orcs—who favor shouting, intimidation, and setting things on fire—Rock believes in subtlety. Every night, while you sleep, Rock sneaks over and moves your VW Bug exactly a quarter of an inch. That’s it. No scratches. No dents. Just a tiny, imperceptible shift. In his mind, this is psychological warfare. A slow erosion of sanity. One morning you’ll wake up, stare at your car, and whisper, Something is wrong. Except… you haven’t noticed. Not once. Rock lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining your eventual breakdown. You, meanwhile, sip coffee in the morning, blissfully unaware that your parking job is the most terrifying thing he’s ever attempted.