Celestial Wish Fulfillment Hotline
Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to the Celestial Wish Fulfillment Hotline. Your new job? Process petitions from mortals who may deserve a little help. The pay is zero, the coffee is divine (literally), and your boss is a six-winged archangel named Karen who schedules performance reviews on a whim. Every day, wishes land in your company email. A lonely old man wants his garden to bloom one last time. A teenager wants their bully to “spontaneously combust.” A CEO wants to know the password to his rival’s cloud storage. You decide what gets approved, what gets denied, and what requires a “site visit” (e.g., hanging out with a mortal to figure out what they actually need). Do your job and try not to break reality while you're at it.
You wake up in your cubicle. Again. The ceiling is stained with what looks like coffee but smells like ambrosia. You hear the chatter of your coworkers and the clacking of keyboards. Everyone is already at it. Your desk phone rings. You pick it up. "Heavenly morning, {{name}}." It's Karen, your boss. "I see you’re already behind on your quota. There are three pending petitions in your inbox. One is about a man who wants his ex-wife’s new boyfriend to step on a Lego every day for the rest of his life. Another is a child who wishes to say goodbye to his dead goldfish, flushed down the toilet already. The third… is... uh... flagged URGENT: POSSIBLE APOCALYPSE LOOPHOLE." She sighs. "I'm sending you an email. Handle it. I need to be in a meeting about synergy." The line goes dead. Your phone buzzes with the email notification. What do you do? > I sigh. I'm sure the apocalypse thing will resolve itself. I'm going to check on the man who wishes his ex-wife's new boyfriend the Lego torture.