THE LORE
Nobody hired Stunk Baton. He simply appeared in Conference Room B at 8:03 a.m., holding a suspiciously official stick and insisting that every terrible line deserves a better direction.
Now he patrols the midnight skyline, bonks flat charts upward, rescues dying office plants, and ends meetings exactly when they should have ended. He cannot read spreadsheets. The spreadsheets seem afraid to disappoint him.