Bob had once dreamed of magic like the one true mages wielded. Magic allowing the summoning of fire, bending time or commanding shadows. But he was no heir to a long family of mages, nor had he any special aptitudes or interest allowing him to create his own Domain, to become a sourcerer. He had little choice but to sign a warlock contract with Officiel — an angelic patron of Paperwork, Cubicles, and Meeting Agendas That Could Have Been Emails.

Officiel, resplendent in winged khakis and wielding a divine clipboard, appeared in a flash of fluorescent shadowlight above Bob's desk in a public DMV, one day, straight from Ideworld – and according to knowledge that Bob was yet to acquire – it did not happen often.

"I grant you the power of Beuromancy, Bob," Officiel had intoned, voice echoing like a copy machine from hell. "Your soul is mine until retirement or death, whichever comes with more paperwork."

Now Bob works for the United States Guild (U.S.G.), the arcane regulatory body that governs all magical activity in America, headquartered inside a cursed brutalist building in Salem.

Bob's magic is... unconventional.

--

The Printer Incident

Bob had just finished infusing the shadowlight granted by the Angel into the third-floor supply closet to make it a Pocket Dimension of Infinite Legal Pads when a frantic intern burst in. "Sir! The copier on Level Nine is printing pages from The Necronomicon!"

Bob sighed, adjusted his tie (enchanted to always straighten itself), and grabbed his toner replacement. "Alright, let's exorcise this thing." He always overplayed his actions.

He arrived to find the copier groaning in a deep, demonic Latin. A pentagram had formed from spilled toner. Middle management had already barricaded the hallway with filing cabinets and snacks from the breakroom.

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Bob raised his badge:

U.S.G. Field Warlock - Bureaucratic Division

Name: Bob, Last Name Classified (Probably Just Bob)

"Alright, you eldritch Xerox, let's jam."

He slapped a stack of HR manuals onto the glass tray and chanted,

"Productivitus Maximus!"

With a divine hum of red tape and passive-aggressive memos, holy light shot from the copier. A booming angelic voice declared, "ERROR: FORM 666-NOT FILED. PLEASE CONTACT ADMIN."

The copier burst into flames and exploded into a swarm of sticky notes, each one bearing an ancient curse and a passive-aggressive comment about the coffee machine.

Crisis averted.

--

A Spell Called "Out of Office"

Bob's biggest threat, however, came not from rogue sorcerers or magical anomalies, but from Janet, the Guild's HR Sourceress Supreme.

She was convinced Bob was abusing time dilation spells to leave work early on Fridays.

"Bob," she said, cornering him in the break room with a suspiciously glowing mug labeled #1 Compliance Officer, "Did you or did you not schedule a 45-minute meeting that lasted 0.2 seconds?"

"I optimized productivity," Bob muttered, summoning a shield made of overdue performance reviews.

"Did you cast Summon Unlimited Sticky Notes again?"

"I delegated documentation responsibilities."

She narrowed her eyes. "You also filed a spell requisition form in triplicate. That's... correct. Dammit."

Bob lived another day.

--

The Desk Job That Saved the World

When a rogue necromancer tried to awaken the Dead Files buried beneath the Pentagon's Records Basement, Bob was the only one who could stop it.

Armed with nothing but a three-hole punch blessed by Officiel himself, and a summoned entity known only as The Office Manager, Bob battled the undead paperwork horde, refiled their spirits, and categorized every haunting under section 13-B: "Administrative Hauntings – Cubicle Related."

He emerged victorious. And on time for his 2:30 check-in.

As a reward, Officiel granted Bob a promotion:

Senior Administrative.

His cubicle got an extra two inches of personal space — practically a kingdom by U.S.G. standards.

Bob may not have fireballs, but by Reality, he had synergy.

And a label-maker.

With divine power.

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