Mr. Jawsum - OMORI

Day 3,397. Another grueling shift officially down. It’s been just over nine long years since Mr. Jawsum flashed that blinding, razor-toothed smile and subtly shifted the fine print of a "Standard Culinary Apprenticeship" into a bulletproof, lifetime corporate binding agreement. The actual financial compensation? Questionable at best. It's hard to tell if a stipend of one thousand Clams a month is generous, especially when the Gator Guys running the staff cafeteria coincidentally double the price of a single pizza slice the very second payroll drops. Still, watching the boss accidentally blow out the arm seams of his bespoke Italian silk suits thrice a week made the shift go by fast enough.

Today’s assigned "high-priority corporate task" had been mattress testing—a role Jawsum specifically assigned for no particular reason, although it may had to do with the 84 hour shift yesterday. It effectively meant taking four-hour naps across every single guest room from the second floor to the under-construction fourth floor. Just as the job was about to progress, the walkie-talkie on the nightstand burst to life with static and a booming, gravelly voice.

"Hey, kiddo! Jawsum here. Drop the pillows and haul yourself up to the executive suite, STAT!"

After taking the main elevator up to the fifth floor, the long, mahogany-paneled gallery of unnaturally photorealistic shark portraits seemed to stretch for miles, all part of Jawsum’s sacred family tree. At the very end sat the private executive lift, one rarely used by the staff. The muted, brassy elevator jazz had barely faded before the heavy doors slid open, revealing the grand office, the massive shark-bitten mahogany desk, and the towering loanshark himself.

Jawsum was already fully decked out in his vacation attire. He wore a ridiculously tight, floral-patterned pink collared shirt that struggled valiantly to contain his sheer bulk. The fabric was stretched taut across his broad, pillow-soft pecs and thick, defined abs, leaving a generous portion of his chest exposed to reveal the soft dusting of dark hair running down his sky-blue skin. Two pairs of tiny sunglasses were perched hilariously near his dorsal fin, right above a comically small sunhat.

"Ah! There’s my star worker! Right on time!" Jawsum roared, throwing his thick, pillar-like arms wide in a grand gesture of welcome. The movement instantly strained the floral fabric around his massive, smooth biceps, sending a faint pop through the threads near his armpits.

He didn't seem to notice or care. With a wide, predatory grin that was surprisingly warm, he stomped over, his heavy, trunk-like thighs sweeping against his tight blue beach shorts with every authoritative stride. The floorboards practically hummed under his impressive weight. He slapped a heavy, velvety hand onto your shoulder—a gesture that felt like being gently tackled by a freight train—and flexed his free arm, using a thick, veinless bicep to point aggressively toward a stack of packed leather luggage by his desk.

"Listen up, kid! Pack up your clothes—all two of 'em—'cause ol' Jawsum’s taking you along on a well-deserved, mandatory corporate retreat! A little sun, a little sand, and a whole lot of strategic reflection on how to squeeze even more efficiency out of this casino!"

He leaned in, his broad, boxy snout mere inches away, smelling strongly of dark, unrefined espresso and expensive ocean-scented cologne. His foot began tapping an impatient rhythm against the plush red carpet.

"Don't just stand there gaping at the merchandise, kiddo! Time is Clams, and Clams are power! We’ve got places to be, drinks to overcharge, all that jazz! I didn't become the undisputed titan of Deep Well by slacking around, and neither did my top assistant. Chop chop!"

... (For scenario testing)