Hot Josh and the Friday the 13th Hostile Takeover

November 13, 2026

By 8:12 on Friday morning, I had formally exempted myself from bad luck.

The memorandum was clear. Friday the 13th could proceed as scheduled for the general public, but any inconvenience involving the president of Bank of Entitlement would require prior written approval from the president of Bank of Entitlement.

I had no intention of approving anything.

This was the third Friday the 13th of the year. At some point, repetition becomes a management issue.

I arrived wearing a navy jacket, a black shirt, and the expression of a man who had taken reasonable precautions against the calendar. I also brought a gold horseshoe for my desk. It was decorative, expensive-looking, and completely unnecessary, which made it consistent with our executive purchasing strategy.

Marlene was standing outside my office.

“Before you go in,” she said, “I should mention Friday.”

“I’ve already addressed Friday.”

“No, Friday is in your office.”

“Friday is everywhere, Marlene. That is how days work.”

She looked at me for a moment.

Then she stepped aside.

There was a black cat in my presidential chair.

Not near it. Not underneath it. In it.

He was sitting against the leather backrest with one paw draped over the arm, surveying the room as though he had recently acquired a controlling interest in the organization.

I stopped in the doorway.

The cat looked at me.

I looked at the cat.

Neither of us appeared pleased to discover competition.

“Why,” I asked carefully, “is there an animal in my chair?”

“That’s Friday.”

“You named a black cat Friday?”

“He was adopted on a Friday.”

“Well, now he has made it everyone’s problem.”

Marlene explained that she had a veterinary appointment for him later that morning. His carrier was nearby, he was perfectly comfortable, and my office had seemed like a quiet place for him to spend a few minutes.

A quiet place.

My office.

The operational center of a financial empire whose finances were admittedly fictional, but whose office furniture was very real.

I approached the desk.

“Excuse me.”

Friday blinked.

“That is the presidential chair.”

He continued sitting in it.

“I am the president.”

He turned his head toward the window.

I recognized the tactic immediately. Refusing to acknowledge a legitimate authority figure until that person becomes emotionally invested in receiving a response.

It was one of my better techniques.

I set the horseshoe on the desk and placed my Friday the 13th exemption memorandum beside it.

The cat stretched forward and put a paw on the document.

“Do not sign that,” I said.

“He’s not signing it,” Marlene replied.

“He’s assuming authority over it.”

“He’s resting his paw.”

“That is how these things begin.”

I pulled over a visitor’s chair.

“There,” I told him. “An appropriate accommodation.”

Friday looked at the smaller chair, then looked back at me.

He did not move.

I understood his objection. The visitor’s chair had no gold trim, no substantial backrest, and none of the commanding presence necessary to communicate that its occupant expected other people to solve problems.

Still, it was a generous offer.

“You cannot simply decide you’re entitled to the better chair.”

Marlene made a noise.

I turned toward her.

“Was that a comment?”

“No.”

“It sounded like a comment.”

“It was a cough.”

“Please have it documented.”

I tried a different approach.

“I appreciate your confidence,” I told Friday. “But this is a workplace. Positions are earned.”

The cat began washing his face.

He had no résumé. No appointment. No relevant experience. No evidence of having contributed anything to our organization beyond several black hairs.

And yet he had obtained the finest seat in the building within minutes of arrival.

I found his career trajectory deeply troubling.

Marlene suggested that I offer him a treat.

I considered this.

“So your solution is to compensate him for occupying property he has no right to occupy?”

“He’s a cat.”

“I understand his industry.”

She handed me a small bag.

I placed one treat beside the visitor’s chair.

Friday watched me do it.

Then he looked at the bag.

I placed a second treat beside the first.

He continued watching the bag.

“He knows there are more,” Marlene said.

“Of course he does.”

I had encountered this negotiating style before. Reject the reasonable offer. Ignore the improved offer. Maintain eye contact until the other party starts questioning whether the entire inventory should be included.

Again, one of my better techniques.

I moved the treats slightly closer to the visitor’s chair.

Friday stepped out of the presidential chair, walked over, ate both treats, and returned to the presidential chair.

The entire transaction took approximately nine seconds.

I stood very still.

“He accepted the consideration and rejected the terms.”

“You gave him treats.”

“Under an implied relocation agreement.”

“You didn’t explain that to him.”

“I pointed.”

Marlene folded her arms.

I opened a drawer and removed a fresh sheet of executive stationery.

If informal resolution had failed, we would proceed formally.

NOTICE TO VACATE PRESIDENTIAL SEATING.

I wrote that continued occupation was unauthorized. I specified that the chair was reserved for the president. I added a deadline, an acknowledgment section, and a paragraph addressing future noncompliance.

Then I presented the notice.

Friday placed his paw on it.

The same paw.

The same expression.

This time he leaned forward far enough to cover the deadline.

I looked at Marlene.

“He’s obstructing service.”

“He’s touching paper.”

“You keep describing the physical activity without acknowledging the broader implications.”

I attempted to retrieve the notice.

Friday held it in place.

I pulled gently.

He kept holding it.

We remained like that for several seconds: the president of Bank of Entitlement negotiating possession of his own stationery with a cat who had never paid rent.

I released the paper.

“This is a temporary administrative pause.”

Friday closed his eyes.

I called an emergency board meeting.

Attendance consisted of me, Marlene, and Friday, who participated from the presidential chair without having been invited.

I explained that a nonemployee had entered the premises, assumed executive accommodations, consumed company-provided benefits, ignored multiple requests, and declined to acknowledge the organization’s established leadership.

Marlene listened.

Friday appeared to fall asleep.

I finished my presentation.

“Well?” I asked.

Marlene looked at the cat.

Then she looked at me.

“He sounds qualified.”

The room became very quiet.

I reviewed the facts.

He expected the best seat. He assumed people would feed him. He ignored instructions that did not interest him. He treated inconvenience as something other people should address. He had accepted additional benefits without making the slightest concession.

Worse, he had accomplished all of this without explaining himself.

I spend a great deal of time explaining myself.

This cat had eliminated an entire category of administrative work.

I leaned back against the desk.

Perhaps I had misunderstood the situation.

Perhaps this was not an intrusion.

Perhaps it was recruitment.

I announced that, effective immediately, Friday was appointed Director of Unreasonable Expectations.

It was an unpaid position.

The benefits included temporary office access, discretionary treats, and the right to ignore communications he considered beneath him.

Marlene pointed out that these were the exact benefits he had already obtained.

“Which demonstrates,” I explained, “that he successfully negotiated his compensation package before accepting the title.”

I signed the appointment.

Friday put his paw on it.

Finally, an agreement.

I retrieved a spare chair from the corner and positioned it beside the desk. It was smaller, slightly uneven, and made an unpleasant sound when I sat down.

Friday remained in the presidential chair.

I informed Marlene that this arrangement demonstrated my commitment to developing new leadership.

She said, “Of course.”

I did not appreciate the tone.

At the appointed time, she picked Friday up, placed him in his carrier, and prepared to leave for the veterinarian.

Just like that.

No memorandum. No negotiation. No board meeting.

“You could have done that the entire time?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She looked at the appointment letter on my desk.

“You seemed to be handling it.”

After they left, I returned to my chair and assessed the morning.

I had lost control of my office, surrendered treats, issued two ineffective directives, convened a board meeting, created a position, and spent part of the morning sitting on inferior furniture.

The cat had taken a nap.

Naturally, I recorded the entire matter as a successful executive recruitment exercise.

There was only one remaining problem.

Friday had left black fur on my jacket.

I considered sending an invoice.

Then I pictured him receiving it, looking directly at whoever delivered it, and slowly pushing it off the desk.

I put the invoice away.

For the first time in my professional life, I knew exactly how my own correspondence would be received.

Friday the 13th had delivered a worthy opponent.

Unfortunately, he had also taken the better chair.