It wasn’t easy finding a hermit. And it was even harder to grasp why you were looking for one in the first place. Still, business was business, and you couldn’t have one without a crown-approved hermit’s signature.

  Gary had spent an entire week accumulating forms of ID and proofs of address. He now had nine bank accounts, each of which he’d invited to send him mail. He’d even been adopted by Gideon in order to get a letter of consent from his now legal guardian.

  But try as he might, Gary couldn’t find a hermit. The hermit is an elusive creature—funny that—and not even the most carefully worded Google search could track one down. Maybe locating a hermit was the one problem the internet couldn’t solve—meaning he’d have to venture out into the real world.

  Despite its name, the Ministry of Business, Innovation and Employment did very little innovating in the realm of aesthetics. Its small business office was a depressing grey hellscape with depressing grey employees and a collection of long-dead plants. The queue was long and slow, and by the time Gary reached booth number twelve, he was already fuming. Waiting to greet him (blandly) was Howard Billingsley.

  “Yes?” muttered Howard at a barely audible level.

  “Yeah, this is going to sound weird,” said Gary, “but I’m trying to register my business, and it says on your form that I need the signature of a, uh… crown-approved hermit?”

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  Howard’s previously lifeless eyes flickered with mischief.

  “So, you’re looking for a CROWN-APPROVED HERMIT, are you?”

  “Mate, there’s no need to shout,” said Gary, who was already embarrassed enough.

  “Oohh, got yourself a hermit hunter there, have you?” chuckled Martha from booth 13. “Go on, Howard. Press the button.”

  With an earnest nod, Howard pressed a small red button located beneath the desk. Immediately, the intercom crackled into life.

  “We have a hermit hunter in booth 12!” the voice announced. “If everyone could pause all non-urgent paperwork and wish the poor bastard good luck!”

  A chorus of “Good Lucks” rippled through the office, followed by the chuckle of knowing employees.

  “Right, so… do you know where I could find one?” Gary continued.

  “Not really, no,” Howard shrugged.

  “So, what if I just leave the section blank?”

  “You can’t do that!” said Howard, outraged all of a sudden. “Locating the hermit is an important part of the bureaucratic process.”

  “What has finding a hermit got to do with running a successful business?”

  “Well, it’s a test of competence.”

  “A test of competence? Finding a bloody hermit?”

  Howard nodded earnestly. “We can’t allow any old Schmoe to run a business. Only those who willingly bow to our insane regulations.”

  “So, what now?” Gary muttered.

  “Now, you go and find that elusive hermit.”

  Howard clicked the red button twice this time, and a familiar guitar riff began to play, sending Gary off on his infuriating quest.

  “There goes our hero!” sang the voice on the intercom to a smattering of muted applause.

  “Watch him as he goes!”

  “There goes our hero!”

  “He’s ordinary.”

  I’m not bloody ordinary, thought Gary, glaring at nothing in particular, deeply offended by Dave Grohl and his frankly insulting lyrics.

  He wasn’t. And he’d prove it too. That hermit was as good as found.