The Art of War

 Silas Mitty was forty, but you’d swear he was still grappling with adolescence, prowling through the office like he had something to prove. His hair thinned like grass in a drought, his posture forever braced as if expecting a sucker punch. The office was his kingdom, and like all kingdoms, it was under siege. The enemy? His own employees.

It wasn’t that they were incompetent. Quite the opposite. They were too competent. Every new idea, every moment someone looked comfortable in their ergonomic chair, Silas could feel the panic rise. God forbid they realised how replaceable he truly was. He couldn’t have that. So, he devised a masterstroke—The Hundred Ideas Feedback Campaign.

Every Monday, like clockwork, an email would arrive: “Open feedback session this afternoon. All ideas welcome. Bring your suggestions for improving the company.” He’d end it with, "Let's bloom!" It was a cheerful, almost naive touch—flowers, after all, seemed like an apt metaphor. Mao had his flowers. Mao also had his purge.

Silas sat behind his desk like a farmer watching for a dust storm. The first idiot to offer a suggestion would be the first to go. He played nice initially, asking for more detail, nodding like he was on the verge of some great epiphany. But in reality, each suggestion, each spark of competence, only clarified his next move—how to eliminate the threat.

Take Sarah from accounting. Poor thing. She suggested streamlining the quarterly reports to save time. Efficient, smart—but to Silas, it was an act of war. Sarah was good, too good. The way she threw around terms like “Deferred Tax Liability” and “EBITA” made Silas itch. The next day, she found herself buried in impossible tasks: an email at 2 a.m., “URGENT: Please reformat all 700 expense reports before tomorrow’s meeting.”

She lasted three more days.

Then there was Pete. Young, handsome Pete, with his talk of digital transformation and cloud storage. Pete could have been on the cover of a magazine titled “Successful and Barely Trying.” That irritated Silas to his core. Worse still, Pete’s ideas weren’t bad. So Silas struck. At the next meeting, he pulled Pete aside, “Mate, I appreciate the feedback. Let’s discuss it in detail next week with the leadership team.” By “leadership team,” he meant no one. Pete spent three hours waiting in an empty conference room for a meeting that didn’t exist. Silas passed by, chuckling to himself. “Great idea, Pete, let’s see you cloud that, mate.”

These were Silas’s small victories, his grip on power tightening with every downfall. He treated talent like a butcher with a fresh carcass—cut away the strong bits, feed the scraps to the weaker ones, keep everyone just hungry enough. The office wasn’t a hive; it was a slaughterhouse. And they all thought it was teamwork. “Silas really listens to us,” they’d say, oblivious. He’d smile, knowing they were walking straight into the woodchipper.

But Silas wasn’t delusional. He knew his own limitations. His suit—always a little too big—made him look like a scarecrow on a diet. His voice could make a motivational poster weep. He couldn’t actually do anything, not really. That’s why he crushed those who could.

Every morning, he’d stand by the window, staring out at the Brisbane skyline. To others, it looked like contemplation. In truth, he was thinking of cattle. “You have to cull the herd before it starts thinking it can run the farm,” his uncle used to say. The office was his herd. Fatten some, starve others, but always remind them who held the knife.

Today, it was Gary’s turn. Gary, with his slick PowerPoints and smug confidence. Silas had had enough. He walked over to Gary’s desk, “Mate, I need you to write up that big presentation for the board next week. Make it... thorough.” Gary, eager as a pup, nodded enthusiastically, “You got it, Silas!”
Gary retreated to his desk, typing away like a calf skipping to the butcher. Silas took a sip of his coffee—cold, bitter, like licking a battery. Perfect. Across the room, Gary hunched over his laptop, oblivious. Silas sighed. Gary had potential, which was precisely the problem.
Silas shuffled back to his office, knees creaking like an old barn door. He sank into his chair, which let out a soft groan. “Another day, another soul to ruin,” he muttered, scrolling through his inbox. His weapon of choice was there—drafts.

Passive-aggressive sabotage at its finest:
  "Just a thought, but maybe you’re not cut out for this."
  "Perhaps reconsider your career trajectory? Let’s reassess your role—don’t take it personally."

People thought they were being guided, mentored even. When really, Silas was a dingo among sheep, sharpening his teeth.

A ping. Gary’s draft had arrived. Silas opened it, his lip curling. Of course, it was immaculate. Bullet points lined up like soldiers, data precise, presentation slick. He hit ‘reply all staff’ without flinching:

Hi team, I just received this draft from Gary. I was expecting more... depth? More vision? Thoughts?

And, for the final touch, a smiley face emoji. Nothing says “I’m about to ruin you” quite like a cheery little grin.
He leaned back, waiting for the ripple to start. Feedback would flow, disappointment implied, knives sharpened. In an office with no tigers or crocs, the kill still had to happen. And today, Gary was the gazelle.
By the end of the month, Gary would be toast. It always played out the same. The whispers would start, eyes would shift, emails grow colder. By the end, Gary would realise he was on the menu.

Silas passed by Gary’s desk, still typing with that hopeful gleam. Silas cringed. Hope was an endangered species here.
“Hey mate, got your draft. Good start. Maybe add a bit more... oomph, yeah? Don’t want the board thinking we’re playing it safe.” Silas thought to himself, 'Not that it would make a difference. The board couldn't care less, but Gary doesn't need to know that.'

Gary beamed. “Sure thing, Silas. More oomph.”
Oomph wouldn’t save him. The more he struggled, the deeper he’d sink.

The next morning, Silas arrived early, just in time to watch Gary get called into the conference room. The confusion, the panic on his face—priceless.
“...concerns about your approach...” “...not what we were hoping for...”

By the following Friday, Gary’s resignation email appeared, just as Silas expected. “Pursuing new opportunities.” Translation: jumping ship before being thrown overboard. Another one down.
Later, in the break room, Silas overheard the juniors whispering. “Did you hear about Gary? Out of nowhere, right?”
“Yeah, guess he couldn’t hack it. You gotta be careful here.”

Silas grabbed his coffee mug—“Teamwork Makes the Dream Work.” He chuckled. Teamwork, indeed. The jungle only had room for one lion. And as long as Silas was around, he’d be the last one holding the knife.

He took a sip, the bitterness washing over him.

Victory always tasted best when you were the last one left standing.