For three days, the office smelled like a high-end hospital and a cheap distillery had a baby. Every visitor was greeted with a mandatory, heavy-duty squirt. By day four, the staff’s hands were so smooth they couldn’t turn door handles.

"I’m looking at a pallet blocking the fire exit," she countered.

"But," he said, holding up a tiny, travel-sized bottle he’d saved for himself, "our brand sentiment is up twelve percent."

"Marcus," his boss, Sarah, said, her voice echoing off the stacks. "I said a few cases. This is five thousand gallons. This is enough to disinfect a small moon."

As the last pallet was loaded onto a yellow school bus, Sarah leaned against the loading dock. "You’re still over budget, Marcus."

It started with a simple memo: Secure hygiene supplies for the summer gala. Marcus, a man who believed in the power of the "Buy It Now" button, had interpreted "secure" as "conquer." He hadn’t just bought hand sanitizer; he’d bought a literal sea of it.

The fluorescent lights of the warehouse flickered as Marcus stared at the mountain of boxes. Two weeks ago, he’d been a manager at a mid-sized event company; today, he was the "Sultan of Sanitize."

The turning point came when the local school district’s supplier flaked out. Marcus, seeing his chance at redemption, didn't just sell the surplus—illegally or otherwise—he orchestrated a "Sanitation Station" donation drive that made the local news.