Through decades of training the Monk hardened himself into a spiritual fighter without fear, a force of power and will before which Hell itself trembled. But no amount of training could have prepared him for the simultaneous assault of soul-crushing tedium and dreadful decomposition he now faces everyday as he navigates the interminable mental maze of working in retail.

Forced to trade in his ceremonial vestments for each new season’s fashions, with meager fifteen-minute smoke breaks replacing the hours of meditation required to hone his mind and body to its former glories, the Monk has all but forsaken his beloved way of life.

Hours spent folding the garments hastily discarded by uncaring mall shoppers have transformed his chiseled-marble muscles into flabby pancakes of flesh clutching to his once splendid countenance. He now finds himself more often humming the latest Miley Cyrus dreck than the solemn and sacred chants that passed his lips for decades before. He has forgotten what it means to embody the will of Ivgorod’s thousand and one gods of order and chaos.

On the plus side, his fashion sense has improved and he doesn't have to spend nearly as much time praying. Overall he calls it an improvement.