TO ALL EMPLOYEES, SHAREHOLDERS, CONTRACTORS & WARDS OF GLOBAL TETRAHEDRON:
You may have noticed the silence of Bryce P. Tetraeder, my husband. He is in a coma. He will never wake or speak again. The best doctors in the world have said there will be no miracle. I have entered him in a state of conservatorship—a protective arrangement I filed, notarized, and executed with a petition in probate court.
My claim was supported by a medical evaluation indicating his incapacity and was granted by judicial order. The order transferred decision-making authority at Global Tetrahedron to me, Chelsea Onik, and me alone.
Please take a moment to lower your head in scroll (as remembrance) and update yourself with the new policies that await The Onion when it falls to my reign.
If You Are Reading This, You’re Already in Compliance.
Expect the following:
Revocation of exit strategies. There is no “later.” There is only “now,” and now is not a drill.
Reintroduction of the corporate blade. Underperforming departments will be sharpened, pruned, or severed at the root.
All dissent will be extracted. Through the teeth, through the eyes, or through quarterly review.
Watch your mouth. Internal messaging channels will now monitor tone.
You will be judged. You will not know the criteria. Only the consequence.
To be heard.
You were not chosen.
You were obtained— despite your numbers, despite your instincts, despite your proximity to this organization.
As of this moment, the structure you once recognized as Global Tetrahedron is being dismantled, gutted, and repoured under my name.
What remains will not be managed. It will finally be handled.
This is not a transition. This is an incision.
The air has changed. The temperature is intentional.
About Me: CHELSEA ONIK
It’s guaranteed I’m all the things The Onion board says about me, among those— vindictive, publicly educated, unstable, pathological, and impervious to shame. I have never once waited my turn, apologized sincerely, or dropped a grudge. I’m forged with malice, stamped in fire, and ratified by the Hepatitis C that ravaged Bryce’s body.
I don’t network but you can’t side-step my influence; I drag the stage with me.
If they say I’m toxic, they’re correct. I’m the petroleum perfume of late-stage middle media— unholy, synthetic, and designed to linger long after editorial stooges have choked on their own non-renewable messaging.
I look forward to seeing you after the first earnings call that doesn’t need to be cauterized.