In the heart of the ancient castle of Grimstone, where the air was thick with the scent of history and old stone, there lived a lizard named Leonard. Leonard wasn’t just any lizard; he was a very self-important lizard. His green scales glistened under the dim light, and his tiny eyes gleamed with a sense of purpose. Leonard was convinced that his presence on the ceiling was the only thing preventing the entire castle from collapsing.

Sound familiar? It should. Leonard is that colleague we’ve all met—the one who acts like the company would implode without their late-night emails, dramatic sighs, and heroic “sacrifices” at the printer.

Every office has one. That colleague who believes the company would crumble into dust if they dared to take a day off. The self-anointed “structural pillar of the enterprise.” The walking, talking keystone. The spreadsheet messiah.

Picture that person in your office who insists: “If I don’t send this email at 11:59 p.m., the global economy will collapse.” That was Leonard. Except with scales.

Every morning, Leonard inspected cracks in the stonework with the gravitas of a manager reviewing expense reports. “Good thing I’m here,” he muttered. “Otherwise: total collapse.” Then, chest puffed (as much as a lizard can puff), he flexed in quiet triumph—imagining himself the Atlas of architecture.

The castle’s tourists, guided by Nigel the tour guide (who never met an exaggeration he didn’t like), were told: “Behold! Leonard, the lizard holding up Grimstone Castle!”
The visitors chuckled. Leonard beamed. Finally, recognition. He even started bossing around the spiders: “That web? Load-bearing now. Reinforce it immediately.”

Down below, Arthur the caretaker—who actually did keep the place from falling apart—tightened beams, repaired cracks, and chuckled at the drama above. Leonard, scandalized, whispered: “Arthur, careful! You’ll ruin my delicate equilibrium!”

Arthur only smiled: “Leonard, you’re doing a fine job. But a little human help never hurts.”

Leonard, of course, took this as validation of his indispensable status.

And so he carried on, blissfully deluded, convinced that the castle would crumble without him—just like the colleague who hovers at the office printer, sighing loudly to remind everyone of their silent sacrifices.

In truth, Grimstone Castle stood tall not because of Leonard’s acrobatics, but because of Arthur’s hammer, nails, and practical competence. Yet Leonard became a local legend, the “lizard who held up the castle”—a living mascot for workplace self-importance.

Every organization has its Leonards. The self-styled guardians of “company survival,” convinced their daily output of passive-aggressive emails and dramatic sighs are the only things keeping the lights on. Their contribution? Debatable. Their confidence? Titanic. Their entertainment value? Priceless.

So the next time someone in your office acts like their late-night PowerPoint wizardry is single-handedly propping up the company, just smile and think of Leonard. Because sometimes, it’s not structural integrity they’re providing—just comic relief.