I own nothing.

I hate frogs.

As a woodland creature myself, I'm fond of owls, squirrels, and even rabbits. They're friendly. They're predicable. The owl hunts at night, the squirrel collects nuts for winter, and the rabbit eats carrots. If you respect them, they respect you.

That's why I severely distrust frogs. They're always changing. They're unnatural. At birth, they swim in small ponds, and eventually they grow legs and hop around all over my land. They eat whatever they can wrap their slimy tongues around. Unlike the harmonious equilibrium my fellow woodland creatures have developed, frogs live in their own worlds, completely disregarding any sense of order.

I trust you'll understand, then, why I had to eliminate Frobert.

The moment Frobert moved into our town of Fernwood, I knew he threatened the natural order of things. I've sold property to countless people in countless towns, so I know the flow of business: Several potential buyers would evaluate the property, they would name a price (assuming they expressed interest), and after review, I would sell it to whoever offered the highest payment.

Before I continue, I certainly hope you don't think poorly of me. I pride myself on being a successful businessman, and in the world of money, every decision must maximize your own benefit.

Now, onto my problem with Frobert. He made a deal I couldn't refuse. The other offers—from a cat named Kiki, a duck named Deena, and a rather voluptuous tigress named Bianca—were nowhere near as high as Frobert's. Normally I wouldn't allow such a creature into my town.

So, like all great businessmen, I made a plan.

Fast forward a week or so. I was busy running my store. I had plans next week for renovation, and I was hiring my sister's twin sons—Timmy and Tommy—to help out with the store. Business went as expected. I sold a few pieces of furniture, and I bought around seventy-seven peaches from the sole human in our town of Fernwood (who goes by the name of Shad0wCrux69).

Once the sun started setting, I closed the shop, and made my way over to the beach. I typically read, drink some tea, or go for a short run, but today I mounted an umbrella and a chair by the shore. I sat a pillow on it, and then covered it with a blanket.

A villager, a wolf named Wolfgang, gave me a curt greeting. I waved back to him, and then sat on the sand, waiting.

By the time the sun was fully set, every soul in Fernwood was asleep. After waiting some time, I took my bag, and carefully walked toward a one-story, dark grey house in the center of town. The night always calmed me—we raccoons love the dark—but tonight I was unusually relaxed. I felt that a great weight would soon be lifted off my shoulders. I think it's safe to say I was excited about tonight's events.

However, everything was almost ruined by Sally, the neighborhood squirrel.

I froze, cringing, as a door opened. Sally checked her mailbox—who checks their mail at midnight?—and her eyes widened upon sight of me.

"What are you up to, Tom?"

I gritted my teeth. Slowly, I turned around, while I put on my best poker face.

"Good evening, Sally," I said. "I forgot something at the store. I was heading there right now. If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing up so late?"

"I was just checking my mail," Sally replied as if it were even remotely normal for a squirrel to check her godforsaken mailbox hours after the sun set. "I'm expecting a letter from my friend, BigBoss313, from one town over." She scrunched up her face, clearly distraught. "I told him to write to me, but my mailbox was empty yesterday."

I put on my widest smile: the one I save for when a customer says something supremely stupid, or tries to sell me a fossil for the tenth time.

"Sally," I chided, "the mailman doesn't deliver until morning."

"Oh... I'll just check tomorrow, then. Good night, Tom."

I massaged my face. I'm not sure why, but smiling really takes a toll on me. I would much rather have screamed at her, called her a #!$ # (I'm not entirely sure why certain words come out like that; it happens in every town I've been to, though only the humans and I seem to notice it).

She doesn't suspect anything, I thought. I collected myself, and continued walking.

The lights were all out now. The only sounds were crickets chirping in the distance. I quietly surveyed the perimeter of Frobert's house: checked which windows were covered, where Frobert's bed was, et cetera. I unzipped my bag, and put on a ski mask and gloves. Again, I looked around the town: not a soul.

Crowbar in hand, I pried an exterior vent open. It fell with a crash, but all things considered, there was hardly a chance of anyone waking up. The inside of the vent was dusty and small, and as I navigated through the maze on the inside, I found an opening into the main room of the house. Carefully, I unscrewed the vent door, stuffed it into my backpack, and lowered myself down.

I ducked, and pulled the curtains for the two windows. Frobert lay there on his bed, his torso slowly retracting and expanding with his breathing. I shut the door, pulled up a chair, and sat there. I'll be honest with you, there's nothing I love more than this moment—the tranquil, uninterrupted peace in every person's house. Out of the hundreds of homes I've broken into—those of dogs, cats, fish—there's always something I've never been able to attain inside my own home. The home seemed to be covered in a huge, warm blanket, working to soothe my nerves. I could sit there for hours (sometimes I did) just staring at them sleep, just listening to them breathe. It almost hurt me to break the peace, but I had to, eventually.

I took a baseball bat. I crept to the edge of Frobert's bed. That was when I broke it. Again, I hated ending the silence, but I really, truly and sincerely, hated frogs.

There's really nothing quite like it, let me tell you. I won't give you the gruesome details—well, imagine bashing an overripe peach with your fist. That's the sound they make. Now imagine the juice spraying out—all the thick, delicious fluid flying out of the fruit's skin, coating your fists and painting the walls. That's what it's like.

And the feeling— Do I even have to describe it?

When it was over, I stuffed the home's ex-resident into a garbage bag, and then carried him outside, to the beach. There, I heaved it upward, flinging it at least ten feet into the ocean. The waves would carry the body out—they always did.

I stuffed the gloves and ski mask into the bag, and collected the umbrella, chair, pillow, and blanket I'd set out before. If anyone were to ask where I'd been, I'd simply say I was relaxing on the beach. Wolfgang would vouch for me. Were Copper or Booker (the town policemen) to become suspicious, someone would support my story of relaxing on the beach.

I smoothed out my hair. I'd been right, before, about the weight being lifted off my shoulders Tomorrow, I'd auction off the house. I'd tell everyone that Frobert moved away at the last minute. In this business, people "moved out" all the time. Times were tough, and people gained and lost property all the time—no one would give Frobert a second thought; they would forget him, and happily greet the newest resident of Fernwood.

Hopefully, I'd approve of him.

I'm Tom Nook, and I'm the king of Fernwood.