So… the Devil slides into your DMs—metaphorically or otherwise—and says, “Join me, we’ll have power, chaos, free Wi-Fi.” You don’t say no. Not yet. That’s not how this game works. You say:
“Hmm, sounds intriguing… let me sleep on it.”
(You won’t. But he doesn’t know that.)
A few days later, you hit him with:
“Still thinking about it, bud.”
But now you add a nickname. Not just any nickname. A special one. Something that sounds harmless like “Snickerdoodle” or “Mr. Fancy Boots,” but in your secret dictionary of shade, it means “delusional narcissist with commitment issues.”
He’ll take it as a term of endearment. Bless his little forked heart.
Next up, you give him the ol’ polite brush-off:
“Raincheck, Beelz. Maybe next fiscal quarter?”
Again, use the nickname. Always the nickname. That’s your magic salt line.
Now he’s confused. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You were supposed to either scream or sign your soul in glitter ink. Instead, you’ve left him emotionally ghosted like a Tinder date who only wanted “deep conversation and world domination.”
He starts acting out—glitches in your calendar, unexpected bill collectors, minions everywhere, maybe your laptop restarts mid-presentation.
You see it. You knew it was coming. You smirk and say:
“Really, Doodle? That’s your big move?”
You remind him: If I was dumb enough to fall for this nonsense, you wouldn’t be trying so hard.
He pouts. (Don’t ask how. You’ll know it when you see it.)
At this point, he decides you’re too much work. He starts browsing LinkedIn for easier targets. Great. He’s almost out the door.
So naturally, you say:
“Wait! Come back, Fancy Boots. I didn’t mean it like that!”
Hope lights up in his eyes (or whatever he uses). He thinks you’re serious.
Then you drop the mic:
“Did you really think I’d join you? As if I’d ever team up with a ’Snickerdoodle’… which, by the way, means ‘delusional donkey whisperer’ in my village.”
Boom. Game over.
He storms off. You walk away.
P.S. Give the plot a little facelift—this one’s already been on stage.
