Mia shot up like she was about to commit a felony, her face redder than a stoplight.
Her husband panicked instantly, backpedaling hard.
"Babe, chill! It was just some glitch-in-the-matrix bullshit! Everybody blacked out the details from yesterday, I swear!"
Sonya fake-coughed like she was on death's door.
"AHEM. Ray. Karl. Time for you crusty asses to evacuate this crime scene. Now."
Mia was still vibrating with rage. She jabbed a finger toward the door like it owed her money.
"Get. The fuck. Out."
"Let's go, let's go, move your legs!" Sonya said, basically cattle-prodding them toward the exit.
Ray and Karl popped up faster than popcorn. Zero questions. Zero eye contact. They shuffled out like scolded kids as the door slammed shut behind them.
As they hit the hallway, Sonya casually mentioned that Ray's paycheck had already gone through.
Ray blinked.
Cool. At least the crumbs hit the account.
They headed toward the locker room.
Karl immediately switched to low-key menace mode, smirking like he'd just found a loophole in reality.
"Bro… if you'd actually told your boss to eat shit back there, you'd be staring down real felony charges right now."
Ray's soul left his body.
"The fuck for?"
Karl's grin turned demonic, eyes glittering.
"'Cause… Ray-piss."
Ray blue-screened for a solid five seconds. His face cycled through confusion → squint → pure disgust → realization.
"…You actual piece of shit."
Karl cackled like a hyena, slapping Ray's shoulder.
"Took you long enough! Man, you only remember us yapping about pull-ups and dips. Meanwhile I remember you gassing up my stand-up set like a hype man on bath salts."
Ray stopped dead in the hallway.
"Stand-up? You? Where the hell at?"
Karl threw his head back, smug as hell.
"New café my uncle just opened. I'm opening the night—first slot, full send. Too bad your janitor ass is stuck on graveyard shift now, loser."
Ray exhaled like a punctured tire, shaking his head as he kept walking.
"Aight. Good fucking luck, comedian. Pray nobody yeets a beer bottle at your dome."
Right as Ray was about to duck into the locker room for another thrilling shift of mopping piss, Karl yanked his arm back.
"Yo, hold up. Even if you sprint to the bathroom right now… you still might catch a case."
Ray already knew what was coming. He just stared at Karl, dead inside.
"…Hit me."
Karl raised both thumbs like a proud dad.
"'Cause… Ray-pee."
Ray lost it.
Both hands shot into the air.
"Get the FUCK outta my face, you walking dad-joke virus!"
He windmilled his arms like he was swatting bees.
Karl was howling, already half-sprinting away, but Ray snapped back with one last shot—voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Yo Karl, you know what you are?"
Karl paused mid-laugh, tilting his head.
"The hell?"
Ray smirked—flat, surgical.
"You're a lite version of the guy whose ideas wrecked entire countries."
Karl blinked.
"…Why?"
Ray didn't miss a beat.
"Because you're Karl—but instead of Karl Marx, all you've got is a tiny marker to blast."
Karl squinted. Processed. Then his face twisted in pure horror as it clicked.
"Bro… get that niche shit outta your ass!"
Karl finally bolted down the hallway—still laughing, but now visibly traumatized.
"Catch you tomorrow, you salty bitch! I'm dropping the clip on my story—better like, comment, share, and subscribe, lil bro!"
Ray stood alone under the fluorescent lights of despair, shaking his head.
"Why the hell did I just catch dad-joke disease from that lunatic?"
He muttered, "fucking idiot," under his breath and slipped into the locker room with the world's smallest, most defeated sigh.