random stuff

SRB · Oct 18, 2024

Tempokai said:
then it is Wake-Up Story. Simple as.

Nolff · Oct 18, 2024

Tempokai said:
then it is Wake-Up Story. Simple as.

Doesn't look like a wake-up story for me

Nolff · Oct 18, 2024

Tempokai · Oct 18, 2024

Nolff said:
Doesn't look like a wake-up story for me

a wake up story about waking up:

Ah, mornings. The time of day when hope springs eternal, when birds sing, the sun gently peeks through your curtains, and you make lofty promises to yourself about "new beginnings." Or, if you're like Dave, it’s when you battle the snooze button with the ferocity of a Spartan warrior, then proceed to sleep through every alarm your phone could possibly throw at you.

So, let’s set the scene: Dave, our hapless hero, is blissfully nestled in his blanket cocoon. His phone buzzes with the soft glow of a 6:00 a.m. wake-up call. But Dave, ever the morning enthusiast, slaps it off the nightstand like it’s personally offended him.

Another alarm goes off. 6:05 a.m. This time he flails a hand, groaning something that resembles the dying breath of a long-forgotten Viking and dismisses it again. But somehow, some miracle of motivation (or his bladder) pulls him out of bed.

And here is where it all begins.

Dave drags himself to the bathroom, shuffling like a zombie who was once told there'd be brains for breakfast but got oatmeal instead. He fumbles for his toothbrush, dropping it once, twice, and then finally grabs it like he’s diffusing a bomb. He brushes his teeth like a man going through the motions of life, thinking that this is all just one big rehearsal for something more meaningful down the line. Minty freshness achieved, he spits into the sink with the kind of contempt reserved for people who schedule early morning meetings.

Next, the shower. Warm water cascades over him like a comforting lie that everything will be okay. Dave's half-asleep brain begins replaying the mundane tasks of the day ahead. Meetings? Yeah. Emails? Ugh. Co-workers who say "per my last email" with the smugness of someone who's never known a day of real struggle? Absolutely. He reaches for the shampoo and dumps what he thinks is a dollop on his head but, spoiler alert, it's conditioner. Whatever, he rubs it in anyway—too early to care.

Clean, marginally awake, and with hair as soft as a baby bunny, Dave throws on his standard issue work uniform: jeans that he’s convinced still count as "fresh" because they passed the ol' sniff test, and a wrinkled shirt that might have been ironed sometime during the Bush administration. He saunters into the kitchen, grabs his coffee, and scrolls through the news on his phone like he’s auditioning for the role of "Corporate Drone #47" in some dystopian flick.

But wait! There's more! It’s now 7:30, and Dave is on time, feeling almost smug about it. “Look at me," he thinks. "I’m a responsible adult doing responsible adult things!" Cue the mental pat on the back. He heads out the door, breezes through traffic, parks at work, and strolls into the office like he owns the place. Oh, and of course, his boss gives him an approving nod because Dave, ladies and gentlemen, is living his best life.

Except... he isn’t.

Because right at the moment when Dave sits at his desk, he hears the most awful, cursed sound known to man.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

It’s his actual alarm, screaming at him from the bedside table, in a voice that seems to say, "You fool."

Snap! He jolts upright, back in his bed, and the full, horrifying reality hits him like a sledgehammer to the face. That perfect morning? That whole idyllic sequence of self-congratulatory productivity? It never happened. No, Dave has been blissfully snuggled under his comforter like some kind of deranged hibernating raccoon.

Oh, and the time? 9:15 a.m.

Yes, 9:15 a.m. The exact amount of time needed to ensure that he is not only late, but catastrophically late. Two hours past his start time. Two hours that will earn him a new title: Dave, the Disappointment.

Panic slaps him across the face, and suddenly he’s in full scramble mode. The leisurely pace of dream-Dave has been swapped for the desperate flailing of real-Dave, whose life has now devolved into a tragic comedy of errors.

First, the toothbrush. Where is it? Oh, on the floor. Still with yesterday’s toothpaste crusting over the bristles. A quick, haphazard swipe and he's... fine, it's good enough. Into the shower—no time for temperature adjustments. Cold water slams his body like he’s being initiated into a polar bear club. He grabs the nearest bottle and starts scrubbing with what he hopes is soap but is, in fact, a leftover body scrub from his ex, something with lavender and exfoliating beads. Fantastic. Now he smells like a garden spa retreat, which would be great if he wasn't late enough to be fired.

Dressing? Forget it. He throws on the first shirt he sees—it’s inside out, but hey, who cares when your future is hanging by a thread? Pants? Where are his pants? He finds some, barely functional, and they definitely don't match the shirt. Fashion is dead; long live survival.

In the kitchen, he swipes a piece of bread off the counter, takes one bite, and throws it back down because it's stale enough to break a tooth. He dashes out the door with the grace of a man who’s been chased by a pack of rabid wolves and—oh look—he forgets his keys. Cue the awkward crawl back inside to retrieve them.

Driving? Oh, the road is just an obstacle course designed to mock his very existence. Every red light is a personal vendetta, and slow drivers are just agents of chaos sent by the universe to make him question his life choices.

Finally—finally—he skids into the office parking lot at 10:15, sweat dripping down his face, hair a greasy, lavender-scented mess. He bursts through the door, fully expecting to be greeted by glares and passive-aggressive remarks.

And there’s his boss, sipping coffee, not even looking up.

"Morning, Dave," she says, with that terrifyingly neutral tone.

He collapses into his chair, contemplating whether it's all even worth it. And as he opens his laptop, one last thought crosses his mind:

He should’ve just stayed asleep.

SRB · Oct 18, 2024

Tempokai said:
a wake up story about waking up:

Ah, mornings. The time of day when hope springs eternal, when birds sing, the sun gently peeks through your curtains, and you make lofty promises to yourself about "new beginnings." Or, if you're like Dave, it’s when you battle the snooze button with the ferocity of a Spartan warrior, then proceed to sleep through every alarm your phone could possibly throw at you.

So, let’s set the scene: Dave, our hapless hero, is blissfully nestled in his blanket cocoon. His phone buzzes with the soft glow of a 6:00 a.m. wake-up call. But Dave, ever the morning enthusiast, slaps it off the nightstand like it’s personally offended him.

Another alarm goes off. 6:05 a.m. This time he flails a hand, groaning something that resembles the dying breath of a long-forgotten Viking and dismisses it again. But somehow, some miracle of motivation (or his bladder) pulls him out of bed.

And here is where it all begins.

Dave drags himself to the bathroom, shuffling like a zombie who was once told there'd be brains for breakfast but got oatmeal instead. He fumbles for his toothbrush, dropping it once, twice, and then finally grabs it like he’s diffusing a bomb. He brushes his teeth like a man going through the motions of life, thinking that this is all just one big rehearsal for something more meaningful down the line. Minty freshness achieved, he spits into the sink with the kind of contempt reserved for people who schedule early morning meetings.

Next, the shower. Warm water cascades over him like a comforting lie that everything will be okay. Dave's half-asleep brain begins replaying the mundane tasks of the day ahead. Meetings? Yeah. Emails? Ugh. Co-workers who say "per my last email" with the smugness of someone who's never known a day of real struggle? Absolutely. He reaches for the shampoo and dumps what he thinks is a dollop on his head but, spoiler alert, it's conditioner. Whatever, he rubs it in anyway—too early to care.

Clean, marginally awake, and with hair as soft as a baby bunny, Dave throws on his standard issue work uniform: jeans that he’s convinced still count as "fresh" because they passed the ol' sniff test, and a wrinkled shirt that might have been ironed sometime during the Bush administration. He saunters into the kitchen, grabs his coffee, and scrolls through the news on his phone like he’s auditioning for the role of "Corporate Drone #47" in some dystopian flick.

But wait! There's more! It’s now 7:30, and Dave is on time, feeling almost smug about it. “Look at me," he thinks. "I’m a responsible adult doing responsible adult things!" Cue the mental pat on the back. He heads out the door, breezes through traffic, parks at work, and strolls into the office like he owns the place. Oh, and of course, his boss gives him an approving nod because Dave, ladies and gentlemen, is living his best life.

Except... he isn’t.

Because right at the moment when Dave sits at his desk, he hears the most awful, cursed sound known to man.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

It’s his actual alarm, screaming at him from the bedside table, in a voice that seems to say, "You fool."

Snap! He jolts upright, back in his bed, and the full, horrifying reality hits him like a sledgehammer to the face. That perfect morning? That whole idyllic sequence of self-congratulatory productivity? It never happened. No, Dave has been blissfully snuggled under his comforter like some kind of deranged hibernating raccoon.

Oh, and the time? 9:15 a.m.

Yes, 9:15 a.m. The exact amount of time needed to ensure that he is not only late, but catastrophically late. Two hours past his start time. Two hours that will earn him a new title: Dave, the Disappointment.

Panic slaps him across the face, and suddenly he’s in full scramble mode. The leisurely pace of dream-Dave has been swapped for the desperate flailing of real-Dave, whose life has now devolved into a tragic comedy of errors.

First, the toothbrush. Where is it? Oh, on the floor. Still with yesterday’s toothpaste crusting over the bristles. A quick, haphazard swipe and he's... fine, it's good enough. Into the shower—no time for temperature adjustments. Cold water slams his body like he’s being initiated into a polar bear club. He grabs the nearest bottle and starts scrubbing with what he hopes is soap but is, in fact, a leftover body scrub from his ex, something with lavender and exfoliating beads. Fantastic. Now he smells like a garden spa retreat, which would be great if he wasn't late enough to be fired.

Dressing? Forget it. He throws on the first shirt he sees—it’s inside out, but hey, who cares when your future is hanging by a thread? Pants? Where are his pants? He finds some, barely functional, and they definitely don't match the shirt. Fashion is dead; long live survival.

In the kitchen, he swipes a piece of bread off the counter, takes one bite, and throws it back down because it's stale enough to break a tooth. He dashes out the door with the grace of a man who’s been chased by a pack of rabid wolves and—oh look—he forgets his keys. Cue the awkward crawl back inside to retrieve them.

Driving? Oh, the road is just an obstacle course designed to mock his very existence. Every red light is a personal vendetta, and slow drivers are just agents of chaos sent by the universe to make him question his life choices.

Finally—finally—he skids into the office parking lot at 10:15, sweat dripping down his face, hair a greasy, lavender-scented mess. He bursts through the door, fully expecting to be greeted by glares and passive-aggressive remarks.

And there’s his boss, sipping coffee, not even looking up.

"Morning, Dave," she says, with that terrifyingly neutral tone.

He collapses into his chair, contemplating whether it's all even worth it. And as he opens his laptop, one last thought crosses his mind:

He should’ve just stayed asleep.

Poor fella, should've stayed it bed.

Nolff · Oct 18, 2024

Tempokai said:
a wake up story about waking up:

Ah, mornings. The time of day when hope springs eternal, when birds sing, the sun gently peeks through your curtains, and you make lofty promises to yourself about "new beginnings." Or, if you're like Dave, it’s when you battle the snooze button with the ferocity of a Spartan warrior, then proceed to sleep through every alarm your phone could possibly throw at you.

So, let’s set the scene: Dave, our hapless hero, is blissfully nestled in his blanket cocoon. His phone buzzes with the soft glow of a 6:00 a.m. wake-up call. But Dave, ever the morning enthusiast, slaps it off the nightstand like it’s personally offended him.

Another alarm goes off. 6:05 a.m. This time he flails a hand, groaning something that resembles the dying breath of a long-forgotten Viking and dismisses it again. But somehow, some miracle of motivation (or his bladder) pulls him out of bed.

And here is where it all begins.

Dave drags himself to the bathroom, shuffling like a zombie who was once told there'd be brains for breakfast but got oatmeal instead. He fumbles for his toothbrush, dropping it once, twice, and then finally grabs it like he’s diffusing a bomb. He brushes his teeth like a man going through the motions of life, thinking that this is all just one big rehearsal for something more meaningful down the line. Minty freshness achieved, he spits into the sink with the kind of contempt reserved for people who schedule early morning meetings.

Next, the shower. Warm water cascades over him like a comforting lie that everything will be okay. Dave's half-asleep brain begins replaying the mundane tasks of the day ahead. Meetings? Yeah. Emails? Ugh. Co-workers who say "per my last email" with the smugness of someone who's never known a day of real struggle? Absolutely. He reaches for the shampoo and dumps what he thinks is a dollop on his head but, spoiler alert, it's conditioner. Whatever, he rubs it in anyway—too early to care.

Clean, marginally awake, and with hair as soft as a baby bunny, Dave throws on his standard issue work uniform: jeans that he’s convinced still count as "fresh" because they passed the ol' sniff test, and a wrinkled shirt that might have been ironed sometime during the Bush administration. He saunters into the kitchen, grabs his coffee, and scrolls through the news on his phone like he’s auditioning for the role of "Corporate Drone #47" in some dystopian flick.

But wait! There's more! It’s now 7:30, and Dave is on time, feeling almost smug about it. “Look at me," he thinks. "I’m a responsible adult doing responsible adult things!" Cue the mental pat on the back. He heads out the door, breezes through traffic, parks at work, and strolls into the office like he owns the place. Oh, and of course, his boss gives him an approving nod because Dave, ladies and gentlemen, is living his best life.

Except... he isn’t.

Because right at the moment when Dave sits at his desk, he hears the most awful, cursed sound known to man.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

It’s his actual alarm, screaming at him from the bedside table, in a voice that seems to say, "You fool."

Snap! He jolts upright, back in his bed, and the full, horrifying reality hits him like a sledgehammer to the face. That perfect morning? That whole idyllic sequence of self-congratulatory productivity? It never happened. No, Dave has been blissfully snuggled under his comforter like some kind of deranged hibernating raccoon.

Oh, and the time? 9:15 a.m.

Yes, 9:15 a.m. The exact amount of time needed to ensure that he is not only late, but catastrophically late. Two hours past his start time. Two hours that will earn him a new title: Dave, the Disappointment.

Panic slaps him across the face, and suddenly he’s in full scramble mode. The leisurely pace of dream-Dave has been swapped for the desperate flailing of real-Dave, whose life has now devolved into a tragic comedy of errors.

First, the toothbrush. Where is it? Oh, on the floor. Still with yesterday’s toothpaste crusting over the bristles. A quick, haphazard swipe and he's... fine, it's good enough. Into the shower—no time for temperature adjustments. Cold water slams his body like he’s being initiated into a polar bear club. He grabs the nearest bottle and starts scrubbing with what he hopes is soap but is, in fact, a leftover body scrub from his ex, something with lavender and exfoliating beads. Fantastic. Now he smells like a garden spa retreat, which would be great if he wasn't late enough to be fired.

Dressing? Forget it. He throws on the first shirt he sees—it’s inside out, but hey, who cares when your future is hanging by a thread? Pants? Where are his pants? He finds some, barely functional, and they definitely don't match the shirt. Fashion is dead; long live survival.

In the kitchen, he swipes a piece of bread off the counter, takes one bite, and throws it back down because it's stale enough to break a tooth. He dashes out the door with the grace of a man who’s been chased by a pack of rabid wolves and—oh look—he forgets his keys. Cue the awkward crawl back inside to retrieve them.

Driving? Oh, the road is just an obstacle course designed to mock his very existence. Every red light is a personal vendetta, and slow drivers are just agents of chaos sent by the universe to make him question his life choices.

Finally—finally—he skids into the office parking lot at 10:15, sweat dripping down his face, hair a greasy, lavender-scented mess. He bursts through the door, fully expecting to be greeted by glares and passive-aggressive remarks.

And there’s his boss, sipping coffee, not even looking up.

"Morning, Dave," she says, with that terrifyingly neutral tone.

He collapses into his chair, contemplating whether it's all even worth it. And as he opens his laptop, one last thought crosses his mind:

He should’ve just stayed asleep.

melchi · Oct 19, 2024

Tempokai · Oct 20, 2024

A bedtime story about isekaing:

Once upon a time, in the celestial breakroom of Heaven, God sat at His desk, rifling through paperwork. It was the usual stuff—plagues, prayers, miracle requests. But today, He had a very special case: a world in the throes of darkness, filled with demons, tyrants, and the general air of a fantasy apocalypse. The kind of place that practically screamed, "Here’s your typical 'Chosen Hero' mission." You know, the good ol' formula: pull some socially awkward, video game-addicted loner from Earth, toss him into the fray, watch him awkwardly rise to power, defeat evil, and get the girl.

“Alright, time to grab myself another plucky underdog,” God muttered, flicking through the celestial roster of eligible Earthlings.

But just as He was about to summon yet another hapless, hoodie-wearing, ramen-slurping protagonist, the door burst open. In swarmed a gaggle of pale, gaunt, and thoroughly annoying entities—Hungry Ghosts. These weren't your typical spirits. Oh no. These were the ethereal manifestations of the collective grievances of every insufferable online activist, come to haunt Heaven itself. Their hollow eyes burned with the fiery righteousness of Twitter threads, their mouths eternally open, ready to preach about the latest social issue they barely understood.

"Uh, can I help you?" God asked, half-hoping they’d leave on their own if He ignored them long enough.

“Excuse us, God,” wheezed the leader of the Hungry Ghosts, "but we’ve noticed a disturbing trend in your isekai hero selection process. It lacks… inclusivity."

God sighed. He knew where this was going. "Look, I’m just trying to save a world here. Do we really need to—"

“Absolutely,” another ghost piped up, gnawing on the edges of a manifesto titled ‘Woke Isekai: The Hero We Deserve’. “Your ‘Chosen One’ system is a relic of an outdated, patriarchal, and frankly colonialist narrative structure.”

God blinked. “It’s literally about saving a world from monsters.”

“That’s no excuse for oppressive tropes!” the lead ghost snapped, waving a skeletal hand. “If you don’t want to find yourself canceled across multiple dimensions, you’ll follow the new DEI guidelines. You need to choose a hero who embodies the values of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion!”

God groaned. “Fine. Whatever. Just… tell me what I need to do.”

And so, with the Hungry Ghosts breathing down His neck (and also leaving behind a trail of bad opinions and unearned self-righteousness), God reconfigured the entire isekai process. Gone were the days of a brave, if socially awkward, loner saving the day. No, no. This time, they needed someone special.

The hero He chose was Derek. Derek identified as… well, Derek wasn’t quite sure, but you’d better respect his fluid labels, or else. He was a self-proclaimed “armchair activist” with no combat skills, no strategic insight, and no discernible personality beyond his unwavering belief that he was the moral compass of any room he entered. Derek’s hobbies included writing online petitions, shaming others for enjoying things, and starting debates on topics he knew nothing about—but he’d be damned if he didn’t win them through sheer obstinance.

God zapped Derek into the world with a weary sigh and a half-hearted blessing. “Good luck, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

Derek landed in the middle of a burning village, where peasants screamed and scattered from grotesque, scaly demons tearing through their homes. Naturally, Derek had no idea how to fight, but he knew how to shout opinions.

“Demons!” he screamed, pointing dramatically. “This is all just a result of systemic inequality! You’ve been marginalized and misunderstood!”

One of the demons paused, a charred villager dangling from its jaws. “What?”

“I mean, sure, you’re eating people, but we need to consider the societal structures that led to this behavior!” Derek continued, stepping forward with the smug confidence of someone who had never been punched in the face. “Have you considered non-violent resistance? There’s a great TED talk on—”

The demon bit his arm off.

“Okay, wow,” Derek gasped, staring at the blood spurting from the wound. “That was… not cool. You just perpetuated a cycle of violence. I’m tweeting about this.”

Meanwhile, the villagers, realizing their supposed hero was nothing more than a walking Tumblr thread, decided they were on their own. A few tried to fight back. They died quickly. The demons, unimpressed with Derek’s non-engagement policy, decided to ignore him and continued the slaughter.

In the demon king’s lair, Derek sat in a cage, typing furiously on an ethereal laptop that God had regretfully provided.

“This is an open letter to the Demon King,” Derek muttered to himself. “Dear Oppressor, while your existence is problematic, I acknowledge that you too are a victim of a violent, hierarchical system. I propose we—”

The Demon King, a towering monstrosity with flaming horns and a general air of "I'm evil, deal with it," looked over Derek’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Liberating your mind.”

The Demon King sighed, his fiery aura dimming slightly in sheer disbelief. “Why did God even send you here?”

Derek shrugged. “Because I represent a more inclusive approach to heroism. Look, I get that you’re upset. But violence isn’t the answer. We need to dismantle the systems that—”

The Demon King picked Derek up by his collar. “I am the system.”

Derek beamed. “Exactly. Self-awareness is the first step toward allyship!”

Without another word, the Demon King threw Derek into a lava pit, ending the conversation.

Up in Heaven, God watched the entire fiasco unfold. The Hungry Ghosts hovered nearby, feasting on their own sense of superiority.

“Well,” one of them ventured, “at least he tried to address the root cause of evil.”

God massaged His temples. “Tried? He was a glorified Twitter egg with legs. The only thing he addressed was the pointlessness of His existence.”

“But wasn’t he diverse?” a Ghost chirped.

“He was an idiot,” God retorted, rubbing His brow. "Now that world’s gone. Demons ate everyone. Nice job, team."

The Hungry Ghosts drifted off, still convinced of their moral victory, while God leaned back in His chair, wondering when saving the universe had gotten so complicated.

"Next time," He muttered to Himself, "I’m just going with a barbarian with a big sword."

Tempokai · Oct 21, 2024

A bedtime story about betting:

There’s a quiet room in the underworld, which is a rarity considering most of Hell sounds like a raucous mosh pit during an eternal fire drill. But here, in this shadowy chamber far from the flames, two ancient beings sat at a stone table. Across from each other were God, all-knowing and serene, and the Devil, looking distinctly less enthusiastic.

The table? It was covered in what could only be described as celestial poker chips, the currency of divine wagers. A heavenly ledger lay open between them, detailing centuries of betting results. It wasn’t looking good for the Devil.

“Alright, your turn to pick, Luci,” God said, leaning back with an almost smug smile. He had this way of looking perpetually amused, as if every aspect of existence was the most hilarious sitcom rerun He’d ever seen. Which, to be fair, it probably was. “You make the next bet.”

Lucifer, once the proudest and most brilliant of angels, now looked like a man who’d accidentally invested his entire retirement in Beanie Babies. His hand hovered over the pile of chips before retreating.

“I think I’ll pass this round,” the Devil said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair that, despite centuries of stress, remained perfectly slicked back. “You always win these things. What’s the point anymore?”

God chuckled, His laughter soft but carrying the weight of millennia. “Oh, come on. What’s one more game? You know the rules—pick a human, devise a trick, and we’ll bet on whether or not they’ll fall for it.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, his irritation palpable. It wasn’t the losing that bothered him—he was the Prince of Darkness, after all, and losing is practically in the job description. No, what gnawed at his very core was how he kept losing.

“I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “if they weren’t so predictably idiotic…”

“Hmm?” God arched a brow, feigning innocence.

“You know damn well what I mean,” Lucifer snapped. “Every time I think I’ve found the perfect human—one with a shred of common sense, or at least the self-preservation instincts of a moderately intelligent hamster—you pick one of your precious mortals and make me look like an idiot.”

“Isn’t it ironic,” God said with a grin, “that the Devil can’t even outwit his own creation?”

Lucifer groaned and slumped forward, his forehead hitting the stone table with a dramatic thud. “Ten. Times. Ten times in a row, I’ve lost,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. “I picked the scientist, the philosopher, the one who lived in a cave to ‘find enlightenment,’ and still—”

“They fell for it,” God finished, kindly enough, though the twinkle in His eye suggested He was enjoying this far too much. “I mean, you’re great at tempting. Phenomenal, actually. But when it comes to betting against their stupidity...”

“They’re idiots,” Lucifer hissed. “Idiots, the lot of them.”

“Free will,” God replied, as if that explained everything. “It’s unpredictable. You should know that better than anyone.”

Lucifer sat up straight, crossing his arms. “Alright, fine. Let’s play one last round. But this time…” He pointed an accusatory finger at God. “No cheating. No divine intervention. No hinting. I want a fair game.”

God raised His hands in surrender. “Cross my heart.”

The Devil huffed and sifted through the pages of his “Humans Most Likely To Be Tricked” notebook, which was now mostly just pages of crossed-out names and bitter notes like “How did you fall for that one?” and “Seriously, a talking snake AGAIN?”

At last, Lucifer smirked. He had found his candidate: a man so logical, so sharp, and so utterly immune to spiritual nonsense that there was no way he’d be stupid enough to fall for a trick this time.

“I’ve got him,” the Devil declared. “Jerry from accounting.”

God blinked. “Jerry from accounting?”

“Yes. Jerry from accounting,” Lucifer repeated with a smug grin. “He’s cynical, doesn’t believe in anything he can’t quantify, and once told his girlfriend she ‘didn’t exist’ because he couldn’t see her through the fog one morning.”

God looked thoughtful. “Ah, Jerry. Yes, I remember him. Alright, what’s the trick?”

Lucifer smiled wickedly. “I’m going to leave a suspiciously large bag of unmarked cash on his desk. Let’s see if he takes it.”

God chuckled. “That’s it? A bag of money? You’ve really given up on creativity, haven’t you?”

“Sometimes the classics work best,” Lucifer replied, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself. “Jerry’s too smart to fall for something that obvious. He’ll know it’s a setup. There’s no way he’d touch the money. He’s always so careful. So cautious.”

God smiled, raising an eyebrow. “Alright. I’ll bet… he’ll take it.”

Lucifer grinned, flashing sharp teeth. “Then I bet he won’t. I’ll even give you double odds.”

The two shook hands, sealing the wager.

The next day, Jerry from accounting sat at his desk, sipping his coffee and grumbling about spreadsheets. His eyes landed on the large, suspiciously unmarked bag of cash that had mysteriously appeared overnight.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself. “That’s weird. Must be a trick. Or some kind of prank.”

Jerry stared at the bag, drumming his fingers on the desk. His logical mind began to race through the possibilities. Maybe it was a test. Maybe someone was watching to see if he’d take it. But it was just sitting there, begging to be taken.

“Probably just a coincidence,” Jerry said, reaching out a tentative hand.

In Hell, Lucifer sat back in his chair, smirking.

Ten minutes later, Jerry had taken the bag, crammed it into his car, and was speeding down the highway with dreams of early retirement in his head.

In the quiet room in Hell, Lucifer slammed his head into the table again as God marked another win in the heavenly ledger.

“Eleven,” God said cheerfully. “Want to go for twelve?”

Lucifer just groaned.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why the Devil never bets against the stupidity of humans anymore.

Tempokai · Oct 23, 2024

A bedtime story about "If this song ain't in my funeral, im not dying" folks:

The gravedigger’s shovel hit something solid, a deep clink echoing through the still night air. "Ah, another one," muttered Junior Exorcist, Greg, adjusting his ill-fitting vestments as he peered down at the grave. The moon cast long shadows over the uneven ground, the tombstones jutting out like jagged teeth from the earth.

He sighed, exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. It had been his third reanimation this week— all because people couldn’t just give up their stupid playlists. "If this song ain't in my funeral, I’m not dying," they’d swear, and by the gods, they’d follow through with it. Because in this brave new world of Spotify and eternal grievances, the dead were too petty to stay dead.

Greg knelt by the grave, pulling out his trusty iPod—a relic itself, but necessary for the job. He’d seen too many juniors burned (sometimes literally) by trying to exorcise these stubborn corpses with streaming services. Wifi in cemeteries? Yeah, sure. That always worked out great.

He glanced over the tombstone, which was inscribed with “Here lies Walter Jenkins, lover of polka, hater of mumble rap.”

"Another picky one," Greg groaned. His fingers fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a rusty old Bluetooth speaker—he'd long since given up trying to use fancy sound systems; these corpses had taste, after all, and one wrong note could make them even more cranky.

"Right, let’s get this over with." He checked the tombstone again for any playlist hints. Not a single mention of that one song. Typical. Families were in on it too—locking their grandad’s favorite tune behind paywalls of sentimentality and obscure playlists titled “Walter’s Deep Cuts” that no one could access without a 2005 AOL email address. As if Greg had time for that.

He tossed the shovel aside and started the grueling process: connecting with the corpse.

There was a faint rustle in the earth beneath him. Walter Jenkins was stirring, which was, by all means, not a good sign. He could almost hear the disdainful voice in his head already. “You better not be playing any of that auto-tune nonsense, boy. I didn’t claw my way back up for that.”

“Right, Walter,” Greg muttered to the ground. “I get it. No trap beats. But how about you help me out here and give me a clue? Do you really want to haunt me just because I couldn’t guess your stupid playlist?”

Silence. Dead people, as it turned out, were just as passive-aggressive as the living.

Greg wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, then pulled out his exorcist-issued ShuffleMaster 3000, a machine that could scan graveyard playlists based on residual energies of corpses. Of course, it was about as reliable as a wish made on a shooting star, but this was his job now. The device hummed, blinked, and spat out three playlist options:

Walter's Wild Polka Party
Nostalgic 90s Tracks for Rainy Afternoons
Songs to Die To, Literally

Greg stared at the last one. “Okay, so at least you were literal.” He selected the playlist, his thumb hovering over the first track. It was always a gamble with these things. One wrong move, and Walter would be doing the skeleton cha-cha all over the place.

He pressed play.

The sound of some godforsaken jazz-polkatronica fusion began blaring from the speaker.

The ground rumbled. A pale hand shot up from the earth. Greg screamed internally. “Okay, not that one!”

Frantically, he skipped to the next track: some folk ballad about unrequited love and cabbages. Walter’s corpse stopped its aggressive rise and seemed to listen, almost as if considering whether this was enough to satisfy his dead-man grudges.

“I’m sorry, Walt,” Greg muttered, half to himself, half to the crusty body beneath him. “But cabbage-based songs? You had weird tastes, man.”

Walter's bony fingers clenched a bit tighter, and the faint moan of disapproval filtered through the dirt. Yeah, he wasn’t satisfied.

“Fine, fine,” Greg groaned, hitting shuffle one last time.

The song that followed was a polka remix of I Will Survive. As Gloria Gaynor’s voice warbled over the energetic accordion, the ground started shaking again—this time, more violently than before. Greg barely had time to register the shift in air pressure before a full-bodied, decaying Walter burst out of the ground, looking like he'd come straight from a zombie afterparty.

“No!” Greg yelped, fumbling with the playlist controls. “You don’t actually want to survive, you grudge-holding lunatic!”

Walter glared at him—or, at least, his hollow eye sockets seemed to. He opened his mouth, dust and cobwebs spilling out, but his lips stayed sealed tight. The message was clear: This wasn’t the song either.

Then, like a bolt of inspiration from a very passive-aggressive muse, Greg remembered.

"Of course," he whispered, almost reverently. "It's not about you. It’s about the people you want to annoy at your funeral, isn’t it?" Greg smirked. "You wanted them to suffer!"

Walter’s ghostly form twitched.

Greg scrolled back through the playlist, landing on a track he’d skipped before in confusion. The Hamster Dance Song. Greg hit play with a flourish.

The hauntingly chipper tune blasted out of the Bluetooth speaker.

Walter let out an unearthly shriek, hands thrown up as though he was conducting an invisible orchestra of chaos, and then—blessed silence.

His body collapsed back into the dirt with a final, defeated thud. The spirit of Walter Jenkins, lover of polka and chaos-bringer to funeral playlists, was finally satisfied.

Greg, panting and covered in sweat, slumped against the gravestone. “I swear to god,” he muttered, “if I have to play one more meme song for an undead with a grudge, I’m going into tech support.”

The Bluetooth speaker emitted a final, electronic crackle. The job was done—for tonight.

But Greg knew, somewhere in this cursed town, another restless corpse was just waiting for someone to not play their carefully curated “Funeral Jams” playlist. And he'd be there, junior exorcist and reluctant DJ to the undead, ready to dig up another hit.