Chapter 1: Fail-Safe Protocol
The fluorescent lights of "Grease Lightning Burgers" hummed with a malevolent energy, reflecting off the sweat forming on Alex's brow. He hated this job. Absolutely loathed it. He wasn't even flipping burgers; he was relegated to table-scrubbing duty, a task somehow more demeaning than wearing the oversized paper hat that perpetually threatened to blind him.
Today was already a special kind of awful. He'd woken up to find his alarm clock had decided to take early retirement, resulting in a frantic, pants-half-on sprint to work, only to arrive and discover that someone had replaced the industrial-strength cleaner with lemon-scented furniture polish. The resulting grease fires were… memorable.
As he wrestled with a particularly stubborn ketchup stain (seriously, who eats this much ketchup?), a voice invaded his mind, crackling like a dying walkie-talkie dipped in syrup.
"INITIATING... FAIL-SAFE PROTOCOL... ERROR... INSUFFICIENT FAILURE DETECTED. COMMENCING COURSE CORRECTION."
Alex froze, rag suspended mid-wipe. "Did someone just… say something?" he muttered, glancing around the burger joint. The lunch rush was in full swing, a cacophony of chewing, shouting, and the rhythmic sizzle of questionable meat. No one seemed to notice anything amiss.
The voice boomed again, louder and more insistent this time. "WARNING: IMMINENT SUCCESS DETECTED. TARGET: ACHIEVE MAXIMUM INCOMPETENCE. OBJECTIVE: EMBARRASS SELF. RECOMMENDATION: TRIP ON OWN FEET."
"Trip on my own feet?" Alex repeated, scratching his head. "Is this some kind of prank? Did Brenda put something in my coffee again?" Brenda, the perpetually caffeinated shift manager, was known for her practical jokes, though usually, they involved glitter and unsuspecting coworkers.
Suddenly, his shoelace came undone. Or… did it? He could have sworn he'd double-knotted those this morning, after the Great Lemon Polish Grease Fire of '23. Before he could ponder the mysteries of spontaneously un-tying shoelaces, his foot caught on something, sending him sprawling headfirst across the table.
A cascade of ketchup packets launched into the air like tiny, vengeful missiles, splattering a nearby family. A chorus of groans and gasps erupted from the ketchup-soaked patrons. Alex groaned too, mostly from the searing pain in his dignity.
"I'm so sorry!" he stammered, scrambling to his feet. He managed to knock over a nearby tray of milkshakes in the process, adding insult to dairy-based injury.
The voice in his head cackled with what sounded suspiciously like glee. "PROGRESS: NOTED. INCOMPETENCE LEVEL: SLIGHTLY IMPROVED. SUGGESTION: FURTHER SELF-DEGRADATION REQUIRED. CONSIDER MOONING CUSTOMERS."
"Mooning customers?!" Alex yelped, his eyes widening in horror. "I am not mooning anyone!"
Brenda, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, stomped towards him. "Alex! What in the name of deep-fried pickles is going on here?"
"I… uh… I tripped?" he offered weakly, gesturing vaguely at his rogue shoelace.
"You tripped and caused a ketchup-milkshake tsunami?" Brenda glared at the sticky, red-and-white mess. "That's it, buddy. You're cleaning this up, and then you're in my office."
Defeated, Alex began mopping up the carnage, muttering to himself about rogue shoelaces and the questionable sanity of his coworkers.
Later, slumped in a creaky chair in Brenda's cramped office, Alex braced himself for the inevitable firing. He'd lost count of how many jobs he'd been fired from. Taste tester for a pickle factory (apparently, gagging repeatedly wasn't appreciated), dog walker (the chihuahua uprising was not his fault), and motivational speaker (his motivational speeches tended to have the opposite effect).
Brenda, surprisingly, didn't fire him. Instead, she slid a greasy napkin across the desk. "Look, Alex," she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "I know things haven't been easy for you. You're… well, you're a disaster. But you've got a good heart, and you always try your best, even when your best involves projectile dairy."
Alex stared at the napkin. Was this some kind of reverse psychology firing? Was she buttering him up before delivering the bad news?
"So," Brenda continued, "I'm giving you one last chance. There's a temp agency that called this morning. They need someone…special. Someone with… unique talents."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Unique talents? Like what? Spilling things with remarkable precision?"
"Just… go," Brenda sighed, rubbing her temples. "Take this address. They're looking for someone to manage a company. Apparently, experience isn't required."
Alex stared at the napkin, the address scrawled in Brenda's messy handwriting. "Manage a company? I can barely manage to keep my pants clean."
"Just go, Alex," Brenda repeated, her voice firm. "And for the love of all that is holy, try not to set anything on fire."
The address led him to a mansion. Not just any mansion, but the kind of mansion that screamed "eccentric billionaire" even before you saw the solid gold gnome guarding the driveway.
He double-checked the napkin, convinced he'd made a wrong turn. This had to be a mistake. Alex, the king of screw-ups, managing a company? It was like putting a chimpanzee in charge of NASA.
He hesitantly approached the massive oak doors, which swung open before he could even knock. A butler, looking impossibly tall and disapproving, gestured him inside.
"Mr. Alex," the butler intoned, his voice as smooth as polished marble. "Mr. Theodore Von Strudel awaits."
The interior of the mansion was even more absurd than the exterior. Rooms were filled with bizarre collections – antique rubber ducks, taxidermied squirrels in tiny hats, and portraits of poodles wearing powdered wigs.
Theodore Von Strudel, the eccentric billionaire himself, was exactly what Alex expected, and somehow, even more ridiculous. He was a small, wiry man with a shock of white hair, a monocle perched precariously on his nose, and he was wearing silk pajamas with a pattern of tiny, dancing bananas.
"Ah, Alex!" Von Strudel chirped, extending a surprisingly firm handshake. "So glad you could make it! Have a seat, have a seat! Would you like a banana? They're potassium-rich, you know."
Alex politely declined the banana and perched on a velvet chaise lounge that felt like it was judging his every move.
"So, Alex," Von Strudel began, fiddling with his monocle. "I understand you're…unemployed?"
"That's one way to put it," Alex admitted. "I prefer 'between opportunities.'"
Von Strudel chuckled. "Well, Alex, I have an opportunity for you. A very…unique opportunity." He leaned forward, his eyes twinkling. "I'm going to give you a company."
Alex blinked. "A company?"
"Yes, a company! With employees, products, the whole shebang!"
"And… what do I have to do?"
Von Strudel smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You have to bankrupt it."
Alex stared at him, speechless. "Bankrupt it?"
"Precisely!" Von Strudel clapped his hands together. "You see, Alex, I'm looking for someone with… a certain… talent for failure. Someone who can take a perfectly good company and run it straight into the ground."
"And… why?" Alex finally managed to ask.
Von Strudel shrugged. "Let's just say I have my reasons. And if you succeed, Alex, if you can bankrupt this company within one year… I will give you my entire fortune."
Alex's jaw dropped. "Your entire fortune? You're talking… billions?"
"Billions, my boy! Enough to buy a small country, or at least a lifetime supply of rubber ducks."
Alex hesitated. This was insane. Utterly, completely insane. But… billions? He could finally pay off his student loans, buy a decent apartment (one without a resident colony of cockroaches), and maybe even… dare he dream… start his own business. A business that wasn't doomed to fail.
"What kind of company are we talking about?" Alex asked, his curiosity piqued.
Von Strudel beamed. "Ah, yes, the company! It's called 'SnuggleBug Buddies.' We sell personalized plush toys with AI-generated backstories. Each toy comes with a unique history, personality quirks, and even a simulated social media profile!"
Alex's mind reeled. Personalized plush toys with AI backstories? It sounded… terrible. Gloriously, hilariously terrible. This might actually be possible.
"So, let me get this straight," Alex said, leaning forward. "You want me to take this company, 'SnuggleBug Buddies,' and bankrupt it within a year, and if I do, you'll give me your entire fortune?"
"Precisely!" Von Strudel exclaimed. "Do we have a deal?"
Alex thought for a moment. What did he have to lose? His dignity? He'd already lost that somewhere between the ketchup stain and the lemon polish grease fire.
He extended his hand. "Deal."
As Alex walked out of the mansion, a contract clutched in his sweaty palm, the voice in his head returned.
"NEW OBJECTIVE: BANKRUPT SNUGGLEBUG BUDDIES. FAILURE IS… ACCEPTABLE. REWARD: UNIMAGINABLE WEALTH."
Below the text, a new indicator appeared in his vision – a gauge labeled "Fail-o-Meter," currently hovering at a pathetic "Barely Incompetent."
Alex sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought.
End of Chapter 1