Claire stormed at Peter the moment he stepped in the door, furious that he was dripping pee all over her couch.
"You stank up my sofa! Get the hell off it!"
Of course, Peter had taken the brunt of the golden rain at Ethan's front door. Now he was soaked, shivering, cut, and humiliated. And Claire still had the audacity to yell at him.
But a simp's heart is made of rubber—stretch it, slap it, and it'll bounce right back. Peter quickly apologized, guilt flashing across his face.
"I'm sorry, Claire! This is all my fault. Please don't be mad…"
Claire and Natalie waved him away impatiently. "Just go. We need to change."
Peter scurried off, leaving the two women to peel off their piss-soaked clothes, gagging the entire time. The stench had seeped into everything—their hair, their skin, even down their inner thighs. And it was too damn cold to shower. Death by hypothermia was a little too real.
Miserable and reeking, the two women sat fuming in silence. Their plan had not only failed—it had backfired epically.
"Ethan's a slippery bastard," Natalie grumbled. "We need a better plan."
"We'll get that smug bastard's house if it's the last thing we do," Claire hissed. "He's not invincible. We just have to find his weakness."
At that moment, Ethan sent Claire a new message:
"That was just pee. Next time, I'll be dumping the real deal. Hope your outfits can survive a shit shower 💩."
Claire and Natalie turned green. If Ethan actually did that, they'd rather jump off the balcony than live with the humiliation.
Ethan, meanwhile, muted their chats—he didn't need to hear their hysterics—and turned to the neighborhood group chat, where the drama was just as juicy.
Old Mrs. Linda, mentally fried ever since her stash was looted, was now fully unhinged. Her voice memos ranted nonstop:
"I'm still your HOA rep, damn it! Hand over your food, all of you! Or when the snow melts, I'll have you arrested!"
But nobody took her seriously anymore.
"Rot in hell, you old hag."
"You still owe us a box of ramen!"
Someone stirred up the old rage. "She told us not to stock up when the snow started. Now we're screwed!"
Anger flooded the chat. Even the rich kid Logan popped up:
"Paying cash for food. I'll give you $10,000 for a pack of ramen. $5,000 for a bottle of water."
The price of ramen had skyrocketed. Logan's desperation was showing. And Ethan just shook his head in disbelief.
"Still trying to trade dollars for life? You guys really never learn."
Predictably, someone responded:
"I've got food to sell."
Ethan sneered. People were still betting this disaster would blow over. They still believed the economy would rebound, that money would save them.
Only he knew the truth: the snow would last. And even after it stopped, the world would take years—if not decades—to recover. Money would be worth less than toilet paper.
Which, speaking of, gave Ethan an evil little idea. He had enough Charmin in his spatial vault to build a fortress, but others? They'd soon be wiping with newspaper.
Not that they'd be wiping much—starving people didn't exactly poop often.
The next morning, Claire and Natalie showed up again at Ethan's door, umbrellas overhead like they were braving acid rain. Yesterday's golden shower had clearly traumatized them.
They begged. They pleaded. They cried through the door.
"Please, Ethan! Let us in! We're freezing to death out here!"
He ignored them.
Then they offered a compromise.
"At least give us some food… for old times' sake…"
Ethan smirked as he watched them on the security feed. Their umbrellas were new—but he wasn't falling for the act.
He was pretty sure both of them had knives tucked into those heavy coats. If he opened the door, they'd try to gut him.
He turned toward his vault.
Among the less glamorous but occasionally hilarious items in his doomsday stash were two prank stink bombs. Cheap little joke shop gadgets that released a godawful sulfur stench once ignited.
He picked them up, walked to the door, and smiled coldly.
Time for round two.