He carried on walking, lazily chomping away at the chocolates as though he were on some kind of casual dessert pilgrimage. Then, without really looking, he picked up a shiny piece of gold metallic card from inside the chocolate box without realising it—thick and glossy—and popped it straight into his mouth.
For a second, there was silence. Confusion. Then... horror.
His teeth scraped against the unforgiving surface with a horrible skrrt noise. His eyes bulged. His whole body recoiled as though he'd bitten into a brick made of lies.
"PTOOEY!!"
He spat it out dramatically, like it was poison from an ancient curse. (Now the world knows: Chad spits. And not just a little—he was making a whole scene of it. But weirdly, no one was paying him the slightest bit of attention.)
Weird... usually, when he coughed or spat, at least one overly keen girl would materialise from nowhere and offer up her tits like some kind of bizarre spit tray.
He couldn't see the city tour guide—that oddly enthusiastic bloke who always insisted on showing people around town, even though he was absolutely hopeless at it. He went in circles, then in more circles, confidently pointed at the same bakery five times, and somehow ended up lost in the exact same alleyway every single tour.
Well, I couldn't 100% blame him for lingering around the bakery. Brightwater had a great bakery named Crème de la Crave that did have many girls, all of whom their manager insisted parade fully naked in the streets, whipped cream covering their boobs, butt, and privates, all to promote their infamous cream-filled... elephant's foot.
Many customers would slyly cocks… coax the girls into bending forward to retrieve something for them, like dropped pennies, causing them to lean forward in a suggestive pose. As they did, the whipped cream would begin to slide off their bodies, revealing a glimpse of a nip or two.
Chad remembered a time this enraged their manager, maybe from his constant sexual frustration. He'd shouted at the girls for not using cream properly and then stomped out in front of the store, proudly exposing his saggy, hairy body. His wrinkled, pimply legs matched heavily, and his pale, stumpy ass hung out for everyone to see. His junk, covered in a grimy layer of cream, swayed as he barked, "If you want something done, you do it yourself! This… THIS is how you do it! How many bloody times do I have to teach you?!"
The reaction of the staff was priceless:
A smug glow lit up the staff's faces. They'd caught gold.
One girl's laugh ripped out, sharp and wild. "Hahahaha!! You have to shake the can first before you spray. What a dummy!"
Another grinned, "Yo, check that nasty white splooge… You legit looked like you have busted all over yourself."
"That ain't cream."
"Damn, you were out here looking like a walking cumshot—total fail!"
Then—
"OMG, ew!"
One shrieked. Eyes popped wide. "It is dripping everywhere—seriously, you are a whole-ass disaster!"
The manager then went to his little office, pretending to work again, muttering to himself, 'I did it right... it's you girls who are doing it all wrong.' He'd shuffle around a bit, then smugly open Firefox in incognito mode, browsing porn on the company's monitored network.
Chad couldn't stop thinking about what had happened after that: the girls had spotted him, pulled him into the cake production room, and stripped him bare. They poured cream over his chiselled frame and dick, teasingly licking it off with warm tongues—lips brushing, breath hot and heavy. It drove him wild, and with a final surge, he exploded, his 'extra cream' leaving them moaning in satisfaction.
When Chad left, he didn't have any cream or elephant's foot cake to eat for himself—wasn't that what they'd been trying to sell him? They did, however, let him taste and lick the cream off their tits and between their legs. So, that was almost as good as cake. He was glad he hadn't paid for anything, but it sure was a damn good memory.
He glanced at the bakery, only to see that it seemed to be closed.
He stared at the local gym, mulling over the thought, "I don't have any Pokémon to battle Misty today." He glanced back again, uncertainty creeping in. "Maybe this isn't Misty's gym," he mused. He still wasn't sure what kind of Pokémon gym it was, but he noticed a lot of weights and exercise machines, making him wonder if it was a gym for Fighting-type Pokémon.
This was empty as well... "weird WEIRD…" he thought.
And there was the fortune-teller's tent—where a woman would peer into a snow globe and predict his future. She'd ask for his name, then disappear behind the curtain to search for it on Facebook and Google, gathering whatever details she could find for her reading.
But Chad had no Facebook or social media—too many DMs flooded in daily. It became overwhelming, even crashing the website at times, so he gave it up. Besides, trying to have a normal conversation with girls online was nearly impossible when every two seconds a new girl was sending him nudes and messages like, "Bet you won't reply, but I'll be wet if you do," or "Let me ride your face 'til I forget my name." Some didn't even bother with subtlety—"Please, just give me your D. I need it!"
Sure, he liked those messages—who wouldn't?—but there were just too many to keep up with. In the end, he quit social media so he could spend more time with his precious waifu.
With no online presence, the fortune-teller had nothing to work with, but she gave it her all. She rubbed her snow globe—along with… something else under the table—and asked, "Are there any females in Chad's future?"
The snow globe then promptly shattered.
He took that as a yes.
But this tent—today—was closed too. Where the hell had everyone gone? Chad trudged down the street, the air heavy with an unsettling stillness. It was like the entire world had just... disappeared.
The whole street felt weirdly empty—no queues, no chattering teens, not even the usual background hum of My Horse Prince or Candy Crush addicts glued to their phone screens.
Then he saw it—a massive crowd up ahead. Reporters, TV crews, Twitch streamers, OnlyFans influencers, and people streaming on their Nokia phones for their MySpace pages and Geocities websites were all clustered together, phones out, ring lights glowing, cameras pointed at something like it was the Second Coming.
Is there some celebrity in there or something? He thought bitterly. So… no attention on me?
He watched as they all practically drooled over whatever fresh-faced, overhyped newbie had shown up. Guess they've found a new shiny thing to obsess over.
The noise from the crowd swelled—screaming, cheering, total madness echoing from the building's entrance. Chad stood there, arms crossed, feeling more than a little sour.
No cameras turned his way. No one was shouting his name. Not even one horny fangirl throwing herself at him.
How ridiculously good looking must this guy be for them to swarm him like flies on poop?