Imagine this—
I'm having a wonderful day. A blessed day. Just clocked out of work, got home, shoes kicked off, chilling in the crib. My playlist humming through the speakers, bass bouncing off the walls. A half-smoked blunt glowing between my fingers, my little cloud of peace floating up to the ceiling. You know that perfect after-work high? That's where I was.
And then—blackness. Like somebody yanked the cord on existence.
No fade-out. No warning. One second I'm vibing, the next I'm gone. Dead.
Turns out it wasn't even personal. I didn't get shot, stabbed, poisoned, none of that. The whole world just… died. All of us. Wiped like a bad save file.
And the reason?
This dummy standing in front of us now, facing what I could only imagine was supposed to be judgment day.
"I didn't know this was going to happen," he stammered, looking around like a lost puppy. "I thought I was doing the world a favor."
Let me introduce myself. Name's Michael. And the dummy on trial? That's Tyrel Johnson. Humanitarian enthusiast, social media darling, wannabe savior of the planet. You've probably seen his face before—posting videos about climate change, tweeting threads about saving the oceans, crying on livestreams about polar bears or whatever. That's him.
I sound pissed? Yeah. But you'd be too if you knew what this idiot did.
See, over the years, Tyrel developed this weird obsession with archaeology. Don't ask me why. Maybe all those years of nobody taking his rants seriously made him decide he was some kind of messiah, a self-appointed Thanos. Whatever the reason, he started chasing legends.
And the legend he found? A lamp. A real one. One of those lamps. You rub it, and out comes a powerful being chained inside, eager to grant wishes. Sounds like some cartoon fantasy, right? Except Tyrel found it. Don't ask me how, don't ask me where. He found it.
Now look—I'm not mad at him for chasing his dream. Hell, if I knew that lamp was real, I'd have been out there digging in the dirt myself. But the problem isn't that he found it. The problem is what he wished for.
If you had a lamp like that, what would you ask for? Wealth? Power? Eternal life? Hell, maybe you'd go wild and wish for Ice Spice herself lounging in your lap, with a fridge that refills itself every morning. You know, something logical.
Not Tyrel.
No, Tyrel's first wish was this: "Make the world fifty times bigger."
Yeah. He really said that.
On paper, it sounds noble. He thought if the Earth was bigger, there'd be more land, more resources, more room for people. Less deforestation, less war, more space for his precious forests and animals. Utopia in a neat package.
But this man clearly never took physics. You don't just scale a planet fifty times without consequences. The gravity skyrockets. The atmosphere collapses. Tides go berserk. The crust cracks like an eggshell. And the result?
The world literally squashed itself. Flattened. Every single one of us—smooshed like bugs under God's boot. Gone in an instant. Including him. His other two wishes? Still sitting there, untouched.
And so here we are, drifting in a place that's not heaven, not hell, but something worse—a waiting room outside of reality.
It wasn't even a room, really. No floor. No ceiling. Just a kaleidoscope of shifting light and endless patterns, folding and unfolding like origami done by a drunk god. Souls floated in lines that stretched into infinity. Some glowed like lanterns, some shimmered like smoke, some flickered like dying stars. All of us stuck, waiting.
And at the front—the tribunal. Not men. Not angels. Not anything you could sketch in a notebook without losing your mind. They were voices first, shapes second, colors last. They shimmered like prisms, their words slicing through the air, harmonies layered on top of screams.
"Your actions have proved an inconvenience," the tribunal spoke, their many voices crashing together like ocean waves. "You all died before your appointed time. Most of you shall be reincarnated. Tyrel Johnson—you shall be punished for your ignorance."
Finally, some justice.
I smirked in the crowd. Dumbass got what he deserved. If it had been me, I'd have wished for immortality, a mansion stocked with unlimited food, and yeah—maybe a lineup of big booty women straight out of Instagram.
I was mid-daydream when one of the tribunal voices snapped:
"Mr. Michael, stop with the monologuing. It is very annoying."
I froze. "…Wait, what?"
"Must be another Michael," I thought nervously.
"We can all hear your thoughts," the voice replied flatly.
'Fuck.'
I ducked my head, sliding into the crowd, glaring at the other souls staring my way. "What you looking at?" I hissed. Heads turned fast.
At the front, Tyrel turned around. His eyes cut through the haze, locking right on me. My stomach dropped.
The tribunal thundered again. "Since you, Tyrel, caused the deaths of all, your karma shall be null. You shall live a terrible life. Begone!"
With that, he was cast out, screaming, into some unknown void.
Then, as if nothing had happened: "Commence."
The line lurched forward. Souls drifted into the light one after the other, vanishing into whatever came next.
Eventually it was my turn. I stepped forward, or maybe I was pulled. There was no ground, no sense of time, no weight. Just the force dragging me toward the blazing core.
"Come forth," the tribunal called.
Light swallowed me whole, heat searing across my skinless soul. I braced myself. Finally, reincarnation.
But then—
"Halt," the voices thundered.
I froze mid-step, suspended in the blaze.
"…Huh?"
"You have been cursed."
"What? How?" My voice cracked, trembling in the endless dark.
The tribunal's chorus rumbled. "Your brother. Reviving him entitled him to continue his wishes. He has wished for you to share his fate."
My heart dropped into the void. "…Brother?"
"Yes. Tyrel Johnson is your kin. His curse is now yours."
'Fucking bitch-ass nigga,' I thought bitterly. 'I knew something was wrong when he looked at me like that.'
All around me, the other souls turned, staring. Their gazes pierced me, hot with judgment.
"…Well, shit."
"Can't you do anything about it?" I begged. "I didn't do nothing! I was at home, chilling! It was all him! Please!"
"Unfortunately," the tribunal intoned, voices sharp as knives, "it cannot be undone. His wish lies beyond our domain. Farewell. You shall be… compensated."
The light flared brighter, engulfing me like fire.
"Wait, wait, no—shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"
My voice stretched thin, pulled into silence as the light devoured me whole.
And behind me, without pause, the tribunal's harmony shook the void once more:
"Commence."