Amber Lynn Reid stood at her apartment door, arms crossed, watching her menagerie of animals waddle, hop, and scurry toward freedom like furry little convicts staging a jailbreak.
"Go on, get," she muttered, waving vaguely at a cat that seemed particularly indecisive about the whole escape thing. "Y'all wanted out so bad."
She turned back inside, already mentally composing her next livestream title: "SAYING GOODBYE TO MY PETS (EMOTIONAL) (NOT CLICKBAIT)." But before she could even grab her phone, she heard it.
Amber froze. That wasn't one of her animals. That was something... else.
She whipped around to find Chantal Marie Sarault, on all fours, scampering through her open doorway with the energy and grace of a raccoon who'd just discovered an unlocked dumpster. Chantal's eyes were wild, feral, locked onto the kitchen with laser focus.
But Foodie Beauty was already gone, a blur of motion heading straight for the refrigerator. By the time Amber reached the kitchen, Chantal had already demolished half a rotisserie chicken, a family-size container of potato salad, and was currently unhinging her jaw around what appeared to be an entire sleeve of Oreos.
"How did you even—when did you—" Amber sputtered, watching in horrified fascination as Chantal crammed a handful of shredded cheese directly into her mouth, wrapper and all.
Chantal paused mid-chew, making eye contact. "Door was open," she said, spraying crumbs everywhere. "Seemed rude not to."
"That was for my ANIMALS to leave, not for YOU to enter!"
"Same difference." Chantal shrugged, now elbow-deep in a jar of pickles. She pulled one out, bit it, made a face, then ate three more in rapid succession.
Amber pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay. Okay. Just—stop eating for ONE second and—WAIT. Where's Twinkie?"
They both looked around. No tiny dog.
"Twinkie? TWINKIE?!" Amber's voice climbed several octaves.
Chantal's face suddenly went pale. Her eyes widened. Her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk storing nuts for winter.
"Chantal... what did you do?"
"I fink—" Chantal started, then stopped. Her whole body convulsed. Her hand flew to her mouth.
The burp that followed could only be described as seismic. It rattled the windows. It shook the foundation. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off.
And out of Chantal's mouth, riding the wave of that unholy belch like a tiny, confused surfer, came Twinkie—soaking wet, covered in pickle juice and Oreo crumbs, but miraculously, impossibly, completely fine.
The little dog landed on the floor with a soft plop, shook herself off, and trotted away like nothing had happened.
Amber and Chantal stared at each other.
"So," Amber finally said, her voice eerily calm as she pulled out her phone. "What do you want me to order from DoorDash?"
Chantal wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, considering. "Do they have that new Nashville hot chicken? And maybe some—"
"I'm getting you a salad."
Amber sighed, already tapping through the app. "Extra ranch."
"And maybe some mozzarella sticks."
"For Twinkie. She's been through a lot."
Amber looked at her dog, who was now peacefully napping on the couch, apparently unbothered by her recent digestive system adventure.
"You know what? Sure. Why not." Amber hit 'confirm order.' "This is my life now."
Chantal grinned, already opening Amber's freezer. "You got any ice cream?"
Before Amber could answer, there was a rhythmic squeak-squeak-squeak sound coming from the hallway. Both women turned to see Rosie—Quirky Love Rosie herself—scooting into the apartment on a kitchen chair, propelling herself forward with her feet like some kind of deranged office worker. Her phone was propped up on her lap, livestream running, the camera angled directly down her low-cut shirt.
"Heeeeey gorls!" Rosie sang out to her phone, waving. "We're at Amber's! Say hi, chat!" She rolled to a stop next to the couch, nearly running over Twinkie. "Ooh, what are we ordering? Can I get something too?"
Amber's eye twitched. "How did you even know I lived here?"
"Your address is in your Uber Eats review from last week, babe." Rosie was already wheeling herself toward the kitchen. "You complained about the driver not coming to the third floor."
"That's—that's a privacy violation—"
"Ooh, you got Dr. Pepper!" Rosie had somehow materialized at the fridge, her chair squeaking ominously under her weight. She grabbed the two-liter, then started rummaging through Amber's fridge with the confidence of someone who'd never heard the word 'boundaries.' "Heavy cream! Perfect!"
"That's expired," Amber said weakly.
"Even better! The chunks add texture." Rosie was already pouring the curdled cream into a glass with Dr. Pepper, creating what looked like a science experiment gone wrong. The mixture separated immediately into layers of brown, white, and something that might have been sentient. "Dirty soda, baby! This is my self-care!"
She took a long slurp, and even Chantal looked disturbed.
"Rosie, that's literally cottage cheese now," Chantal said.
"It's probiotic," Rosie corrected, taking another gulp while her livestream chat exploded with horrified emojis.
Suddenly, Chantal's phone erupted with the ringtone she'd set for Salah—some Arabic music that sounded like it was being played through a tin can. She looked at the screen, her face going pale.
"Don't answer it," Amber warned.
"CHANTAL!" Salah's voice came through so loud that even Rosie's livestream picked it up. "CHANTAL, THE SOLAR PANELS! THEY ARE BROKEN! I NEED MONEY! THE CHILDREN—"
In the background, the unmistakable sound of children wailing filled the apartment like a chorus of tiny, Middle Eastern sirens.
"Salah, I told you, I'm in America visiting a friend, I don't have—"
"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS! WESTERN UNION! THE BABIES ARE CRYING!"
Rosie leaned toward Chantal's phone, still slurping her abomination. "Hi Salah! Love your work!"
Amber, needing a distraction from the chaos that had become her living room, pulled out her phone and opened YouTube. Maybe some mindless content would calm her down. She scrolled through her recommended videos and froze.
There, with 47,000 views already, was a video titled: "AMBER LYNN REID'S CAT RARITY FOUND WANDERING THE STREETS - NEGLECT??"
The thumbnail showed Jordy's face in exaggerated shock next to a blurry photo of what might have been Rarity.
"Oh no. Oh no." Amber clicked the video.
Jordy's voice filled the room: "—and you guys, I'm not saying Amber is a bad pet owner, BUT when a cat as iconic as Rarity is found three blocks away eating out of a dumpster, we have to ask ourselves—"
"EATING OUT OF A DUMPSTER?!" Amber shrieked, her face turning the color of a tomato. "SHE WAS GONE FOR TWENTY MINUTES! TWENTY! RARITY DOESN'T EVEN LIKE DUMPSTERS!"
"Who's Rarity?" Chantal asked, mouth full of what appeared to be Amber's last Hot Pocket.
"MY CAT! THE CAT THAT ESCAPED BECAUSE YOU CAME IN LIKE A RACCOON!"
Rosie zoomed her phone camera in on Amber's rage-face. "Ooh, gorls, we got content now!"
"I'M GONNA SUE HIM! I'M GONNA—" Amber was typing furiously on her phone. "OH LORDY IT'S JORDY? MORE LIKE OH LORDY IT'S A LAWSUIT!"
Rosie suddenly gasped and fumbled with her phone. "Wait wait wait—" She frantically tapped the screen. "STREAM OFF! STREAM OFF!"
The live ended with 847 viewers wondering what happened.
"What now?" Amber groaned.
Rosie's fingers were already flying across her screen, pulling up YouTube. "No no no no—" Her face went pale as Pulpy Syntax's voice emerged from her phone speakers.
"—and I'm not trying to be mean, but when you're showing your whole life online, people are gonna notice that your TRASH CAN has NO LID. Like, Rosie, babe, the FLIES. The SMELL. It's giving hoarder house, it's giving—"
"EXCUSE ME?!" Rosie's voice hit a pitch that made Twinkie start barking again. "MY BIN IS FINE! IT'S A AESTHETIC CHOICE!"
"An aesthetic choice?" Chantal squinted.
"YES! MINIMALIST! EUROPEAN!" Rosie was scrolling furiously through the comments. "Oh, they're all talking about it! 'Get a lid Rosie!' 'This explains so much!' I'M GONNA—"
"Sue him?" Amber offered weakly.
"WORSE! I'M GONNA MAKE A RESPONSE VIDEO!"
"YES! DO IT!" Chantal cheered, rummaging through her purse. "Drag him! Tell him about the European bin culture!"
"There's no such thing as—" Amber started.
"THERE COULD BE!" Chantal pulled out a gummy edible the size of a quarter and popped it in her mouth like it was a Tic Tac. "You got this, Rosie! Stand up for lidless bins everywhere!"
"How much THC is in that?" Amber asked, alarmed.
"Iunno. Says... fifty?" Chantal squinted at the package. "Fifty what?"
"MILLIGRAMS?! That's like five doses!"
"Oh." Chantal blinked. Then shrugged. "Well, it's in me now."
Within minutes, Chantal was staring at her hands like they were alien appendages. "Guys... guys... what if... what if Twinkie is actually... a government drone?"
"OH MY GOD SHE KNOWS I KNOW!" Chantal scrambled backward, knocking over Rosie's dirty soda. "THE BIRDS WORK FOR THE BOURGEOISIE!"
"That's not even the right—" Amber pinched the bridge of her nose. "You know what? Fine. Everyone's losing it. Why not."
She yanked her vape out of her pocket and took a long, aggressive pull, the vapor cloud billowing around her like she was summoning a demon.
"You know what? You know what REALLY grinds my gears?" Amber jabbed the vape toward the phone still playing Jordy's video. "My Aunt Tammy. TAMMY is terrible. Absolutely TERRIBLE."
"Who's Tammy?" Rosie asked, mid-slurp of her second dirty soda.
"My AUNT! And she went running to Jordy—JORDY of all people—and told him EVERYTHING about the spaghetti!" Amber's face was turning red. "Like, okay, so WHAT if I ate fifty pounds of spaghetti? SO WHAT?!"
"Fifty... pounds?" Chantal's glazed eyes tried to focus. "That's... that's like... a whole child's weight in pasta."
"IT WAS A DIFFICULT TIME!" Amber hit her vape again. "And Tammy KNOWS that! But does she have my back? NO! She goes straight to the commentary channels! Family means NOTHING anymore!"
"Was it... was it good spaghetti at least?" Rosie asked earnestly.
"IT WAS MEDIOCRE AT BEST!" Amber shrieked. "That's what makes it worse!"
"Ohhhhh my godddd," Chantal slurred, her eyes barely open, swaying slightly where she sat. "I looooove shpaghetti. Love it sho much. You guysh ever have... bashmemt shpaghetti?" She giggled at nothing. "Bashmemt shpaghetti hitsh different, you know? It'sh got that... that bashmemt flavor..."
"Basement spaghetti?" Amber stared at her. "What the hell is basement spaghetti?"
"It'sh when you eat it... in the bashmemt..." Chantal's head lolled back. "Obvioushly..."
Rosie's eyes lit up. "Oh! You guys want spaghetti! I can make spaghetti!" She heaved herself up and waddled to Amber's kitchen, already pulling out a pot. "I make the BEST red sauce. My nana's recipe. Well, not really, I saw it on TikTok, but—"
"I didn't say I wanted—" Amber started.
"SPAGHETTI PARTY!" Rosie was already dumping an entire jar of sauce into the pot without heating it first.
"Oh thank GOD, the DoorDash," Amber muttered, shuffling to the door.
She opened it to find a guy in his twenties holding approximately seventeen bags of food, grinning at her like he'd won the lottery.
"Heyyyy," he drawled, looking her up and down. "Damn girl, you must be HUNGRY. I like a woman with an appetite." He winked.
Amber's soul left her body. "Just... give me the food."
"This is only trip one, baby. I got two more loads in the car." Another wink. "You free later? We could grab some food together. Well, MORE food." He laughed at his own joke.
By the time he'd made all three trips, leaving a mountain of bags on every available surface, Amber wanted to crawl into the ocean.
Her phone rang. Emily's name flashed on the screen.
"Oh, you've GOT to be kidding me," Amber groaned, answering. "What, Emily?"
"Hi Amber!" Emily's voice was sickeningly sweet. "So I have this really interesting video of you having a complete BPD meltdown. You remember, the one where you threw the lamp? And I'm thinking Jordy would LOVE to see it. Unless..."
"Unless you film a mukbang. Right now. Eating video. Full spread. I want to see you COMMIT, Amber."
"Are you BLACKMAILING me with my own MENTAL HEALTH?!"
"I prefer to call it 'encouraging content creation.' Clock's ticking, babe!"
Amber slammed her phone down and grabbed her ring light with the fury of a thousand suns. "FINE. FINE! Everyone wants a show? I'll give them a SHOW!"
She positioned her camera, plastered on a smile that looked more like a grimace, and started tearing into a family-sized bucket of fried chicken. "Hey guise, it's your gorl Amber, and today we're doing a spontaneous mukbang because I LOVE you all SO much and definitely not because I'm being BLACKMAILED—"
"You're doing great, sweetie!" Chantal called from the couch, now fully horizontal and staring at the ceiling. "The chicken looks like little dinosaurs..."
Meanwhile, Rosie had pulled out her phone, scrolling through her notifications. Her face went from curious to pale to absolutely crimson in about three seconds.
"Oh. Oh no. Oh NO NO NO."
"What?" Amber asked through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, still filming.
"ZACHARY MICHAEL MADE A VIDEO ABOUT ME!" Rosie shrieked, her dirty soda sloshing everywhere. "It's called 'Rosie Abandons Elderly Woman in Parking Lot Over $12 - The FULL Story!'"
She clicked play, and Zachary's voice filled the apartment: "So today we're discussing a WILD story sent in by a viewer about our gorl Rosie..."
The video cut to a phone call. An elderly woman's shaky voice came through: "Yes, hello Zachary. I just want people to know that Rosie left me stranded at the Walmart for THREE HOURS because I didn't have twelve dollars for gas money. TWELVE DOLLARS. And when she drove away, I could smell her through the window. She smells like pool. Like chlorine and... and sadness."
"POOL?! I DON'T SMELL LIKE POOL!" Rosie screamed at her phone. "That's my SIGNATURE SCENT! It's AQUATIC!"
"That's literally what pool means," Amber deadpanned into her camera, still chewing.
Then Amber's eyes went wide. She started making a choking sound—a wet, gurgling hack that sounded like a garbage disposal trying to process a tennis ball.
Rosie was too busy scrolling through the comments on Zachary's video. "THEY'RE SAYING I LOOK LIKE A MANATEE! A MANATEE!"
Chantal was staring at the ceiling, one hand slowly reaching toward her face like she was moving through molasses. "Do you guys... do you guys think birds are real...?"
"HCKKKK—GCKKKK—" Amber's face was turning purple. She stood up, knocking over a container of mac and cheese. Her hands clawed at her throat.
"Oh my GOD, someone said I have 'the energy of a wet basement!'" Rosie wailed.
"Basements..." Chantal whispered reverently. "Spaghetti basements..."
Amber stumbled backward, making sounds like a dying walrus. "HCKKKK—ACKKKK—GGGKKKKK—" She knocked into the coffee table. A two-liter of Mountain Dew toppled over. She careened sideways, arms windmilling.
This went on for a full minute and a half.
Finally, she tripped over Twinkie, who had been peacefully napping in a puddle of ranch dressing. Amber's substantial frame came down right on top of the tiny dog, who let out a startled "YIPE!" The impact drove Amber's diaphragm up with such force that a chunk of chicken tender shot out of her mouth like a meat bullet, ricocheting off the wall.
Amber gasped, sucking in air. "Oh thank god—"
She immediately sat back down, grabbed a handful of fries, and shoved them in her mouth.
"Anyway, as I was saying before I was SO RUDELY interrupted by my own esophagus," she said to the camera, chewing, "Emily is a manipulative—"
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