Chapter 2 - The $3/Hour Troll Confrontation

While reading the infuriating message from Tchaikovsky, the boy cursed him under his breath and slammed his desk. "This penniless troll thinks he's hot stuff, typing like he's starting a 4chan thread flame war. He's just a broke wannabe making $3 an hour!"

The boy's face contorted through the five stages of depression, and if looks could kill, it would have been a massacre.

Leaping from his seat, the boy declared, "Giddy up, William! Time to rustle this retard jimmies in person." He marched to his wardrobe, determined to school Tchaikovsky on the finer points of communication.

William suited up in his finest attire: a t-shirt with just the right number of holes for ventilation and a pair of dad jeans that could have benefited from a turn in the washing machine sometime this decade. His feet were adorned with a trusty pair of Adidas kicks, gifted by his closest friend's little brother after an unfortunate"soup cookie" incident. Not that William cared - his philosophy was that beauty lies in the mind, not outward appearances. Which was just as well, given that his unkempt locks and patchy beard gave him the look of a teenage runaway from an Amish paradise.

As he clomped down the stairs of his three-story walk-up, each thunderous footfall shook the building's foundation. An irate neighbor poked their head out, "William! You're old enough to know the rules - no running in the hallway! You'll wake the dead!"

Chastised, William slunk out the door, muttering to himself, "Wake the dead, huh? Don't flatter yourself, old karen. The only thing your shrill nagging could wake is the demon of eternal torment laid to rest in the deepest pits of hell..." as he eyed his rusty 10-speed bike and dreamed of the day he could finally start his day.

As he eyed his rusty bike, William thought, "I'd better walk instead. If I ride that thing, it'll likely disintegrate into a pile of rust and broken spokes." He nodded decisively. "Okay, before confronting that keyboard warrior, I should fortify myself with some brain food."

While walking through the alley to reach the city streets, William eyed every passerby with thinly-veiled anxiety. Not that he cared, of course - his messed up psychology around human interaction was just an illusion. Self-help books hadn't managed to reason it away, but his outward demeanor of seething rage expertly masked the inner turmoil.

"What the hell is wrong with me every damn day..." he muttered under his breath, fists clenched as if strangling an invisible foe.

Twenty minutes later, William arrived at his destination - Alice's Bakery. "Morning Sir Austin, the usual please."

"You got it, kid!" The portly baker smiled, grabbing a paper bag. "And here's a little something extra since you're my first customer today."

"Thanks Sir Austin, may God bless you." William's gratitude dripped with syrupy insincerity - he was about as religious as a stone idol. It wouldn't surprise anyone if this con artist started scamming the faithful in God's name.

Bread in hand, William set off down the familiar path toward Tchaikovsky's lair, fueling up for the impending battle of wits and insults.

William approached Tchaikovsky's lavish home - the outward appearance spotlessly clean with small stepping stones leading to the entryway. Large windows allowed anyone outside to see directly into the opulent interior. "If I can't get a good look at myself in those, I'm running back home," William muttered.

"Tchai! Open your windows!" he bellowed like a crazed terrorist. "If not, I'll bust them open by throwing rocks for you!"

An angry voice responded, "Shut the fuck up! Can't you use what's left of your pea-sized brain and have some decency? There are people sleeping in here!"

"Got it, I'm coming to your room then!" William shouted back.

"Huh? What for?"

"What do you mean 'what for'? I want to talk seriously about getting a damn job, you faggot!" William snorted derisively.

Tchaikovsky sighed, "What the fuck, William? I already advised you to start an OnlyFans and yet—"

"SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH!" William's voice was eerily calm. "I'm coming upstairs, alright?"

"No means n—" But before Tchaikovsky could finish, William had seemingly vanished from outside. The thunderous stomping of feet running up the stairs made it clear he was headed straight for the bedrooms.

Tchaikovsky could only shake his head as he went to lock his door, mumbling, "Some people just never listen..."

As William went upstairs running, he almost caused himself to trip. "Curse these fucking stairs..." he muttered, then started walking instead to attempt to regain some dignity. Now, he was outside Tchaikovsky's room and decided to open the door without even knocking first, like a barbarian invading a peaceful village.

William ignored Tchaikovsky's intense stare and plopped directly onto his bed, leaving muddy footprints along the way.

Tchaikovsky looked at him dumbfoundedly and said "You don't really understand, do you? Sigh...what a mouthbreathing pleb."

"C'mon man, help a poor pleb out. You do know that I'm living in an apartment and I don't even have a job to support myself and I'm already 18," William whined slowly to build up the tension factor. "Old enough to start a job and I can't be a NEET leech forever. I don't want my uncle to know what an incompetent wasteman I am to not even support myself. I'm not an infant, bro. This is different from going to gym and going to a job. I won't quit easily if it's GBP we're talking about."

Tchaikovsky, thoroughly unconvinced, sneered "You're really not that bright, are you? Listen up, Normie. You and I live in different worlds. You're living by yourself like a pleb and I'm living with my superior parental units. Do you really think 3 GBP per hour will get you tendies? Even the monthly allowance from your uncle won't be enough for a grown man-child like you. If you really want a job that badly then look for one that pays 7.25-10 GBP per hour, minimum wage slave. I'm only working part-time for personal spending cash to buy the latest anime figures, or hobbies and games. I don't need to fully support myself because mom and dad cover my basic needs. And here you are, being a dumbass that thinks 3 GBP is enough to pay rent, buy rent, utilities, food and have any left over for discretionary spending. While I, can simply save up a bit for inexpensive pastimes without major responsibilities weighing me down."

William sighed deeply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You're right, I haven't fully grasped the economic realities yet. Living independently is far more costly than I anticipated."

He sat up straight, meeting Tcahikovsky's gaze. "However, dismissing me as a shitstain naiveity is unwise. I'm tenacious and willing to do whatever work I must to get my life rollin. You know how I got those mad skills and responsibilities."

William sprang up, straightening his threadbare clothes. "I appreciate your perspective from still crashing with the rents. But I'm determined to carve my own path. With hustle, I'll get by. Who knows, I may even out-achieve you one day while you are rotting from hugging your anime figurines." He flashed with a cheesy grin.

"For now, thanks for the real talk, fam. I'll quit underestimating what you said." William gave an exagerated polite nod and showing that he will now go home.

"Before you go out of here," Tchaikovsky demanded, "Fork over one of those bread slices first. That's the least you can do after I bestowed such sage wisdom upon your pea-sized brain."

William rolled his eyes so dramatically, it's a wonder they didn't roll right out of his skull and onto the floor. "What the everloving fuck are you blathering about? Wisdom? That was about as wise as a turnip giving financial advice. I can reality check my damn self without your so-called 'help', thank you very much. Hell, even the crustiest apartment landlord could guide me better on being a responsible adult than your nonsense about not being able to pay rent."

Despite his internal monologue of snark, William still handed over the bread. Tchaikovsky snatched it without a word of gratitude and began descending downstairs, one step closer to finding people with actual good advice to give.

As the ingrate's footsteps faded, William muttered, "Should've emptied that paper bag and stuffed it with toilet rolls instead. That advice was about as useful as...well, you know."