My roommate kept stealing my charger, so I made his phone moan every time he unplugged it. Now he’s traumatized.
So, I’m twenty-seven and what you’d call a hardcore coder, borderline hacker. If I wanted to, I could probably take down NASA, but I use my powers for more noble causes—like revenge. But we’ll get to that later. For now, meet Arthur, twenty-eight, my roommate and the absolute bane of my existence.
See, Arthur has this godawful habit of always stealing my charger. Not once, not twice, but every single time my phone is on life support, Arthur has already pocketed my charger like a damn tech goblin and waltzed off to god knows where.
Now, Arthur isn’t all bad. He’s a good guy, but he has two fatal flaws: one, he hoards my charger like it’s his birthright; and two, he’s got the smoothness of a brick when it comes to flirting.
And this dude? He’s head over heels for some girl from his team—let’s call her Harper. And by head over heels, I mean he turns into a full-on medieval bard every time he talks about her.
“Bro, Harper smiled at me today! That was definitely more than a colleague smile, she asked me for a pen. Do you know what that means? She sent a thank-you email with two exclamation marks! I think she likes me.”
Meanwhile, I’ve seen Harper be friendlier to the office printer, but whatever, that’s his problem. My problem was that this walking inconvenience kept stealing my charger, and it finally reached a boiling point after two absolute disasters.
Disaster One: I was working from home when I got a notification that my company had sent a security verification link to my phone. I had exactly two minutes to confirm it, or I’d be locked out of my system. No big deal, right? Except my phone was dead, and where was my charger? Oh yeah, off on a romantic getaway with Arthur. I sprinted to his room only to find it empty, called him—dead number. My dumbass was locked out, had to spend hours on tech support, and ended up missing an important deadline.
Disaster Two: A few days later, I was on a voice call with a recruiter for a dream job opportunity at some top-tier tech company. Halfway through the interview, my phone alerted me of low charging—it was at five percent. I requested the recruiter to give me a minute and looked for my charger, but it was nowhere to be found because Arthur had taken it. I tore through the apartment, found my charger in Arthur’s room plugged into his phone that was already at one hundred percent, and by the time I got back to my desk—interview over, opportunity gone.
That was it. That was my villain origin story.
I stormed into Arthur’s room, held up his fully charged phone, and demanded, “Dude, why are you still charging it if it’s already at one hundred percent?”
Arthur, with the confidence of an absolute psychopath, shrugs and says, “Oh, I have this habit of charging my phone whenever it drops below ninety percent.”
I saw red. I needed revenge. Not just regular revenge—I needed an act of technological terrorism so diabolical, so disruptive, that it would haunt Arthur for the rest of his life.
So I spent the entire night coding. Every single line of code meticulously crafted like I was building the digital equivalent of a nuclear bomb. And when I was done, I had created the most cursed piece of software to ever exist: an app that activates the moment the phone is plugged in for charging, and if you remove the charger, the phone will start blasting loud, explicit moaning sounds—like unholy demon-possessed moaning that should not be heard in public.
And the best part? The app doesn’t show up anywhere on the phone. No notifications, no app icon, no buttons would work if unplugged, so there was no way to stop it.
I waited until Arthur was fast asleep, made sure his battery was at exactly ninety-five percent, and installed the app on his phone. Then I put his phone back in his room, left my charger on his desk, and went to bed with a grin on my face.
Tomorrow—oh, tomorrow was going to be beautiful.
Morning came, and like clockwork, Arthur got ready for work, stuffing my charger into his bag like it was his birthright. I watched from the couch, sipping my coffee like a villain watching his master plan unfold. Before he left, I casually texted my best friend Mason, who worked in Arthur’s team.
“Hey, you got the camera ready?” I asked.
“Yep, waiting for the signal. This better be worth it,” Mason replied.
I had met Mason the night before and handed him a tiny spy camera disguised as a desk clock. I told him, “The moment you see Arthur plug his phone in for charging, place the camera in the room. Shit’s about to go down.”
A few hours later, as I was working on my laptop, my phone buzzed. It was Mason: Arthur just plugged his phone in for charging in the meeting room. I set the camera in place. Meeting is about to start.
I cracked my knuckles, opened my laptop, and connected to the live stream from the spy camera. And there it was: the meeting room. Arthur sat at the table with his team, looking all serious. His phone was charging next to him, just as planned. The manager walked in, and the meeting began.
Now, the thing about Arthur: he had the most useless battery management ever. His phone had gone below ninety percent, and he just had to charge it.
For the first fifteen minutes, everything was normal. I sat back, watching, waiting, giggling to myself like a mad scientist. Then it happened.
Arthur removed the charger.
And all hell was unleashed. Absolute anarchy ensued. A deafening, high-pitched, unholy moan filled the meeting room.
Arthur froze, his eyes widened in pure horror. The entire room went dead silent. The manager blinked. Harper, the girl Arthur had been trying to impress for months, gasped and clutched her pearls like she had just witnessed a war crime. Someone dropped their pen. Someone else spit their coffee all over the table. Mason, bless his soul, tried to hold in his laughter so hard he turned purple.
Arthur, panicking, slammed the volume button, but the moaning only got louder.
I was dying—no, literally, I was on my couch wheezing, tears streamed down my face, my soul left my body.
Meanwhile, back in the meeting room, Arthur violently tapped his screen, trying to close whatever ungodly app was causing this, but of course, there was nothing to close.
The manager’s face turned red with rage. “What the hell is going on?!” he shouted.
Arthur, sweating bullets, muttered, “It’s not me! I don’t know where this is coming from!”
Mason, trying to help, put on his detective voice. “Maybe it’s the charger? Try plugging it back in.”
Arthur immediately grabbed the charger and plugged his phone back in. The moaning stopped.
The room sat in stunned silence. The manager’s eye twitched. One guy was strangling himself with his tie, trying not to laugh. Harper—oh, poor Harper—looked at Arthur like he was the filthiest creature to ever exist.
And then the manager snapped. “Meeting over! Everyone out! Arthur, in my office now!”
Everyone scattered like cockroaches. Arthur was trapped. He stared at his phone, knowing the second he unplugged it, the moaning would start again. So what did he do? He left it there. Arthur left his phone charging in the meeting room and ran to the manager’s office.
I asked Mason to send me live updates from the manager’s office.
“Arthur tried desperately to explain the situation, but the manager was furious: ‘Are you telling me in a professional meeting you played that?’—’No sir, I swear my phone has been hacked!’—’So you’re saying someone hacked your phone to make it play those noises?! Yes!’ The manager stared at him for a good ten seconds, then sighed, pinched his nose, and muttered, ‘I don’t even have the energy for this,’ and then he let him go.”
Arthur, relieved but still traumatized, rushed back to the meeting room.
Arthur spent the entire afternoon in the meeting room googling every possible way to fix this nightmare. He tried factory resetting—nothing. He tried deleting all apps—didn’t work. He tried switching off the phone—didn’t work. He tried praying—God wasn’t listening. He called me fifteen times. He left dozens of texts: Bro what the hell did it do to my phone this is not funny I will kill you please help I haven’t eaten I’m starving please.
I ignored every single one.
Then, Arthur’s stomach rumbled. He had held out for hours, but now he had to go. He had to poop.
Sweating, shaking, desperate, Arthur bolted out of the meeting room, leaving his phone behind.
And that’s when the worst thing imaginable happened.
From the spy cam, I saw three men in suits enter the meeting room. I quickly texted Mason: Who the hell are they?—Oh, client visit, they’re having a meeting in there, I wheezed.
I watched as the clients sat down. One of them spotted the phone—he must have thought someone forgot it there—and unplugged it.
Arthur, still mid-poop, suddenly heard distant laughter. Confused, he paused. And then, Arthur’s heart stopped.
Outside the restroom, it was pure anarchy. The client sat frozen, eyes wide, looking around in horror. The manager’s soul physically left his body. One guy choked on his sandwich, another guy wheezed so hard he fell off his chair. Mason was crying in the corner, unable to breathe. The sound blasted through the meeting room like an unholy anthem of shame.
And Arthur? Arthur was still on the toilet.
The moment Arthur realized what was happening, he panicked so hard that he almost fell off the toilet. His brain completely shut down. Did he finish? No. Did he wipe? No. He just launched himself out of the stall, pants barely up, and sprinted down the hallway like his life depended on it.
His belt clanged as he ran like an escaped prisoner. Everyone turned to watch him—this wild-eyed, half-dressed maniac dashing toward the meeting room.
Before he could get there, one of the clients gasped so hard that he literally dropped his briefcase, papers flew everywhere. Another stood up so fast his chair tipped over. And the manager—the manager was so red he looked like he was about to explode.
Just as the next earsplitting moan filled the air, Arthur burst into the room. He shoved past shocked employees, bewildered clients, and a near-catatonic manager. He leaped across the table like a wild animal, lunged at his phone, and slammed the charger back in.
Instant silence.
The entire room stared at him. Arthur, sweaty, disheveled, breathing heavily, barefoot with his belt undone, standing like a man who had just fought off demons.
The clients looked at him in pure horror. One of them whispered, “Dear god…”
Arthur slowly turned his head toward the manager. The manager, trembling with barely contained rage, pointed at the door. “You’re fired.”
That evening, I finally deactivated the app and texted Arthur: You can unplug now, you’re safe.
Ten minutes later, he texted back: You are dead.
Whispers spread like wildfire. Mason kept me updated: Harper blocked his number, HR put his name on a blacklist, and security added his face to the do-not-re-enter wall.
Meanwhile, I was at home, dead from laughter. I know I’ll be dead if Arthur comes home, so I’ve already planned to move out. I packed my stuff and left.
Not to forget, I bought a new charger too.
