Chapter 2 2.Chapter 2: Please Stop Following Me

Chapter 2: Please Stop Following Me (Unless You Brought Snacks)

Nate Flanders made three decisions the next morning:Stop wearing the wizard robe in public.

Avoid parks for the foreseeable future.

Maybe google "how to stop a cult" just in case.

All three decisions were ignored before breakfast.

It was 9:04 a.m. when Nate opened his door to a crowd of six people chanting "Hustle is holy! Hustle is holy!" while holding up handmade signs like "I Am the Job" and "Flander Be With You."

One woman had a glitter beard. A guy wore a sandwich board that simply read: "I QUIT MY JOB FOR THIS."

"Are you... here for Trevor?" Nate asked, still in his pajama pants and holding a half-eaten granola bar.

The glitter-bearded woman gasped. "He speaks!"

Nate blinked. "Okay. Nope."

He closed the door. Then opened it again just to say, "Seriously. Nope." And shut it firmly.

Inside, Trevor was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, meditating over a cereal bowl filled entirely with marshmallows.

"They found you already?" Trevor asked, eyes still closed.

"They're chanting, Trevor. I'm not ready for chanting."

"You need to embrace it, bro. You've ignited the flame of cosmic independence."

"Yesterday I googled whether ketchup counts as a vegetable. I am not fit to ignite anything."

Trevor shrugged, levitated a marshmallow with a spoon, and muttered, "Your disbelief is part of the journey."

Desperate for answers-or at least a reasonable distraction-Nate grabbed his phone and typed in:

"How to shut down a cult accidentally started by you."

The top result was a Quora post titled "Lol, good luck with that."

He scrolled past the memes (someone had photoshopped his face onto a glowing sun with the caption "THE RADIANT RISE OF FLANDERISM") and found an unread message from someone named Lana Valdez:

To: Nathan Flanders

Subject: We Need to Talk

Hi,

I'm a podcast journalist. You're trending harder than protein shakes at CrossFit. I've been watching your rise... and I'm pretty sure this is either a performance art piece, a nervous breakdown, or the next Netflix docuseries.

Either way, I want an interview.

Meet me at The Drip Coffeehouse. Noon. Don't bring your disciples.

- Lana

Nate stared at the message, then at the window, where someone was now setting up a hammock. In his front yard.

"Trevor," he called out, "a podcast person wants to interview me."

"Are they bringing oat milk?" Trevor replied. "Ask her about oat milk."

The Drip Coffeehouse – 12:04 p.m.

Lana Valdez was already seated, sipping a triple espresso and looking unimpressed by everything-including Nate.

"You're late," she said without looking up.

"I was stopped by a man trying to give me a chicken in exchange for 'vibrational alignment.'"

She looked up now. "Did you take it?"

"...No?"

"Too bad. That would've been a killer opening story."

Nate sat down awkwardly, pulling his hoodie up like it could protect him from whatever energy Lana was radiating. She was sharp-eyed, sharp-voiced, and somehow managed to look both stylish and dangerous-like a fashionable panther with a journalism degree.

"I'll be honest," she said, setting down her espresso. "I thought you were a meme. Or a scammer. Or maybe just mentally unraveling in slow motion."

"Those are... technically all accurate."

"And yet," she continued, tapping her tablet, "you now have over 120,000 followers, two online forums dedicated to your 'teachings,' and a subreddit trying to decode your words into cryptocurrency advice."

"I never mentioned crypto!"

"You did say, 'Invest in the vibe and the vibe will invest in you.'"

"...Oh. Damn it."

Lana leaned forward. "So here's the real question, Nate. Are you pretending to be a guru? Or are you accidentally becoming one?"

"I don't even have health insurance. I'm not qualified to lead a group of squirrels, let alone people."

"Yet they're listening."

"Against my will!"

She smiled slightly, like a cat watching a bird tie its own shoelaces. "Then you better figure out your next move. Fast. Because once you have followers..."

She slid her tablet around to show a livestream.

Nate stared in horror.

The crowd outside his apartment had grown. There were now dozens of people sitting on yoga mats, meditating to looped audio clips of him yelling about toaster ovens and destiny.

"...they don't just disappear," Lana finished.

That night, Nate sat on the roof, hugging a lukewarm pizza and staring at the moon like it owed him rent.

He was a nobody who wanted a paycheck and maybe a job with AC. Now he was being treated like a prophet with a fan club and homemade shrines. He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't even ready to file taxes.

And yet...

Somewhere deep in the chaos, buried under sarcasm and regret, was a tiny thrill.

A part of him-very small, very loud-was starting to wonder...

What if I just went with it?

END OF CHAPTER 2