How to Accidentally start a Cult

Chapter 1: The Rant That Started It All

If Nate Flanders had known that his impromptu speech about "vibrational hustle alignment" would go viral, he would've at least zipped up his wizard robe.

To be fair, the robe was comfortable. And technically, it wasn't even his-it belonged to his ex-girlfriend's dog, repurposed into a makeshift outfit for Magic & Muffins Mondays, a forgotten side hustle that once combined street magic with baked goods. It tanked, naturally. Muffins got soggy. Doves escaped.

But now, here he was, standing on top of an overturned recycling bin in Lincoln Park, waving a coffee-stained wand and preaching nonsense to a group of six bored joggers and a guy eating peanuts directly from his hoodie pocket.

"Listen!" Nate shouted, adjusting his crooked wizard hat like it was a crown. "You've been conditioned to believe you're ordinary! But you're not. You're a goddamn spiritual Roomba! You absorb dirt, you make noise, you occasionally get stuck under the couch of society-but you keep going!"

A man clapped. Ironically, or perhaps out of confusion. A pigeon landed on Nate's shoulder, looked him dead in the eye, and then pooped down his back.

He didn't stop.

"You don't need a job. You are the job. You are the hustle. Hustle is not something you do-it's something you are! Wake up! Embrace the grind! Be your own MLM scheme!"

The peanut hoodie guy wept. Actual tears.

Someone else-a teen filming for TikTok-whispered, "This dude's spitting facts," right as Nate tripped over a yoga mat and landed flat on his back, limbs splayed like a starfish doing taxes.

And just like that, the universe clicked.

📱 The video got uploaded.

🎶 Someone remixed it with a trap beat.

💻 Reddit declared him "The Wizard of Woke."

📈 And within 48 hours, the #Flanderism hashtag had 3.6 million views, two fan art tributes, and a disturbing number of shirtless followers declaring "THE TRUTH IS IN THE VIBES."

Nate didn't know any of this the next morning. He woke up on his friend Trevor's couch-having been evicted three weeks ago after an incident involving expired lasagna, a raccoon, and one unfortunate smoke alarm-and checked his phone with the resigned dread of someone waiting for bad news from a dentist or their ex.

What he got instead was a barrage of text messages.Mom: "Nathan, are you leading a cult? Please say no. Also your uncle wants in."

Ex-Girlfriend: "Can I have the robe back? Mr. Wiggles misses it."

Unknown Number: "I have 47,000 followers. You're my god now."

He blinked. Sat up. Squinted at the screen like it had personally offended him.

Then he opened Instagram.

And screamed.

His face-still mid-pigeon-poop speech-was now on mugs, T-shirts, and a neon poster that read "WAKE UP, YOU MAGICAL BISCUIT."

Back in Lincoln Park, things had gotten weird. Someone had erected a cardboard shrine. There were candles, glitter, a bowl of Funyuns, and a plaque that read:

"Here Spake the Flander."

"Trevor," Nate whispered later that day, clutching a lukewarm Pop-Tart, "I think I accidentally became a spiritual leader."

Trevor, a conspiracy-loving DJ who lived in a converted van and had once claimed to be allergic to clouds, just nodded. "Yeah, bro. I felt your energy shift yesterday. Like... you leveled up. Ascended. Hit Guru 2.0."

"I fell on a yoga mat and got poop in my hair."

"Exactly," Trevor said, with alarming sincerity. "Symbolic rebirth."

Nate buried his face in his hands. "This isn't happening."

"It is. You can either fight it... or monetize it."

By 5 p.m., his new follower count was 83,000.

By 9 p.m., a woman claiming to be "a prophet of the future vibes" offered him a speaking gig in San Francisco.

By midnight, someone tagged his location with the words: "Enlightenment Zone: Approach Barefoot."

And Nate Flanders-unemployed, under-showered, and wearing a dog robe-realized something terrifying.

He had no idea how to stop this.

And worse?

Part of him... didn't want to.

END OF CHAPTER 1

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

Chapter 3: Enlightenment Now Comes in a Reusable Tote Bag

By the next morning, things had escalated to alarming levels of organized enthusiasm.

Nate hadn't even opened his eyes when Trevor stormed into the living room holding a beige tote bag like it was the Holy Grail.

"They made merch, bro!"

Nate, still horizontal, face mashed into a couch cushion, grunted. "That better be filled with croissants."

"No, man-look!" Trevor flipped the tote bag around with dramatic flair. In bold purple letters, it read:

"WWNFD? (What Would Nate Flanders Do?)"

Wake up. Be the job. Hug a stranger. Repeat.

Beneath the quote was an image of Nate's face-specifically the frame where he was mid-sneeze and yelling something about spiritual tacos.

"Why am I sneezing?" Nate mumbled, still not fully conscious.

"That's the logo, dude. People think it's symbolic. Like, the sneeze represents rejecting negative energy."

"It represents allergies," Nate groaned, sitting up.

"And get this-someone started a donation page to fund a 'Flanderian Healing Center and Smoothie Temple.'"

"That sounds fake."

Trevor held up his phone. "They've already raised six hundred bucks."

"...That sounds criminal."

Outside, the sidewalk had been overtaken. Folding chairs, tents, and incense sticks as long as baseball bats lined the street like a very confused Renaissance fair. At least three people were meditating around a bowl of guacamole.

As Nate peeked through the blinds, someone spotted him and gasped, "He wakes!"

The crowd erupted in soft clapping.

Not loud applause. Respectful clapping. Like they were congratulating a tree for blooming on time.

Nate backed away slowly. "I can't even pick my own toothpaste brand. I'm not fit to lead these people!"

Trevor patted him on the back. "You didn't choose leadership. Leadership chose you."

"You sound like a fridge magnet."

Trevor beamed. "Thank you."

Later That Day – The Podcast Trap

Lana Valdez's podcast studio was above a donut shop and smelled like ambition, fried sugar, and disappointment.

Nate shifted uncomfortably in his seat across from her, surrounded by ring lights and audio gear that looked way too expensive for a podcast with 2.3 stars on Spotify.

She slid a mic in front of him like she was sliding a confession booth window open. "Today, I want to talk about your origin story."

"You mean when I fell over in a wizard robe and someone misquoted me?"

"Yes." She clicked record. "Let's begin."

🎙️ Podcast Recording: "UNFILTERED: With Lana Valdez" – Episode 108

Title: "The Accidental Prophet: Flanderism and the Cult of Confidence"

Lana: "Joining me today is Nate Flanders. Barista-turned-internet-icon. Welcome to the show."

Nate: "Thanks. It's great to be here. I think. There's a smell in this room that reminds me of childhood trauma, but otherwise-good vibes."

Lana: "You've said some outrageous things. 'Be the hustle.' 'Jobs are a scam invented by jealous ghosts.' What do you say to people who claim your teachings are nonsense?"

Nate: "I say... they're absolutely right. My most insightful quote last week was, 'Drink more water or become dust.' I don't know how I got here. I was just hungry and yelling."

Lana: "So it's all a joke?"

Nate: "It was. Then people showed up with stickers and matching robes. I don't know how to undo it without causing a panic."

Lana: "So what's the plan? Keep leading? Or expose the absurdity from the inside?"

Nate: "Honestly? I was hoping you'd tell me."

After the recording, Lana sat back and studied him. "You know, you're accidentally onto something. People don't want truth. They want certainty. And you give them that. Even if it's dressed in cosmic nonsense and old pizza slogans."

Nate sighed. "It was supposed to be a joke."

"All the best movements start that way."

That Evening – The Assembly of Mildly Confused Believers

Nate stood at the top of the apartment stairs, staring down at a crowd of nearly 200 people who had gathered with candles, glow sticks, and at least one harmonica.

A man named Kevin the Interpretive Dancer was doing what could only be described as an emotional backflip to the sound of ambient whale noises. Someone else was handing out pamphlets titled "Flanderist Principles and Daily Snack Guidance."

Trevor handed Nate a microphone. "They're waiting."

"For what?"

"For guidance."

"I have none."

Trevor shrugged. "Then make it up. You're good at that."

Nate stepped forward. The crowd hushed.

He swallowed hard, raised the mic, and said:

"Greetings. Uh... fellow vibers. Enlightened beings. Folks."

The crowd erupted into cheers.

"Thank you... for being here. For believing in something, even if that something was me slipping on a mat in a dog robe. That shows dedication. Or confusion. Either way-respect."

A woman near the front wept into a reusable Kleenex.

"I don't know where we're going. But I do know one thing: You don't have to have it all figured out to be moving forward. You just need snacks, water, and maybe a backup pair of socks."

Thunderous applause.

"Also-stop tattooing my face on your thighs. Please. That's a lifetime decision."

The crowd dispersed hours later, still humming with joy. People hugged, traded smoothie recipes, and shouted phrases like "May the grind guide you!" into the night air.

Nate collapsed onto the couch and stared at the ceiling. "This is spiraling."

Trevor appeared behind him. "You're a movement now, bro. You might want to pick a doctrine."

"I don't even know how to spell 'doctrine.'"

"You could make it up."

Nate groaned. "...Yeah. Yeah, I probably could."

END OF CHAPTER 3