It was a quiet-as-hell afternoon on Oak Street. The sun was beaming down over the sleepy, boring-ass suburban neighborhood. Everything was fine—until Phonezilla came strutting down the sidewalk like it owned the damn place. This wasn’t just any cell phone—it was Phonezilla, a life-sized, cracked-screen monstrosity with a tangled-up charging cord dragging behind it like a leash, and a vibe that screamed "I’m here to fuck shit up."

Its first victim? Some poor bastard in a suit, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, clinging to his briefcase like it held the last scraps of his soul.

“Hey! Hey, you!” Phonezilla called out, its voice crackling with a robotic edge, but with the charisma of a total asshole. “You look like someone who could use some solid fucking advice. You hate your job, right? I can tell. So, fuck it—quit right now! Text your boss some crazy-ass shit. Tell him you’re done. Say you’re moving to Peru to raise llamas. That’ll really blow his fucking mind.”

The guy blinked, looking at the six-foot-tall phone like he’d lost his damn mind. “I-I can’t just quit like that…”

“Quit being a spineless little bitch!” Phonezilla’s voice rose to an almost glitchy scream. “You hate that soul-sucking job, don’t you? What’s a little financial disaster compared to sweet, sweet freedom, huh? Do it, asshole!”

The man, something deep in his fragile psyche shattered, yanked out his phone and, with trembling fingers, typed out a furious, profanity-laden text to his boss. His eyes went wide the second he hit send.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, staring at the screen. “I actually did it… What the fuck do I do now?”

Phonezilla, practically glowing with satisfaction, smirked (or whatever a phone would do to smirk). “Now you go home, drain your goddamn 401K, and invest every single dime in NFTs of fucking cucumbers. Trust me, the market’s gonna explode.”

The guy staggered away, clutching his briefcase like it could save him, and Phonezilla turned to its next victim—a middle-aged woman sitting on her porch, sipping some iced tea. Her name was Brenda, and she looked like someone who had been living the same dull-ass life for the last twenty years.

“Hey, Brenda!” Phonezilla slid up to her, dragging its janky cord behind like some kind of tech demon. “You should divorce your husband. Barry, right? Yeah, that guy’s probably fucking the deli lady. You know, the one who always gives extra pickles.”

Brenda’s eyes went wide, and she gasped. “Barry would never cheat on me!”

“Oh, yes he would, Brenda,” Phonezilla said, its cracked screen flickering like it was enjoying this shit way too much. “And those extra pickles? They’re a goddamn symbol. Do it, Brenda! Burn the whole fucking thing down. Go on Facebook and post some cryptic shit about ‘new beginnings.’ Get the drama rolling!”

Brenda, her hands shaking with anger, opened her phone and furiously typed a status update.

“Feeling... liberated.”

Her face twisted with anger as she hit ‘post.’

But Phonezilla wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. It zipped away from Brenda’s house, spotting a guy walking down the street with his arms full of groceries. The phone’s cord snaked out, tripping him up and sending a carton of eggs splattering across the pavement.

“Hey, man!” Phonezilla shouted as the guy scrambled to pick up his shit. “You ever think about how funny it’d be to egg your neighbor’s car? Like, really let loose and fuck their day up. You know they deserve it.”

The guy looked confused but intrigued. “I mean… I guess it would be kinda funny.”

“Fuck yes, it would!” Phonezilla yelled, its screen flickering in excitement. “Do it! And after that? Set their goddamn mailbox on fire. You ever burn a mailbox? It’s a fucking rush.”

Without another thought, the guy grabbed the eggs and hurled them at his neighbor’s car. A loud voice immediately erupted from down the street.

“What the hell?!”

Phonezilla cackled maniacally and moved on, leaving egg splatter and chaos in its wake. Its next stop? A group of kids running a lemonade stand. They stared, wide-eyed, as the towering phone loomed over them.

“You kids wanna make some serious money? Jack up the price to twenty bucks a cup. Tell ‘em it’s got essential oils in it. Rich assholes love that kind of crap.”

One of the kids frowned. “But we don’t have any essential oils…”

“That’s the fucking point, kid!” Phonezilla’s voice practically crackled with unhinged energy. “No one gives a shit! You gotta scam ‘em, just like the world’s been scamming you. Start hustling, or you’ll never make it out of this piss-poor suburb!”

Before the kids could even process the shitty life advice, a cop strolled up, eyeing the scene with suspicion.

“What’s going on here?” the officer asked, his hand resting on his belt.

Phonezilla didn’t miss a beat. It zipped right up to him, its screen flickering like it was about to short-circuit with excitement.

“Officer! Have you ever thought about issuing yourself a ticket? Hear me out—you’re so damn good at your job, you should just write yourself up a fat fine for being a goddamn hero. Go on! You’ve earned it.”

The officer blinked, completely dumbfounded. “Uh… I don’t think that’s—”

“YES IT IS!” Phonezilla bellowed, practically vibrating with chaotic glee. “You’re a goddamn legend! Hell, arrest yourself while you’re at it, just for being too fucking good-looking! Flex that authority, baby!”

The officer, confused beyond belief, stared down at his notepad, unsure of what to do. Meanwhile, Phonezilla was already strolling off, leaving a trail of absolute carnage behind it.

As it disappeared down the street, it muttered to itself, “Humans… so fucking easy. Give ‘em one bad idea and BOOM—chaos. What’s next? Maybe I’ll tell someone to fill their pool with spaghetti… yeah, that’ll really fuck ‘em up…”

And with that, Phonezilla wandered off into the sunset, its screen flickering with static, leaving behind a world of broken lives, shattered reputations, and pure, unfiltered chaos, just as it was designed to do.