It was another boring day in Maple Grove, the kind of day where the most exciting thing happening was Mrs. Henderson watering her hydrangeas for the third time. That was, until Phonezilla came crashing back into town. This wasn’t just a regular phone; this was a six-foot-tall, cracked-screen menace, complete with a tangled charging cord trailing behind it like the tail of some over-caffeinated beast. Phonezilla had one mission: spread absolute, unapologetic chaos.

Its first stop? The local coffee shop, where Derek—Maple Grove’s most loyal, anxiety-ridden accountant—was waiting for his oat milk latte, checking his stocks on his regular-sized phone. Phonezilla glided right up to him, its cracked screen flickering with static, buzzing with bad intentions.

“Hey, Derek!” Phonezilla’s robotic voice rang out, way too loud for the sleepy cafe. “You know what’d really spice up your life? Dump all your money into cryptocurrency. All of it. Bitcoin, baby! Go all in. You’ll be a fucking millionaire by next week.”

Derek blinked, eyes wide with panic. “I—I don’t think that’s—”

“Don’t be such a goddamn coward,” Phonezilla cut him off, nearly short-circuiting with excitement. “The market’s never gonna crash! It’s foolproof. Dump your savings right now or live the rest of your pathetic life wondering what could have been.”

Derek, sweating profusely, pulled out his phone and began tapping furiously. “I’m doing it… Oh God, I’m doing it…”

Phonezilla cackled, watching Derek’s life slowly unravel. But it didn’t stick around to see the fallout—it had bigger fish to fry.

It strolled down the street, spotting a group of kids setting up a lemonade stand. The children, blissfully unaware of the hellstorm about to descend on them, smiled at their janky sign that read "50¢ Lemonade." Phonezilla rolled right up to them, charging cord whipping through the air.

“Hey kids, wanna make some real money? Forget this 50-cent crap—jack that price up to 50 bucks a cup. Yeah, that’s right! People love expensive bullshit. Tell ‘em it’s artisanal. Say it’s hand-squeezed by virgins or some other nonsense. Trust me, rich folks eat that shit up.”

One of the kids squinted at Phonezilla. “But… it’s just regular lemonade.”

“That’s the fucking point!” Phonezilla buzzed, practically vibrating with evil energy. “People don’t care! As long as it’s expensive, they’ll think it’s fancy. Do it! Scam them before they scam you!”

The kids hesitated but started scribbling new prices on their sign, dollar signs in their eyes. Phonezilla, pleased with its handiwork, strutted away, the scent of pure chaos trailing behind it.

Next up: the park, where Nancy and Bob—Maple Grove’s favorite retired couple—were enjoying their afternoon stroll. They were hand in hand, blissfully discussing how peaceful retirement was. Phonezilla zipped right in front of them, blocking their path with a mischievous glint on its cracked screen.

“Nancy! Bob!” it yelled, its voice booming through the park. “You know what’d really spice things up? Why don’t you two sell everything you own and buy a goddamn yacht? Sail the world! Live on the edge! Who cares if you can’t afford it—credit cards exist for a reason. Go big or go home, am I right?”

Nancy gasped, clutching Bob’s arm. “A yacht? At our age?”

“Hell yeah, a yacht!” Phonezilla screeched, its charging cord whipping around like a lunatic’s lasso. “Live a little! You’re retired—what else are you gonna do, watch reruns of ‘Wheel of Fortune’ until you kick the bucket? Fuck that. You could be sailing the Caribbean, drinking Mai Tais, living like pirate royalty.”

Bob, always the practical one, shook his head. “We could never afford—”

“Shut up, Bob! Live dangerously for once in your boring-ass life!” Phonezilla bellowed. “What’s a little bankruptcy compared to freedom, huh? YOLO, motherfuckers!”

Nancy, wide-eyed and clearly influenced by Phonezilla’s energy, started whispering to Bob. “Maybe… maybe it’s time we did something crazy, Bob. I’ve always wanted to see the Caribbean…”

Phonezilla, smug as ever, watched as Bob pulled out his phone, ready to look up yacht prices. The phone buzzed with glee, knowing it had planted another seed of chaos.

But Phonezilla’s day wasn’t over yet. It still had one last victim in its sights—Mayor Richards. The mayor was in his office, planning his re-election campaign, when Phonezilla crashed through the door.

“Mayor! You know what’d guarantee you win this election? A scandal! Nothing gets you more attention than some fucked-up controversy!”

The mayor looked up from his desk, confused. “A… scandal? That seems counterproductive.”

“No, no, no!” Phonezilla insisted, flickering wildly. “Think big. Get caught up in something ridiculous. Maybe embezzle some funds or start a scandal about llamas. People love llamas. It’s all about publicity, baby. They’ll talk about you nonstop, and that’s how you win. People don’t care about boring-ass platforms—they care about drama!”

Mayor Richards rubbed his temples. “I don’t think that’s how politics works…”

“Trust me,” Phonezilla hissed, its screen flashing manically. “It always works.”

And with that, Phonezilla strutted out of the office, leaving Mayor Richards pondering what the hell just happened.

As the sun set over Maple Grove, Phonezilla’s trail of chaos stretched far and wide. Financial ruin, scammed lemonade drinkers, retirees about to buy yachts, and a mayor contemplating a llama scandal—it was all in a day’s work for the cracked-screen menace. Phonezilla, its mission of disorder fulfilled for the day, buzzed with satisfaction as it disappeared into the night, ready to wreak havoc in some other poor town.