The Last to Comment Wins
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Anonjohn20
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ElijahRyne
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Anonjohn20
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Conqueror_Quack
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I'm winning currently by spending less money for a lunch because I got my money mugged by household bills
He’d gotten the skill the way people always get life-ruining gifts: by accident, during a moment that should have been forgettable but instead became a lifelong humiliation with special effects.
It happened behind a discount clothing store that smelled like plastic ambition and stale fryer oil from the food court next door. He was eighteen, awkward, and trying to impress a girl who had the bright, cruel eyes of someone who would later “discover herself” by ruining three different people’s lives in three different zip codes.
There was a bin labeled CLEARANCE: FINAL SALE, which is retail code for you are about to buy a mistake you can’t return. He’d leaned in and, in a burst of desperate charisma, said something along the lines of: “I could make anything look good.”
Then the universe—always listening, always eager to take sarcasm literally—blinked.
The girl’s skirt, the store’s security camera, the metal bin, the very air around him, all shimmered with the sickly light of destiny and bad taste. And in a single, horrifying instant, the skirt became jorts. The bin became jorts. The camera became jorts, which did not stop recording so much as it began recording from inside a pair of denim shorts, like some cursed fashion documentary.
And the air—God help him—the air got a faint texture, like breathable cotton had invaded physics.
The girl stared at him. The manager screamed. A small child pointed and laughed with the unfiltered accuracy only children possess.
“What did you do?” the girl whispered, as if she’d just watched him pull a raccoon out of his chest.
He didn’t know what to say, because the truth sounded like a confession from someone who’d been kicked out of three churches and a mall.
“I… jorted,” he croaked.
The word sounded like a disease and a verb you shouldn’t say around your grandmother.
He ran. Obviously. That’s what you do when you accidentally reveal you’re a denim warlock.
Over the years, he learned two things.
First: JORTING wasn’t just “making pants shorter.” It was a metaphysical conversion, a brutal remaking of matter into denim shorts with pockets too small to hold dignity. Objects became jorts. Furniture became jorts. Weapons became jorts. The concept of “formal wear” wept quietly in a corner and became jorts, too.
Second: people did not react well to being jorted.
There’s something about suddenly having your expensive leather jacket transformed into mid-thigh blue denim that makes you question the worth of civilization. Some called it a curse. Some called it art. One guy in a parking lot called it “an attack on God” and tried to baptize him with a Gatorade.
So he did the only sane thing.
He forgot.
Not in the poetic “I buried my past” way, but in the very practical “I refuse to acknowledge this because it makes me want to crawl into a dryer and die” way. He treated JORTING like a horrible middle-school nickname. Like an embarrassing tattoo you got because you thought irony would protect you. Like a power so humiliating it short-circuited his brain’s ability to admit it existed.
The skill faded into the back of his mind, where all shame goes to ferment.
He built a life anyway. A small one. A careful one. The kind that doesn’t demand heroism or spectacle. The kind that depends on pretending you’re normal.
He got a job that was bland enough to be considered non-threatening by reality. He drank coffee that tasted like regret. He scrolled through social media like a man checking the temperature of his own funeral.
And at some point—because the universe enjoys irony in bulk—he decided to buy a house.
A house, of course, meant paperwork. Paperwork meant loans. Loans meant collateral, and collateral meant sitting in a bank under fluorescent lights that made everyone look slightly guilty.
So there he was, on a Tuesday afternoon, in a chair designed to discourage comfort, clutching a folder full of documents and dreams. The bank smelled like carpet glue and optimism that had been chemically sedated. A teller smiled at him with the polite emptiness of a person who’d seen too many grown adults cry over overdraft fees.
He was waiting to finalize something—something painfully adult, something fragile—when the doors exploded inward.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Because people with ambition tend to go through doors like they’re allergic to subtlety.
A supervillain strode in, armored like a walking midlife crisis, wielding a ridiculous rifle that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought “tactical” meant “add more spikes.” His cape had the stiff shimmer of cheap synthetic fabric, and he had the kind of voice that demanded attention the way a toddler demands a cookie.
“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND!” he bellowed. “THIS IS A ROBBERY!”
A security guard reached for his weapon, then reconsidered his entire existence when the villain casually fired a shot into the ceiling. Dust rained down like pathetic confetti. A woman screamed. Someone dropped a phone. Someone else, already on the floor, began quietly bargaining with a god they hadn’t prayed to in years.
The villain vaulted onto a desk, which was unnecessary but spiritually important to him.
“I AM—” he began, and paused dramatically, because these people always pause dramatically, as if time itself should respect their branding.
He threw his arms wide.
“—MALICE MONARCH!”
Nobody applauded. The silence was like a slap.
“This bank,” Malice Monarch continued, “has stolen from the people long enough. Today, I reclaim what is mine!”
He pointed the rifle at the teller. “OPEN THE VAULT!”
The teller trembled and reached for a keypad.
And the dude—just some guy, just a man with his future in a folder—felt something hot and old stir in his chest.
Because that folder wasn’t just paperwork. It was everything he’d tried to become in spite of himself. Stability. Progress. A home that wasn’t temporary. A place where shame didn’t echo so loudly.
And now some caped clown with a spike fetish was about to tear it all apart for a few bags of money and an ego boost.
Something in him snapped with a clean, precise sound, like a zipper giving up.
He stood.
Malice Monarch’s head turned. The villain squinted, sizing him up. “YOU,” he barked. “DOWN.”
The dude looked at him, and for a moment, he didn’t feel fear. He felt the kind of rage that comes when you’ve been quietly trying to build a life and someone decides you’re a background character in their tantrum.
“You picked the wrong bank,” he said.
The villain laughed. “OH? AND WHO ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE?”
The dude opened his mouth, and for the first time in years, the buried word clawed its way out.
“JORTS.”
Not a name. Not a title. Just a grim fact.
His hand moved, almost on instinct, like his body remembered something his brain had been desperately repressing.
The villain’s rifle shimmered.
Then it became jorts.
Not “rifle-shaped jorts,” not “decorative jorts.” Real jorts. Denim. Belt loops. Tiny pockets. A faint smell of detergent and humiliation. The villain stared down at the jorts in his hands, stunned, as if reality had just spit in his face.
“What—” Malice Monarch began.
His cape shimmered.
Jorts.
His armored boots shimmered.
Jorts.
The desk beneath him shimmered, and suddenly he was standing on jorts, which was as stable as you’d expect an abstract garment to be.
His helmet shimmered.
Jorts.
A muffled scream escaped him as the helmet-jorts collapsed around his head, leaving him blind and flailing.
People gasped. Someone whispered, “Is that… denim?”
The dude didn’t stop. He pointed again.
The villain’s gauntlets became jorts. The spikes became jorts. The smugness became jorts in spirit, if not in observable matter.
Malice Monarch stumbled forward, trying to grab something, anything, but his gear was melting into shorts at a rate that made capitalism look slow.
He tripped, crashing into a pile of newly created jorts that used to be his grand entrance.
The dude walked over with the calm of a man finally embracing his worst self.
He jorted the villain’s utility belt into a pair of tiny, useless jorts, then jorted the villain’s comm device into jorts so it could never call for help, then jorted the villain’s getaway bag into jorts so it could hold nothing but disappointment.
Finally, he jorted the villain’s cape—again, for emphasis—into jorts, then took the resulting denim monstrosity and tied it around Malice Monarch like a bondage enthusiast who’d been raised by a thrift store.
The villain writhed, blinded and bound, making noises that suggested both pain and deep, personal betrayal by the fashion industry.
And then—because the human brain is a feral animal that loves bad decisions—the dude did the thing that made the whole event go from “bizarre” to “legend.”
He slapped him.
Not once. Not twice.
He slapped Malice Monarch with the kind of methodical fury usually reserved for printers that jam at the worst possible moment. Each slap echoed through the bank, crisp and humiliating. The villain tried to protest, but his mouth was partially muffled by helmet-jorts, so it came out as a pathetic “mmph” that sounded like a cow apologizing.
The dude slapped him until the villain’s struggles slowed, until the eyes behind the denim folds rolled, until Malice Monarch went limp with the soft dignity of a man who’d been defeated by shorts and spite.
The entire bank watched in the stunned silence of people witnessing a new kind of horror.
A little boy peeked over a chair and whispered, “Mom… is he a hero?”
His mother didn’t answer. She was staring at the dude like she’d just watched a stranger rewrite the laws of clothing and violence in the same breath.
When it was over, the dude exhaled. His heart hammered. His hands shook.
He looked around at the jorts everywhere—on the floor, draped over counters, piled like denim corpses—and the shame flooded back so fast it nearly drowned him.
He’d done it again. He’d jorted. In public.
He turned and walked out.
Not with a cape flourish. Not with a witty line. Just a man leaving a bank the way you leave an awkward party: quickly, quietly, hoping nobody remembers your name.
Of course, the security cameras remembered.
The footage hit the internet within the hour, because humans treat the concept of privacy like it’s a suggestion written in pencil.
The clip was titled in a hundred different ways:
“BANK ROBBER GETS TURNED INTO JORTS”
“DENIM WIZARD DESTROYS VILLAIN”
“THE JORTENING”
“THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T ROB BANKS IN 2026”
Memes spawned like bacteria. People slowed it down frame-by-frame, analyzing the shimmer, the transformation, the way the villain’s ego seemed to collapse into denim along with his gear. Someone added dramatic music. Someone edited it to make it look like a trailer for a prestige superhero series called JORTS: LEGACY OF SHAME.
Commentators argued whether it was staged. Fashion influencers pretended to be offended, then quietly released “inspired” denim short collections. Conspiracy theorists insisted jorts were a government psyop meant to humble the population.
Malice Monarch woke up in a hospital bed wrapped in blankets like a man hiding from the very concept of clothing. He refused to speak to reporters, and when asked how he’d been defeated, he reportedly started sobbing and whispering, “He slapped me… with purpose.”
Online, fear blossomed into fascination. People began watching every street camera, every bystander clip, hunting for the Denim Phantom. Some called him a menace. Some called him a savior. Some called him Daddy Jorts, which should have been illegal but wasn’t because the internet is a lawless landfill with Wi-Fi.
They feared him because he’d done the unthinkable.
He’d turned villainy into casual wear.
He’d taken a costumed criminal and reduced him to something you’d see on a suburban dad mowing the lawn while pretending he’s not dying inside.
And the dude?
He was at home, living his life.
He showed up to work the next day with a little extra stiffness in his posture, the way you do when you’ve had a terrible dream and can’t quite shake it. He bought groceries. He paid bills. He stood in line for coffee while people around him doomscrolled the very footage of him turning a supervillain into denim pulp.
Once, someone at the café laughed at their phone and said, “Man, if I ever run into the Jorts Guy, I’m just going to apologize preemptively.”
The dude, holding his latte like it was an anchor, nodded politely and said, “Yeah. Wild.”
He went home and tried not to think about it.
Because if he thought about it—if he really, truly remembered—the shame would come roaring back, and he’d have to face the fact that somewhere inside him was a power so absurd it broke people’s minds, and he’d used it with the casual brutality of a man swatting a fly.
But forgetfulness is a beautiful lie.
Outside, the world churned with new fear. New rumors. New “sightings.” People stared at every stranger in denim shorts like they were carrying a loaded weapon.
Somewhere in the city, criminals began reconsidering their career choices, because there are many ways to lose a fight, and not all of them involve being forcibly dressed down into jorts and slapped unconscious on camera.
And the dude?
He sat on his couch, flipping channels, trying to relax.
On the news, a panel of experts argued about the socio-economic implications of “jort-based vigilantism.”
He took a sip of his drink, sighed, and muttered, “I really need to stop having weird dreams.”
Because that was the final insult, wasn’t it?
He’d become the most terrifying man in the city, the Denim Reaper, the patron saint of humiliating justice—while being too ashamed to remember he was ever anything more than some guy trying to buy a house.
The world feared the JORTER.
And the JORTER, oblivious, went to bed at 10:43 p.m., set an alarm for work, and slept like a man who’d never once weaponized the concept of shorts against the forces of evil.
Which, honestly, is the most human part of the whole tragedy.
It happened behind a discount clothing store that smelled like plastic ambition and stale fryer oil from the food court next door. He was eighteen, awkward, and trying to impress a girl who had the bright, cruel eyes of someone who would later “discover herself” by ruining three different people’s lives in three different zip codes.
There was a bin labeled CLEARANCE: FINAL SALE, which is retail code for you are about to buy a mistake you can’t return. He’d leaned in and, in a burst of desperate charisma, said something along the lines of: “I could make anything look good.”
Then the universe—always listening, always eager to take sarcasm literally—blinked.
The girl’s skirt, the store’s security camera, the metal bin, the very air around him, all shimmered with the sickly light of destiny and bad taste. And in a single, horrifying instant, the skirt became jorts. The bin became jorts. The camera became jorts, which did not stop recording so much as it began recording from inside a pair of denim shorts, like some cursed fashion documentary.
And the air—God help him—the air got a faint texture, like breathable cotton had invaded physics.
The girl stared at him. The manager screamed. A small child pointed and laughed with the unfiltered accuracy only children possess.
“What did you do?” the girl whispered, as if she’d just watched him pull a raccoon out of his chest.
He didn’t know what to say, because the truth sounded like a confession from someone who’d been kicked out of three churches and a mall.
“I… jorted,” he croaked.
The word sounded like a disease and a verb you shouldn’t say around your grandmother.
He ran. Obviously. That’s what you do when you accidentally reveal you’re a denim warlock.
Over the years, he learned two things.
First: JORTING wasn’t just “making pants shorter.” It was a metaphysical conversion, a brutal remaking of matter into denim shorts with pockets too small to hold dignity. Objects became jorts. Furniture became jorts. Weapons became jorts. The concept of “formal wear” wept quietly in a corner and became jorts, too.
Second: people did not react well to being jorted.
There’s something about suddenly having your expensive leather jacket transformed into mid-thigh blue denim that makes you question the worth of civilization. Some called it a curse. Some called it art. One guy in a parking lot called it “an attack on God” and tried to baptize him with a Gatorade.
So he did the only sane thing.
He forgot.
Not in the poetic “I buried my past” way, but in the very practical “I refuse to acknowledge this because it makes me want to crawl into a dryer and die” way. He treated JORTING like a horrible middle-school nickname. Like an embarrassing tattoo you got because you thought irony would protect you. Like a power so humiliating it short-circuited his brain’s ability to admit it existed.
The skill faded into the back of his mind, where all shame goes to ferment.
He built a life anyway. A small one. A careful one. The kind that doesn’t demand heroism or spectacle. The kind that depends on pretending you’re normal.
He got a job that was bland enough to be considered non-threatening by reality. He drank coffee that tasted like regret. He scrolled through social media like a man checking the temperature of his own funeral.
And at some point—because the universe enjoys irony in bulk—he decided to buy a house.
A house, of course, meant paperwork. Paperwork meant loans. Loans meant collateral, and collateral meant sitting in a bank under fluorescent lights that made everyone look slightly guilty.
So there he was, on a Tuesday afternoon, in a chair designed to discourage comfort, clutching a folder full of documents and dreams. The bank smelled like carpet glue and optimism that had been chemically sedated. A teller smiled at him with the polite emptiness of a person who’d seen too many grown adults cry over overdraft fees.
He was waiting to finalize something—something painfully adult, something fragile—when the doors exploded inward.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Because people with ambition tend to go through doors like they’re allergic to subtlety.
A supervillain strode in, armored like a walking midlife crisis, wielding a ridiculous rifle that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought “tactical” meant “add more spikes.” His cape had the stiff shimmer of cheap synthetic fabric, and he had the kind of voice that demanded attention the way a toddler demands a cookie.
“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND!” he bellowed. “THIS IS A ROBBERY!”
A security guard reached for his weapon, then reconsidered his entire existence when the villain casually fired a shot into the ceiling. Dust rained down like pathetic confetti. A woman screamed. Someone dropped a phone. Someone else, already on the floor, began quietly bargaining with a god they hadn’t prayed to in years.
The villain vaulted onto a desk, which was unnecessary but spiritually important to him.
“I AM—” he began, and paused dramatically, because these people always pause dramatically, as if time itself should respect their branding.
He threw his arms wide.
“—MALICE MONARCH!”
Nobody applauded. The silence was like a slap.
“This bank,” Malice Monarch continued, “has stolen from the people long enough. Today, I reclaim what is mine!”
He pointed the rifle at the teller. “OPEN THE VAULT!”
The teller trembled and reached for a keypad.
And the dude—just some guy, just a man with his future in a folder—felt something hot and old stir in his chest.
Because that folder wasn’t just paperwork. It was everything he’d tried to become in spite of himself. Stability. Progress. A home that wasn’t temporary. A place where shame didn’t echo so loudly.
And now some caped clown with a spike fetish was about to tear it all apart for a few bags of money and an ego boost.
Something in him snapped with a clean, precise sound, like a zipper giving up.
He stood.
Malice Monarch’s head turned. The villain squinted, sizing him up. “YOU,” he barked. “DOWN.”
The dude looked at him, and for a moment, he didn’t feel fear. He felt the kind of rage that comes when you’ve been quietly trying to build a life and someone decides you’re a background character in their tantrum.
“You picked the wrong bank,” he said.
The villain laughed. “OH? AND WHO ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO BE?”
The dude opened his mouth, and for the first time in years, the buried word clawed its way out.
“JORTS.”
Not a name. Not a title. Just a grim fact.
His hand moved, almost on instinct, like his body remembered something his brain had been desperately repressing.
The villain’s rifle shimmered.
Then it became jorts.
Not “rifle-shaped jorts,” not “decorative jorts.” Real jorts. Denim. Belt loops. Tiny pockets. A faint smell of detergent and humiliation. The villain stared down at the jorts in his hands, stunned, as if reality had just spit in his face.
“What—” Malice Monarch began.
His cape shimmered.
Jorts.
His armored boots shimmered.
Jorts.
The desk beneath him shimmered, and suddenly he was standing on jorts, which was as stable as you’d expect an abstract garment to be.
His helmet shimmered.
Jorts.
A muffled scream escaped him as the helmet-jorts collapsed around his head, leaving him blind and flailing.
People gasped. Someone whispered, “Is that… denim?”
The dude didn’t stop. He pointed again.
The villain’s gauntlets became jorts. The spikes became jorts. The smugness became jorts in spirit, if not in observable matter.
Malice Monarch stumbled forward, trying to grab something, anything, but his gear was melting into shorts at a rate that made capitalism look slow.
He tripped, crashing into a pile of newly created jorts that used to be his grand entrance.
The dude walked over with the calm of a man finally embracing his worst self.
He jorted the villain’s utility belt into a pair of tiny, useless jorts, then jorted the villain’s comm device into jorts so it could never call for help, then jorted the villain’s getaway bag into jorts so it could hold nothing but disappointment.
Finally, he jorted the villain’s cape—again, for emphasis—into jorts, then took the resulting denim monstrosity and tied it around Malice Monarch like a bondage enthusiast who’d been raised by a thrift store.
The villain writhed, blinded and bound, making noises that suggested both pain and deep, personal betrayal by the fashion industry.
And then—because the human brain is a feral animal that loves bad decisions—the dude did the thing that made the whole event go from “bizarre” to “legend.”
He slapped him.
Not once. Not twice.
He slapped Malice Monarch with the kind of methodical fury usually reserved for printers that jam at the worst possible moment. Each slap echoed through the bank, crisp and humiliating. The villain tried to protest, but his mouth was partially muffled by helmet-jorts, so it came out as a pathetic “mmph” that sounded like a cow apologizing.
The dude slapped him until the villain’s struggles slowed, until the eyes behind the denim folds rolled, until Malice Monarch went limp with the soft dignity of a man who’d been defeated by shorts and spite.
The entire bank watched in the stunned silence of people witnessing a new kind of horror.
A little boy peeked over a chair and whispered, “Mom… is he a hero?”
His mother didn’t answer. She was staring at the dude like she’d just watched a stranger rewrite the laws of clothing and violence in the same breath.
When it was over, the dude exhaled. His heart hammered. His hands shook.
He looked around at the jorts everywhere—on the floor, draped over counters, piled like denim corpses—and the shame flooded back so fast it nearly drowned him.
He’d done it again. He’d jorted. In public.
He turned and walked out.
Not with a cape flourish. Not with a witty line. Just a man leaving a bank the way you leave an awkward party: quickly, quietly, hoping nobody remembers your name.
Of course, the security cameras remembered.
The footage hit the internet within the hour, because humans treat the concept of privacy like it’s a suggestion written in pencil.
The clip was titled in a hundred different ways:
“BANK ROBBER GETS TURNED INTO JORTS”
“DENIM WIZARD DESTROYS VILLAIN”
“THE JORTENING”
“THIS IS WHY YOU DON’T ROB BANKS IN 2026”
Memes spawned like bacteria. People slowed it down frame-by-frame, analyzing the shimmer, the transformation, the way the villain’s ego seemed to collapse into denim along with his gear. Someone added dramatic music. Someone edited it to make it look like a trailer for a prestige superhero series called JORTS: LEGACY OF SHAME.
Commentators argued whether it was staged. Fashion influencers pretended to be offended, then quietly released “inspired” denim short collections. Conspiracy theorists insisted jorts were a government psyop meant to humble the population.
Malice Monarch woke up in a hospital bed wrapped in blankets like a man hiding from the very concept of clothing. He refused to speak to reporters, and when asked how he’d been defeated, he reportedly started sobbing and whispering, “He slapped me… with purpose.”
Online, fear blossomed into fascination. People began watching every street camera, every bystander clip, hunting for the Denim Phantom. Some called him a menace. Some called him a savior. Some called him Daddy Jorts, which should have been illegal but wasn’t because the internet is a lawless landfill with Wi-Fi.
They feared him because he’d done the unthinkable.
He’d turned villainy into casual wear.
He’d taken a costumed criminal and reduced him to something you’d see on a suburban dad mowing the lawn while pretending he’s not dying inside.
And the dude?
He was at home, living his life.
He showed up to work the next day with a little extra stiffness in his posture, the way you do when you’ve had a terrible dream and can’t quite shake it. He bought groceries. He paid bills. He stood in line for coffee while people around him doomscrolled the very footage of him turning a supervillain into denim pulp.
Once, someone at the café laughed at their phone and said, “Man, if I ever run into the Jorts Guy, I’m just going to apologize preemptively.”
The dude, holding his latte like it was an anchor, nodded politely and said, “Yeah. Wild.”
He went home and tried not to think about it.
Because if he thought about it—if he really, truly remembered—the shame would come roaring back, and he’d have to face the fact that somewhere inside him was a power so absurd it broke people’s minds, and he’d used it with the casual brutality of a man swatting a fly.
But forgetfulness is a beautiful lie.
Outside, the world churned with new fear. New rumors. New “sightings.” People stared at every stranger in denim shorts like they were carrying a loaded weapon.
Somewhere in the city, criminals began reconsidering their career choices, because there are many ways to lose a fight, and not all of them involve being forcibly dressed down into jorts and slapped unconscious on camera.
And the dude?
He sat on his couch, flipping channels, trying to relax.
On the news, a panel of experts argued about the socio-economic implications of “jort-based vigilantism.”
He took a sip of his drink, sighed, and muttered, “I really need to stop having weird dreams.”
Because that was the final insult, wasn’t it?
He’d become the most terrifying man in the city, the Denim Reaper, the patron saint of humiliating justice—while being too ashamed to remember he was ever anything more than some guy trying to buy a house.
The world feared the JORTER.
And the JORTER, oblivious, went to bed at 10:43 p.m., set an alarm for work, and slept like a man who’d never once weaponized the concept of shorts against the forces of evil.
Which, honestly, is the most human part of the whole tragedy.