By Mike

The day began with a tremor in the Matrix.

Carl awoke to find his wife, Jennifer, enthusiastically riding him like a rodeo cowgirl with unresolved daddy issues hopped up on Red Bull.

“Up, down, up, down,” she whispered, as if possessed by the ghost of a horny gym teacher.

Carl loved morning sex the way raccoons love unsecured trash bins, but Jennifer was usually allergic to all forms of sunrise friction. Her libido typically slept in protected with a sleep mask and noise-canceling headphones. But not today. Today, she attacked Carl like he owed her money—and she was collecting in sweat.

“Okay,” Carl thought, mid-thrust, “either I’m still dreaming, or I’ve been swapped into a parallel universe where I matter.”

Then came the waffles.

Real waffles. Crispy edges. Deep, syrup-soaked craters. Hand-crafted by Jennifer, who usually treated the kitchen like it was haunted.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked between bites, mouth sticky with maple ecstasy.

“No reason,” she said. “You deserve waffles, Carl. I love you.”

The sentence hit Carl’s ears like a unicorn burping confetti.

Fully charged he floated to work in his 2021 Honda Prelude – an aging practical warhorse with more rattles than a baby convention – and caught every green light like he was the protagonist in a driving simulator coded by angels.

Carl worked at Amalgamated United Aglet Corp., makers of shoelace tips and low-level existential dread, where he’d toiled for 13 years as the Under-Assistant West Coast Promotion Man. It was a title that sounded important but was about as influential as a paperclip at a board meeting.

In the elevator, just before the doors slid shut like a banker’s smile, in stepped his boss, Richard Nubb. A man so stiff he could’ve been taxidermied years ago without anyone noticing.

“Morning, Richard,” chirped Carl with the cheer of a man who believed in good karma.

“Mmm,” replied Nubb, which might have meant “Good morning” or “I hope your spleen explodes.” Then he muttered without eye contact, “Oh Carl, swing by my office in fifteen. Don’t be late.”

Carl felt a small rent beginning in his good-day bubble. Richard never called meetings unless someone was about to be metaphorically dismembered before they were canned.

Surprisingly, as Carl entered Richard’s office, something unexpected happened: Nubb smiled. A, full-teeth, borderline-human smile.

“Congratulations,” Nubb said. “You’ve been promoted. The boys upstairs are making you Vice President of Corporate Philosophy. Comes with a fat raise too.”

Carl blinked. Once. Twice. Then pinched himself until it hurt like a cut.

Nubb extended his hand like a man signing a pact with the devil.

“Way to go, champ!”

Carl left the office like a man who’s last three lifetimes of suffering had finally paid out in spiritual casino chips. Elated, just as he was about to call Jennifer his phone buzzed. It was her.

“Carl!” she shouted, “You won! Publisher’s Clearing House showed up with a check for a hundred thousand bucks! YOUR name is on it!”

Carl’s eyebrows shot up so far, they briefly left orbit.

“Come home early,” Jennifer purred. “We’re celebrating.”

By 3:00, Carl was cruising home in a cloud of triumph and serotonin, when the fuel light blinked on like a needy child. He pulled into a Chevron grinning like a cartoon billionaire and started pumping gas.

That’s when his intestines sent a group text to his pain receptors: EMERGENCY. CODE BROWN. A deep, twisting pressure bloomed in his bowels, like a python made of lava doing yoga inside him. He dropped his pants with the urgency of a man escaping a flaming jumpsuit, just as reality folded in on itself.

FWAP.

A burst of wind.

FWAP, FWAP.

“OH MY GOD,” screamed a woman at pump six. “That man is giving birth to monkeys!”

Carl turned.

Out of his bare posterior, one by one, a squadron of winged monkeys flew emerged flapping, shrieking, and slapping each other like caffeinated toddlers at a trampoline park.

One paused midair to give Carl a tiny thumbs-up before disappearing into the clouds.

Carl, pants around his ankles, stared into the gasoline-scented sky.

And finally, he understood – there is always a price to pay in life – even for the good stuff.