Steve thought he could outsmart the system. He'd bought a DiGiorno, a Red Baron, and a Tombstone pizza in consecutive weeks, resolutely ignoring the absurd tip cards each one contained. "What are they going to do, really?" he had laughed to himself. But now, standing in his kitchen, he wasn't laughing anymore.
It started with a knock at the door. Steve opened it to find a well-dressed man in a black suit holding a briefcase emblazoned with the DiGiorno logo.
"Mr. Steve," the man said smoothly. "You’ve failed to tip us. We’ve come for Fluffy."
Steve slammed the door, heart racing, and ran to find his cat. But before he could scoop her up, a loud buzzing sound filled the air. He looked out the window to see a swarm of drones, each one bearing the unmistakable red-and-white insignia of Red Baron. They began pelting his house with mini anchovy pizzas, the stench of fish and cheese permeating the air.
"Come out, Steve!" a booming voice blared from a speaker attached to one of the drones. "You can't escape the wrath of the Baron!"
Just as Steve thought it couldn't get worse, his phone buzzed. A text message appeared:
TOMBSTONE HAS DECLARED YOUR PROPERTY A TAPZ. COMPLY WITH OUR TERMS OR FACE CONSEQUENCES.
As if on cue, his power flickered, and the faint sound of a cowbell echoed ominously through the house. Steve checked his Wi-Fi—gone. His phone? Hijacked, now showing nothing but an endless scroll of Tombstone propaganda.
Panicking, Steve tried to call 911, but the DiGiorno man was already inside, somehow, standing calmly in his living room and holding Fluffy in one arm and a pet-sized pepperoni pizza in the other.
"You can still tip," the man said, smiling faintly. "It’s not too late."
Before Steve could respond, a Red Baron drone crashed through the window, narrowly missing the DiGiorno man. A Tombstone pizza box slid under the door like a calling card.
"Enough!" Steve screamed, grabbing a broom and swatting at the drone, sending it spiraling into the DiGiorno man. The chaos escalated as Fluffy leapt from the man’s arms, hissing and clawing her way onto the refrigerator. The cowbell grew louder, the smell of anchovies thicker, and Steve realized he had to act.
He ran to his laptop—thankfully still operational—and pulled up three browser tabs, each one for a tipping portal: DiGiorno, Red Baron, and Tombstone.
"Fine! You win!" he yelled, frantically entering his credit card details and tipping each one a full 50%.
As soon as he clicked "Submit," the madness ceased. The drones retreated, the cowbell stopped, and the DiGiorno man straightened his tie, giving Steve a curt nod before disappearing out the door.
Steve collapsed on the floor, exhausted, as Fluffy padded over and gave him an almost approving nuzzle.
"Never again," Steve muttered, staring at the wreckage of his kitchen. "I'm making my own pizza from now on."
From the shadows of the room, a single Tombstone pizza box slid forward slightly, as if to remind him: We’re always watching.
