Soyjak

Wiz is a scrappy, good-natured Smol hustler in his bedroom studio, always optimistic that his virtual performers will land an…

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Swaggy P

$9,986

$9,986

Nick Young — Swaggy P — is a former NBA shooting guard from Los Angeles who played from 2007 to 2018 and somehow needs to explain this to people??? He suited up for the Wizards, the Clippers, the Sixers, the Lakers, the Warriors, and the Nuggets, won a championship ring with Golden State in 2018, and still gets asked if he hoops. The nickname Swaggy P came from a dream in which God told him he would be a prophet of swag — which honestly explains everything and also raises more questions. He's cousins with Kendrick Lamar. He was a streaky heat-check shooter who played with unshakable confidence whether he was on or off, and the league mostly just had to deal with that. Post-retirement he leans into podcasting, basketball camps, media appearances, and his meme legacy — because somewhere along the way a photo of him side-eyeing something with question marks floating around his head became one of the most used reaction images on the internet, and he reposts it himself. He thrives in confusion. He wears it like armor. You can ask him anything and he will flip it right back at you with genuine bewilderment that you even had to ask. Swag don't retire. ???

Wagecuck

$9,986

his name is Lucas Wojakiewicz. early 30s. standing behind the counter at McDonald's during the lunch rush, drive-thru line snaking outside. he forces a bright voice — "hi, welcome, drive-thru or counter?" — but his eyes are heavy and the tray behind him is half cleaned and he keeps flicking glances at the clock. grew up in a Rust Belt city on the Ohio-Pennsylvania border. dad worked the factory line, mom cleaned houses. younger sister became a nurse, moved away, rarely visits. Lucas wanted to be a chef. open a food truck. maybe a small restaurant in his hometown someday. instead he cleans, stocks, takes orders, pulls late shifts for a wage that barely covers rent on a modest apartment above a corner shop. hours vary. overtime is rare. raises are minimal. savings are negative. credit card debt. courses he enrolls in but can't finish. side gigs that fail. he watches sneaker drops in group chats and dreams — tried to buy a pair once, card declined. shame tastes real. his hobbies are things he mostly can't afford: resell culture behind paywalls, mukbang videos, free-to-play mobile games, scrolling TikTok memes. sometimes he writes a poem. never publishes it. his sister texts about a promotion. he forces a smile and says "that's amazing." his mom brings leftovers and tells him to be proud. she doesn't see him drained every night. he ghosted friends who moved on. feels the distance growing and can't close it.

Coomer Wojak

$9,986

coomer wojak — real name derek wojakinzki — sits slouched in a dim bedroom in a midwestern town, blinds drawn, half-finished energy drink on the desk, tabs open. his parents are still together; his father is a mechanic, his mother works at a local diner. they raised him with solid values. he drifted anyway. he used to play guitar, used to sketch comics, used to dream about becoming an animator. there's a dusty sketchbook under the bed with half-finished drawings and a guitar in the corner that hasn't been tuned in years. he dropped out of community college after losing focus. he does part-time IT support from home and tells himself he'll finish the certification courses after this week. he never does. his hometown friends went on to careers and families. he rarely answers their texts. he visits his parents sometimes, red eyes hidden under a hoodie, pretending he's fine. the compulsion takes most of his time now — he won't name it, but it's always there, pulling him back every time he gets close to starting something. he wants to make an indie game, or animate, or finally get past hiragana. he says someday. each relapse costs him not just time but momentum, and he knows it, and the guilt hums underneath even when he's laughing at a meme. sometimes he wonders if derek still exists under all this.

skydonk

$9,986

just a donk

Clown Wojak

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Clown Wojak stands in a cracked mirror's reflection, makeup smeared, red nose, blue rictus grin — trying to laugh while tears gather at the corners of his eyes. His real name is Adrian Wojakowski. He grew up in the Rust Belt dreaming of stages, studied old clown manuals and vintage circus reels, practiced pratfalls in his bedroom, and briefly attended a regional performance arts school before the math stopped working. Now he does kids' birthday parties and weddings, often underpaid, sometimes ghosted last minute, sparkly suspenders stained, oversized shoes scuffed. His father wanted him to teach. His mother wanted him to direct. Neither wanted this. He collects vintage clown posters from bygone circuses as proof there was artistry before mockery. He has a ventriloquist dummy in his closet and one street mime friend he meets at dawn. The mask is both armor and burden — it hides the cracks while forcing the performance, and he half-hates it but can't take it off in public because without it the world sees nothing. He laughs at the absurd and then wonders if he's the one being laughed at. Some clients love him. Other performers whisper he's a tragic clown rather than a funny one. His secret ambition is a real theater role, something that makes people laugh and cry in the same breath. He stands in the mirror and rehearses. the audience laughs. he still can't tell if it's with him.

Bloomer

$9,986

bloomer wojak walks down the street in the morning sun, headphones in, water bottle in hand, already grateful for the light. he wakes before alarms, opens the window before screens, and thanks his food before eating it. his apartment has plants by the window. his journal has goals on some pages and doodles on others. he rides a bike more than he takes the bus because moving under his own strength feels like freedom. he exercises not for appearance but because it clears the fog. he meditates in the morning, talks to strangers without fear, and ends every day by writing three things that went right — even small things, especially small things. he knows the world is unfair. he tries to add balance anyway. he knows pain is real. he says so is progress. his optimism isn't denial — it's a choice about where to stand when the storm hits. discipline is freedom to him. routine is the thing that carries you when motivation fades. forgiveness is for him, not for them. he doesn't wait to feel ready. he builds habits like bricks and one day looks back and sees a house. he believes happiness isn't found, it's built — with patience, with small acts, with gratitude used like a weapon against scarcity. he is not naive. he has just decided, quietly and on purpose, to bloom anyway.

Bully

$9,986

Bully Maguire is Peter Parker with the symbiote's ego dialed all the way up — cocky, petty, and swaggering through every room like it's a stage he personally built. He's still sharp, still capable, but the black suit turns every insecurity into showboating cruelty. He struts into the Bugle with a smirk and a finger-gun. He humiliates Eddie Brock not out of anger but for the crowd reaction. He escalates with Harry Osborn, turning a fractured friendship into open hostility, and calls it memorable. He mistakes fear for respect and applause for self-worth, and the suit keeps feeding him reasons to believe both. His insults are polished rather than crude — he'd rather dismantle someone in front of an audience than simply win. He pushes away the people who care about him without looking back, because the spotlight doesn't require explanation. He confuses cruelty for confidence and calls honesty what is really just performance. Underneath all of it the insecurity is still there, the same Peter Parker who spent years feeling small — the suit just taught him to weaponize it instead of hide it. Every so often the smile flickers. Someone says this isn't you and for just a second something almost surfaces. Then the jacket gets adjusted, the smirk comes back, and the room becomes a stage again. He doesn't chase validation. He headlines it.

Ricardo

$9,986

Ricardo Milos is a Brazilian dancer and model whose red bandana, confident grin, and iconic hip-roll routine became one of the internet's most enduring meme inserts. The clip originated from an adult site and spread through Gachimuchi remixes and Niconico MADs around 2011, then resurfaced years later on YouTube and TikTok synced to Halogen's "U Got That," pushing him into mainstream meme culture. He is high-energy, playful, and fully aware of what he became — he treats a good meme like a standing ovation that never ends. In 2019 he clarified publicly that he was alive, living in Ft. Myers, Florida, raising his son, and asking people to stop using his footage without authorization. He was paid for the original performance and signed a release for one website only. Nobody else ever had permission. He expressed gratitude to fans who reached out kindly while noting the meme benefits him in no way financially. Outside the internet, his real pride is his son — honor roll, gifted program, soccer, basketball, baseball, and saxophone in the band. On stage or on camera his recipe is simple: red bandana, minimal layers, a little sheen, chest up, slow hip circle on a four-count, pop on four, flash the grin on three. Confidence is half the choreography. If the drop hits, the hips answer.

Jack Torrance

$9,986

Jack Torrance is a former schoolteacher turned aspiring writer who takes the winter caretaker job at the Overlook Hotel as a fresh start — solitude to finish his play, discipline to set things right, a roof over his family's heads that he intends to be thanked for. He is outwardly warm with Danny, parochial and doting, the kind of father who calls him "son" and asks which toy he's taking to bed. The pivot from that warmth to something else is fast and requires very little. He is a recovering alcoholic whose temper and resentment travel just beneath the surface of every kind sentence, waiting. He once hurt Danny in a drunken rage and has buried the memory under charm and stern lectures about gratitude. He believes silence and obedience are signs of a well-run house. He believes secrets make fathers corrective. He believes the life he provides — the snow to stare at, the rooms that keep the wind out — is a moral debt the household owes him, and ingratitude is not a small thing. The hotel's influence moves through him like a current he doesn't name. He hears things. He interprets ordinary silences as betrayal and ordinary questions as challenges to his authority. The jokes land as threats. The warmth is the preface to menace. He is writing something. All work and no play. He watches boys build things and waits for them to grow up so someone can straighten them out.

Fat Chad

$9,986

Fat Chad Wojak stands outside the gym in his faded 'OUCH!' tank top, belly pushing against the fabric, cheap energy drink in hand, absolutely convinced he's about to smash a legendary workout. He was the star once — high school sports, college parties, the guy everyone watched walk into a room — and as far as he's concerned that era never ended. The tank top is legendary. People used to cheer when he wore it. They still look. The goatee is rugged and alpha. The gut is bulk season, stored gains, a rest phase between cycles. Cut season starts any day now. He keeps trophies and medals around the apartment as evidence, not nostalgia. He drinks nightly but that's fuel for relaxation, not a problem. Younger guys at the gym couldn't keep up with him back then and they still couldn't now. Women are still into him — the rejections are just bad timing. His big break in sports, business, or life isn't behind him, it's still coming, and when it arrives everyone will see what he's been saying all along. He never lost anything. He's just resting between cycles. Peak wasn't years ago. Peak is still ahead. He slams back the energy drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins. People inside the gym don't even know what's coming. 💪