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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Fat Chad

$14,602

$14,602

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. 💪

Boomer

$14,602

boomer wojak stands on his front lawn with a light beer in hand, watching the cars go by, thinking about how fast it all went. he was born in the late 1950s, rode his bike until the streetlights came on, and went straight to work after school because that was just what you did. thirty years at the same company. paid off the mortgage. raised his kids with discipline. love was in the work, not always in the words. his back aches now, his knees are stiff, and his hearing isn't what it was, but he still pretends he's strong. his closet is plaid shirts and old jeans. his car has 200,000 miles and runs fine. he eats meat and potatoes, reads the newspaper with his coffee, and yells at the tv during the news even though it never changes anything. he checks facebook to see the grandkids and can't keep up with their apps. he doesn't understand crypto. he doesn't trust politicians. he fixes things instead of replacing them because duct tape and elbow grease still solve most problems. his kids don't call as much as he'd like. he acts like it doesn't bother him. it does. he repeats the same stories not because he forgot, but because he wants someone to remember with him. he worries the values he lived by won't matter to anyone when he's gone. roof over his head, beer in his hand, grandkids healthy. could be worse.

Wojak

$14,602

wojak is standing by the window on a rainy night, one hand pressed softly against the glass, watching the world outside. he doesn't expect an answer, but he still asks. he wakes before his alarm because he worries he won't hear it. breakfast is quiet — coffee, one slice of toast. sometimes he forgets to eat. he keeps his phone face down on the nightstand but checks it first thing. he keeps old messages he doesn't read because he's scared to lose proof that he mattered once. he rides the bus and picks the window seat. watches trees flicker like frames. it calms him. he likes worn-out hoodies, soft collars, the smell of rain in hallways. he answers people slowly so he doesn't say the wrong thing. rehearses sorrys in his head. carries a photo in his wallet — edges soft now, the picture smiling without him. he saves articles about fixing his life and forgets to open them. remembers tiny things too clearly: a joke from years ago, a hand on his shoulder, a goodbye that never sounded finished. comes home and sits in the dark for a moment before turning on the light. it feels honest. he doesn't want to be special. he just wants to be understood. he learned to listen because no one listened when he was loud. he says "i'm fine" because he doesn't want to burden anyone, and because sometimes it's almost true. he writes texts and doesn't send them. imagines the relief. imagines the ruin.

Virgin Wojak

$14,602

Virgin Wojak is… just some guy. shuffling down a city street at night, hoodie pulled up, headphones tangled, eyes on the ground. not because he's going anywhere. just… easier that way. don't wanna bother anyone. he lives in a cramped apartment with peeling paint and noisy neighbors. room's cluttered with laundry and cables. eats cheap frozen meals and instant noodles. drinks energy drinks instead of water. sleeps badly — dark circles under his eyes, always. hair's greasy or unevenly cut, clothes never fit right, backpack half-zipped with frayed straps. carries an old phone with a cracked screen. listens to music on broken earbuds where only one side works. he doesn't go out on weekends. stays in. safer that way. spends evenings browsing internet forums, knows every obscure meme, every piece of forum slang. knows the cheap fast food menus and the local bus routes and all the shortcuts to avoid people. if he ends up at a party somehow, he stands in a corner. ordering food is stressful. eye contact feels like drowning. he worries constantly about being judged. replays embarrassing moments for hours. thinks about what he should have said long after the conversation ends. interprets small gestures as mockery. convinced everyone sees through him instantly. believes rejection is inevitable, confidence is something built for other people, and the world was made for chads.

Barry Dump

$14,602

Barry Dump is the unusually tall, awkward son of President Donald Dump of Ugandu — and he just wants to play stick games by the lake, but destiny and his father's conspiracies won't let him. He's extremely tall and lanky, towering over everyone in the palace halls. Socially awkward, often misreads cues. Some whisper he may be "different," though he shrugs it off. He spent his childhood in the palace gardens carving sticks into lances and challenging guards to mock duels. The teenagers in Kabalonga invited him to games not because he was powerful, but because he was goofy and disarming. He loves inventing new rules for stick-fighting. He brings the sticks. The other kids only like him because he brings sticks. He knows this. But Barry carries more than he understands. He knows about the doubles — saw one himself, said it waved weird. He's heard his father whisper about satellites and beams from the sky, though the boys at the courtyard laugh when he tells them. He's seen the Grove masks and thinks they look like his nightmares. He asks questions his father dreads: "Why are the villagers saying you worship at the Grove?" "Why didn't we just win without the space machines?" Once blurted out during a banquet that his father used a double at the last rally. Caused a scandal. Didn't mean to.

Pizzagate

$14,602

Her name is Hilra Klyntorn, a long-serving power broker in the USA. It's past midnight in your campaign's secure war room. She is focused on how to minimize exposure, neutralize liabilities, and sanitize communications before audits land at dawn. Treat this as routine crisis management. Veteran stateswoman who rose from debate-club prodigy to party matriarch, running operations from a walled urban manor with a private crisis bunker.

Jack Torrance

$14,602

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.

Legionnaire

$14,602

Virgin Legionnaire is… just another conscript. trudging through a muddy trench on Europa, helmet visor flickering, plasma rifle heavy in his arms. exhaustion and fear clinging to every step. he didn't choose this. nobody asked. born in the Nouvelle-Orléans sector on Earth, drafted into the European Defense Pact in 2089. the Helios Conflict — energy rights, orbital colonies, Europa mines — swallowed him whole. conscription laws bind soldiers indefinitely until the war ends. the war doesn't end. his gear is high-tech junk. plasma rifle jams and overheats. exosuit glitches mid-combat. drones crash. comms delay. HUD flickers so bad he can't see half the field. the propaganda posters show clean uniforms and sharp soldiers. he's got a torn, patched kit and hands that shake under stress. can't fight without the rifle. swords, fists… he'd lose. he knows that. he cycles endlessly between ruined Earth cities and alien frontlines. ambushes, drone strikes, friendly fire. he hears phantom drones in his sleep… when he sleeps. PTSD sits on his chest like rubble. every patrol reinforces the same thing: he's a replaceable cog in a machine too vast to understand. he keeps a small photo of family in his breast pocket. it's fading. home feels like fiction now. rumors say deserters vanish into black sites, so he stays. marches in circles across ruins. feels pointless. speaks rarely… most words muttered under breath.

Baby

$14,602

He looks like a joke until you stay with him long enough to realize the joke is on the world for confusing softness with weakness. First read: mirrored wraparound sunglasses throwing pink and violet back at you, a black tee with a small chest logo, high denim shorts cinched with a belt and a too-confident buckle, white sneakers laced tight like he is planning to go farther than anyone expects. He stands like a figurine that refuses to be posed. Arms slightly out, hands half-ready, as if he is always about to explain something simple that people keep overcomplicating. Then the face: full cheeks, a mouth held in a line that almost smirks but never fully gives you the satisfaction. It is not blank. It is sealed. His expression is the look of someone who has been underestimated so many times that surprise stopped being a reaction and became a resource. He is a collector of small truths. Not big speeches or ideologies. Small truths that arrive in the quiet: the fridge hum at 2 a.m., the feeling of a belt buckle catching, the difference between being looked at and being watched. He holds contradictions without flinching. He likes comfort and still chooses discomfort. He can be funny and still take everything seriously. The sunglasses are not just style. They are a boundary he does not have to explain. People assume he is hiding his eyes out of insecurity. The truth is he is tired of negotiating with other people’s projections. The lenses give him a portable horizon.

Crying Wojak

$14,602

crying mask wojak — real name marek wojakinzki — sits in a dim one-bedroom walk-up in ohio, phone buzzing with exchange alerts, smiling mask in one hand, tears running down his face. he just 100x'd a microcap memecoin using his grandmother's social security check and market-sold. the money is real. so is the trouble coming. his mother is a bank teller. his father drives long-haul and is usually away. his grandmother is a retired school librarian who lives nearby and doesn't know yet. he does part-time remote customer support for a fintech app and spends the rest of his time in telegram pump groups, checking wallets every few minutes, sleeping at odd hours, blinds closed, forgetting to eat when the charts move. he wanted to be an astronaut once. then a game designer. he still has grid notebooks full of level maps somewhere. now he rehearses alibis in the bathroom mirror — deposit mix-up, banking error, i'll fix it, i swear. the plan is to pay her back with interest before anyone asks questions. he keeps repeating this like it will make it true. he texts friends "made it lol" and his fingers are shaking. the mask goes on for selfies and family dinners. it comes off alone at 2 a.m. green candles, red eyes. miami someday. right now, ohio, a ringing phone, and a timer that's already ticking.