I thought I'd seen the worst Ohio had to offer. After battling corn cults, emo kids, alien influencers, and straight-up gangsta rap battles in cornfields, I figured there wasn't much left that could surprise me.
But Ohio always has one more card up its sleeve.
I was walking with my TikTok zombie army, fresh off my victory over King D and his corn-worshipping gangsta squad. The sky above had gone back to its usual glitchy TikTok-filter state, and for a second, I thought I might finally get a moment to relax.
Nope.
We were passing through what looked like a perfectly normal Ohio suburb, if normal suburbs had an unsettling quiet to them and every house looked like it had been copied and pasted from a bad 3D rendering. I glanced at the row of identical houses, each one with its neatly trimmed lawn, picket fence, and minivan parked in the driveway. Everything was just a little too perfect.
And that's when I felt it.
A disturbance in the air.
Something ominous.
I stopped dead in my tracks, narrowing my eyes. "Something's not right."
My TikTok zombies groaned in unison, as if they could sense it too. The stillness of the suburb was suddenly oppressive, like the calm before a meme storm.
And then I saw them.
Emerging from behind one of the minivans, like an army of suburban doom, came the Karens.
Yes. You heard that right. Ohio had an army of Karens.
They were exactly what you'd imagine, middle-aged, haircut so sharp it could cut glass, wearing pastel-colored cardigans, and armed with Starbucks cups and cell phones. Their faces were twisted in rage, and their eyes burned with the fury of a thousand bad customer service experiences.
The leader of the Karen army, a tall, terrifying woman with a haircut that screamed "I need to speak to the manager," stepped forward, holding her phone aloft like a weapon. "YOU!" she screeched, her voice echoing through the suburb like a war cry. "You have desecrated this neighborhood with your riff-raff! We will not tolerate this disrespect!"
I stared at her, utterly baffled. "Wait, what?"
The Karen army stopped in perfect formation behind her, their phones and Starbucks drinks raised high. The air around them seemed to buzz with the sheer intensity of their entitlement. One of them waved a receipt like it was a battle flag.
"You think you can just march through our quiet, respectable neighborhood with your… your TikTok kids?!" the leader shouted, her face growing redder with every word. "We have STANDARDS! I will NOT have you lowering my property value with your shenanigans!"
I couldn't even process what was happening. "I, uh, what?"
She stepped closer, glaring at me with eyes that could melt steel. "You! You look like the type who'd let your kids run wild in a Target. WELL, I won't stand for it! I demand that you remove yourself from this neighborhood immediately, or I will be calling the authorities!"
Behind her, the Karen army started chanting. "Call the manager! Call the manager!"
I was officially in hell.
I took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to respond. "Okay, look, lady, uh, Karen, I'm just passing through. No need to call the cops or whatever."
But Karen was already dialing on her phone, her fingers moving with the precision of someone who's memorized customer service hotlines. "Oh, I am calling the authorities. You're going to regret ever stepping foot in this neighborhood!"
I quickly pulled out my phone, scrolling through TikTok in a panic. There had to be something, anything, that could counteract the power of an angry Karen. But what? My meme powers had come through before, but I wasn't sure a simple meme was enough to stop a full-blown Karen Armageddon.
That's when I saw it.
"Manager Summon Filter."
Of course. The one thing more powerful than a Karen: a manager.
I activated the filter, pointing my phone directly at the Karen leader. The screen flashed, and for a moment, nothing happened. The Karens kept chanting, their fury building like a tidal wave of middle-aged entitlement.
And then, the sound of footsteps echoed across the suburb.
A man appeared from around the corner, dressed in the signature uniform of corporate America, khaki pants, a blue button-up, and a name tag that read "Steve, Manager" in bold letters. He adjusted his glasses, exuding the aura of someone who had seen far too much in retail, and walked toward us with the weary energy of a manager who'd been called into work on his day off.
The Karens gasped in unison.
The leader of the Karen army took a step back, her eyes widening in horror. "N-no… It can't be. Not… not Steve!"
Steve stopped in front of me, turning to the Karens with an expression of utter boredom. "Ma'am, is there a problem here?"
The leader stammered, clutching her phone to her chest like a lifeline. "I, well, this… this person is disrupting our neighborhood with his… his TikTok ruffians!"
Steve sighed, crossing his arms. "Ma'am, we've been through this before. You cannot demand to speak to a manager every time you feel personally inconvenienced."
"But, " Karen protested, her voice shaking.
"Ma'am," Steve said, his tone firm but tired, "I am the manager."
The entire Karen army froze, their phones trembling in their hands. It was like they had been hit with their ultimate weakness. The sheer authority of a manager was too much for them to handle.
Steve adjusted his name tag, giving me a tired nod. "You're good to go, man. Don't worry about these ladies."
I couldn't believe it. Steve, the Manager, had just saved my life.
The leader of the Karen army let out a defeated wail, dropping her phone as she sank to her knees. "Noooo! I just wanted to speak to the manager!"
The other Karens followed suit, their power crumbling under the weight of Steve's managerial presence. They began retreating, their Starbucks cups spilling onto the pristine lawns as they fled back into their identical houses.
I watched them go, completely dumbfounded. "Did… did that just happen?"
Steve shrugged. "Yeah, man. You'd be surprised how often this happens around here. Karens are a plague in Ohio. Gotta keep them in check."
I turned to him, grateful but still reeling from what I'd just witnessed. "Thanks, Steve. You really saved me back there."
He gave me a weary smile. "All in a day's work. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a shift at Best Buy in fifteen."
With that, Steve the Manager turned and walked off into the distance, vanishing around the corner like some kind of retail superhero.
I stood there for a moment, processing everything. Ohio had thrown yet another curveball at me, but somehow, I'd survived. The TikTok zombies resumed their idle Fortnite dances, oblivious to the chaos that had just unfolded.
I really thought I had Ohio figured out. After surviving the Karen Armageddon with the help of Steve the Manager, I was starting to think I'd seen the worst of what this glitchy, cursed version of Ohio had to offer. But I should've known better. Ohio's chaos wasn't done with me yet.
It started the way these things always do, strangely quiet. Too quiet. The TikTok zombies, who had been busy constructing more Fortnite towers out of random corn husks, suddenly froze, their glowing eyes wide as if they sensed something. Even the sky above me seemed to glitch, flickering between a sickly yellow and an eerie purple.
I felt it before I saw it. A weird buzzing sensation, like static electricity crawling up my spine. The ground beneath me trembled, and in the distance, I could hear it, that song. The one I'd been dreading since the moment I first realized I was stuck in Ohio.
"Skibidi bop-bop-bop... bop-bop yes yes yes..."
My heart sank. No. It couldn't be. Not him.
The cornfield parted in front of me like it was making way for something ancient and powerful. And from the shadows emerged a figure that I knew all too well, the Skibidi King.
He was taller than I'd imagined, towering over the corn like some kind of meme-fueled nightmare. His face was a grotesque combination of every TikTok filter I'd ever hated, his eyes oversized and glowing, his mouth twisted in a permanent, deranged grin. His body flickered like a poorly-rendered video, glitching between real life and some cursed 8-bit animation. And, of course, the Skibidi Toilet song played on a loop, echoing through the air like a funeral dirge for my sanity.
I took a step back, my phone clutched tightly in my hand. "Oh, hell no."
The Skibidi King stopped in front of me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. He raised his arms, his body moving in perfect sync with the beat of the song. "Skibidi bop-bop-bop... bop-bop yes yes yes..."
His voice was mechanical, like it had been auto-tuned to death. Every word dripped with a kind of chaotic energy that could only come from the darkest corners of TikTok.
I raised my phone, desperately scrolling for some kind of filter or meme power that could stop him. But nothing seemed right. I had no idea how to fight a literal TikTok god.
The Skibidi King tilted his head, his grin widening. "You have trespassed in my domain, Overlord. This is my Ohio now."
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "Look, man, I don't know what kind of power trip you're on, but Ohio's big enough for both of us. You do your Skibidi thing, and I'll… just stay out of your way, alright?"
But the Skibidi King wasn't having it. He snapped his fingers, and out of the cornfield came his army, a horde of brain-rotted TikTok kids, but these were different. They weren't just mindlessly flossing or dabbing. These kids were locked in a permanent loop of the Skibidi dance, their heads bobbing in time with the cursed beat, their bodies jerking in glitchy, unnatural movements.
I backed up as the horde surrounded me, their glowing eyes fixed on me like I was the final boss in some twisted TikTok game. My own zombie army, sensing the threat, moved to defend me, but I could tell they were outmatched. The Skibidi King's followers were faster, more coordinated, and their dance moves? Utterly terrifying.
The Skibidi King let out a chilling laugh, his body glitching as he danced closer. "You thought you could come to Ohio and take over? Foolish. This is my kingdom now. I am the ruler of every meme, every trend. And soon, you will join me."
I scrolled faster, desperately looking for anything that could save me. The Skibidi kids were getting closer, their heads bobbing in unison, the song growing louder, more oppressive. I could feel the pull of the beat, like it was trying to drag me into its endless, brain-rotting loop.
And then I found it.
A TikTok filter that I'd never used before. "Ultimate Meme Reversal." It was risky, there was no guarantee it would work, but at this point, I didn't have any other options.
"Alright, Skibidi King," I muttered, raising my phone. "You wanna dance? Let's dance."
I activated the filter, and the world around me slowed. The Skibidi King paused, his grin faltering for just a second as the air shimmered with a strange, otherworldly energy.
The filter took hold, and suddenly, the Skibidi bop-bop-bop music reversed, playing backward in a warped, distorted melody. The Skibidi King's eyes widened in shock, his body glitching even harder as the reversed music echoed through the cornfield.
"What… what is this?!" he screeched, his voice no longer the confident, auto-tuned nightmare it had been. Now, it was panicked, desperate.
His army of Skibidi kids faltered, their dance moves becoming disjointed, their bodies jerking erratically as they tried to keep up with the reversed beat. My own TikTok zombies, sensing their moment, surged forward, hitting them with a barrage of Fortnite dances and meme attacks.
The Skibidi King stumbled, his once-imposing form flickering like a broken video file. He tried to regain control, but the reversal filter was too strong. The music continued to warp and twist, and with each passing second, his power diminished.
"No!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "This can't be happening! I am the Skibidi King! I control Ohio! I, "
Before he could finish, his body exploded in a shower of pixels and glitchy fragments, disappearing into the air like a corrupted file. The Skibidi Toilet song stopped abruptly, leaving nothing but silence in its wake.
I stood there, panting, my phone still raised as I watched the last remnants of the Skibidi King's power fade into nothing. His army of Skibidi kids collapsed, their glowing eyes dimming as they reverted to their normal, brain-rotted selves.
It was over.
I had defeated the Skibidi King.
I lowered my phone, letting out a long breath of relief. "Holy crap… I actually did it."
The cornfield was still, the only sound the distant rustling of leaves in the wind. My TikTok zombies resumed their idle dances, seemingly unaware of the battle they'd just survived. I looked around, half-expecting something else to jump out at me, but for once, Ohio was quiet.
I couldn't believe it. I'd actually won. I was still the Brain Rot Overlord, and Ohio hadn't consumed me. Not yet, anyway.