Makaroni Payback
People had gathered at my place—the same pre-Christmas party as in one of my earlier stories. In the midst of the festivities, I embarked on a noble (and completely unserious) quest: selling makaroni. Let’s just say I wouldn’t have made it as a salesman, as my only successful transaction was convincing Brandon to buy two packages at a price of 0.10€ per package (for reference, I believe they cost around 0.40€ at the grocery store at the time). The catch? I was the one who paid.
The party continued, and when everyone left, the sacred makaroni remained untouched in my place. As any responsible (and slightly ridiculous) merchant would do, I transferred the money digitally to seal the deal, writing in the payment message: “Do not worry, you will get your makaroni.”
The plan was simple—deliver the makaroni next time I saw Brandon. The reality? My excellent memory ensured I absolutely did not remember.
Then, my memory kicked back into gear. The perfect opportunity had arrived.
The ‘barty’ begins.
Brandon and Stella had decided to host a “barty” (yes, with a “b”), aiming to bring together friends from different groups. Odd? Perhaps. Intriguing? Absolutely.
Upon arrival, we were instructed to make name tags, since not everyone knew each other. I asked River for help, and they, in their infinite wisdom, slapped my tag dead center on my chest—while I was wearing a hoodie. Not the most practical spot, as it landed right on the zipper. The name tag also required a personal trait. Mine? “Electric,” inspired by our group chat name:
“mac-elektrik-hine-machinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemamachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachinemachin”
The name was as long as the software allowed—so obviously, it had to be kept short.
Anyway, I repositioned the tag so the zipper wouldn’t be an obstacle, causing it to wrinkle. River, ever the comedian, remarked, “It represents your personality better now.” And boy, did I laugh. That moment reminded me how great a friend River is.
Back to the party.
I had brought buns (I love buns). We ate, we talked, and then—revelation. I had been fooled.
Brandon and Stella had gotten married. They now shared the same surname. Comprehending this new reality was a challenge.
We had a quiz (our team won!), played board games, and eventually, it was time for the sauna. Brandon was eager to go ASAP, and Shea volunteered to join them.
Now, for the makaroni master plan.
I entrusted not one, not two, but three sacred makaroni packages to one of my accomplices. I am no snitch, so I won’t reveal their identity. What I can say is that I needed them—after all, there were logistical challenges that made it impossible for me to carry out the makaroni placement myself. The logistical details aren’t for the readers to know—just trust me.
When Brandon emerged from the sauna, they immediately accused me.
“It couldn’t have been me, you know that!” I protested.
But they knew. They always know. At this point, any makaroni-related incident is assumed to involve me.
In the end, I ensured they received the two packages I had technically sold to them. A bonus third package? That was just me being generous.
And not to brag, but if I had an accomplice, that means I’m not alone in this war. I don’t have enemies.
I have frenemies.
So, congratulations, Brandon and Stella!
Your wedding present will arrive a little later—just as expected from me.