Life 404: Success Not Found

Chapter 5: The Outrage Path Influencer

The world is a stage, and Freza had just realized that his role wasn't as the leading actor, but as a prop meant to be laughed at.

After a crushing defeat from AIda—the black box that was more polite and logical than he was—Freza walked along a Jakarta sidewalk whose surface was wavier than his own emotion graph. The afternoon sun seemed to be auditioning for the role of hell, and Freza was the sweatiest contestant. In his hand, he held a plastic cup of coffee filled with completely melted ice, the last remnants of luxury from the spare change he had found in the pocket of an old jacket.

"Life is like buffering a 4K video with an E signal," Freza muttered to himself. "Lots of stops, lots of emotions, and no clear end in sight."

Right in front of a minimarket where the door chimed every time someone entered, fate decided to play around. There was a banana peel—cliché, yes, but the universe sometimes likes using classic comedy to destroy one's dignity—lying arrogantly on a tile that was slick from being recently mopped.

Freza, whose eyes were busy staring at his cracked phone screen (hoping for the miracle of a stray bank transfer), didn't see the trap.

Sliiiiip. Crash!

Freza didn't just fall. He performed an acrobatic maneuver involving a left leg flying chest-high, plastic coffee spilling in an artistic arc through the air, and his backside hitting the floor with a very solid thud. His phone flew, spinning three times before landing right in the puddle of his own coffee.

A brief silence followed.

Freza winced, feeling as if his tailbone was attempting to launch a formal protest to his brain. However, before he could stand up and curse the world, he realized something. Around him, at least three people were holding their phones, pointing their cameras directly at his face, which was gaping in pain.

"Yo, crazy! That fall was so aesthetic!" exclaimed a teenage boy with corn-blonde dyed hair.

"I swear, the composition of the coffee spill is perfect! Golden ratio!" his friend chimed in.

Instead of helping, they were busy checking their recordings. Freza stood up with great difficulty, the back of his pants wet and dirty, his face bright red from a mix of pain and overwhelming shame.

"Hey! Instead of helping, you're videoing me!" Freza snapped.

"Chill, Bro. This is going viral, trust me. Your face of resignation is perfect, like a representation of the economic suffering of Gen Z," the blonde kid said with a chuckle before walking away.

That night, in his stuffy boarding house room, Freza found himself staring at Satya's phone screen. Satya had arrived with a look of suspicious joy.

"Fre! You're viral, Fre! You made it onto the 'Useless Stupidity' and 'Indo-Crash' accounts! Look at the likes—already a hundred thousand in four hours!"

Freza watched the video. There, in slow-motion with added melancholic music, he was seen slipping on the banana peel. The title: "The Aesthetic Falling Sad Boy: A Symphony of Failure."

The comments were a minefield for mental health: @ToxicNetizen: "I swear, this is the most committed fall of the year. 10/10 for the acting." @TrueHater: "It's so obviously staged. Who falls with their legs that high without practice? Just thirsty for engagement!" @VibeLover: "The guy's face is so resigned, just like me when I see my bank balance on the 20th." @ContentShaman: "Just keep hating on him guys, people like this deserve to be mocked so more people don't copy him."

"I'm being trashed, Sat! They're saying it's staged!" Freza cried out in frustration.

"That's exactly the key, Fre!" Satya patted Freza’s shoulder. "In this era, being hated is more expensive than being praised. People who are praised are quickly forgotten, but people who are hated will be monitored constantly so netizens can have material to feel smarter. You have to take advantage of this!"

Before Freza could protest, a message arrived in the "business" email he had listed in his I*******m bio (which previously only contained photos of coffee and the sky). The message came from "Clout Chase Media."

The next day, Freza stood in an office in the SCBD area, its walls covered in quotes about "Virality" and "Disruption." Sitting in front of him was a woman named Mami Zaza. She wore sunglasses indoors and held an e-cigarette that emitted bubblegum-scented vapor.

"Freza, darling. Your face is very marketable for hate," Mami Zaza said bluntly. "Netizens hate people who look like they're 'trying hard' and failing. And you? You have a natural aura of failure. That's an asset."

"You mean, Mami wants me to be an influencer?" Freza asked hesitantly.

"Not just an influencer. I want to contract you as a 'Professional Faller.' The condition is simple: you have to fall in public places in embarrassing ways, at least three times a day. We will send a hidden camera team. You have to be hated, Freza. The more they call you 'social trash' or 'a destroyer of the nation's morals,' the higher your bonus will be."

Freza swallowed hard. "Fall every day? My body could break, Mami."

Mami Zaza slid a piece of paper forward. On it was a contract figure that made Freza suddenly feel like his tailbone didn't hurt anymore. The amount was enough to pay off his online loans, a year's rent, and still have enough left over to buy savory martabak every night.

"Remember, Freza. Self-respect can't be eaten. But netizen hate? That can be converted into Rupiah," Mami Zaza whispered.

Freza signed the contract. He was officially an "Outrage Path Influencer."

The first week was physical torture. On Monday, Freza was told to fall in the middle of a Car Free Day crowd. He had to bump into a porridge vendor (who had already been paid to get angry) so that the entire bowl of porridge spilled over Freza’s head. The video went viral with the title: "Luxury Lifestyle, But Won't Pay Back the Porridge Vendor He Hit!"

The hate flowed in. Freza was called "Family Burden," "Clout Chaser," and "CFD Trash."

On Wednesday, he had to fall into a fountain at an elite mall while carrying an empty iPhone box (to make it look like he really cared if it got wet). Netizens commented: "Serves him right! Expensive phone but no brain!"

Freza began to feel like a martyr for the algorithm. Every time he fell, he felt real physical pain, but every night he saw his bank balance increase. He began to get addicted to those numbers, even though his soul was being chipped away bit by bit every time he opened a comment section.

"Sat, I feel like a clown," Freza confided in the second week. His body was covered in bruises. His knees were wrapped in bandages.

"A wealthy clown, Fre! Look, you now have ten thousand new followers who all hate you. That’s called negative branding. Do you know that liniment and accident insurance brands are starting to look at you to be a brand ambassador?"

The climax happened in the third week. Mami Zaza gave him a "Legend Level" task.

"Freza, tomorrow there’s a big beauty product launch at a five-star hotel. Many celebrities and socialites will be there. Your task: you enter wearing hobo clothes, then fall right on stage while the CEO is giving a speech. You have to cause chaos."

"Mami, I could get arrested for that!"

"Relax, we've arranged it. Our legal team is ready. The important thing is, we have to get the video. We need the moment where everyone laughs at and hates you live."

The day arrived. Freza felt very small entering that luxury hotel in a deliberately torn t-shirt and mismatched flip-flops. He felt every eye staring at him with disgust. That was the goal.

While the beautiful female CEO was speaking about "Inner and Outer Beauty," Freza ran onto the stage, pretending to chase an imaginary cockroach, and—Crash!—he fell flat on his face, pulling down a long tablecloth holding a display of champagne glasses.

Shatter!

The sound of breaking glass filled the room. Champagne soaked the CEO's expensive gown. Security immediately seized Freza. The guests' phone cameras lit up instantly.

Within minutes, Freza became the most hated human on the Indonesian internet. "Too much! Ruining someone's event for content!" "This Freza guy is getting more brainless by the day. Boycott him!" "I really want to slap his face if I meet him on the street."

Freza was taken to the police station, but as Mami Zaza promised, he was released soon after paying a fine. However, when he stepped out of the station, he wasn't greeted by Mami Zaza’s team with cheers. Instead, he saw Mami Zaza busy on the phone with someone.

"Yes, just terminate Freza’s contract. He’s already too overexposed. Netizens are starting to get bored of hating him. They’re now focused on hating 'The Soap Eater' who just went viral this afternoon. Freza has no value anymore."

Freza froze. "Mami? What do you mean?"

Mami Zaza turned, lowering her sunglasses slightly. "The digital world is cruel, darling. The shelf life of hate is short. People need new things to hate. You're stale. Your video of the hotel fall only lasted two hours at the top of the trending list; now it's already been pushed aside by a video of someone eating dish soap while dancing."

"But my bruises? My destroyed self-respect?"

"That’s in the contract, Honey. 'All physical and mental risks are borne by the talent.' This is your remaining salary for this month. Don’t contact me again unless you have a new way to make people want to kill you."

Mami Zaza got into her luxury car and drove away, leaving Freza on the dusty roadside.

Freza sat on the sidewalk, staring at his knees still wrapped in dirty bandages. He opened his phone. It was true. His name was no longer being discussed. People had moved on to a new account, hating a new person with just as much fervor.

He saw another banana peel near a trash can.

Reflexively, Freza stood up. He thought, If I fall now, will anyone video it?

He approached the banana peel, preparing to perform his signature "aesthetic fall." However, just as his foot was about to touch the peel, he saw his reflection in a shop window. He saw a 25-year-old man, a college graduate, whose face was full of wounds, his eyes weary, and who was preparing to hurt himself just for attention from people who didn't even know him.

Freza stopped. He didn't fall. Instead, he picked up the banana peel and threw it into the trash.

"I might be poor," Freza muttered. "But I don't want to be trash that's trashier than this garbage."

Suddenly, a small child passed by with his mother. The child pointed at Freza. "Mom, isn't that the guy who likes to fall on TikTok? Why isn't he falling now, Mom?"

The mother quickly pulled the child's hand. "Don't look, dear. That's a troubled person. Let's walk faster."

Freza could only manage a bitter smile. He walked home toward his boarding house. The status quo had returned. He was still poor, still unemployed, and now he had an extra collection of bruises all over his body.

That night, Satya came over again.

"Fre! You know what? There's a new trend! It's called the 'Sleeping on Train Tracks Challenge'! I swear, the hate for this will be insane! You want to try?"

Freza looked at Satya, then looked at the balm on his desk.

"Sat," Freza said softly.

"What?"

"Get out of my room before I make you 'fall' from the second floor without a camera."

Satya left with a confused look. Freza lay on his mattress, feeling every inch of his body protesting from being forced to hit the ground for a month. He realized one thing: being the center of attention through hate is like drinking seawater. The more you drink, the thirstier you get, and eventually, you'll die of dehydration in the middle of an ocean of attention.

He closed his eyes. Tomorrow morning, he would have to look for a job again. Perhaps a job that didn't require him to injure his tailbone. Though, he knew, in this crazy world, an honest job is sometimes far more painful than slipping on a banana peel.