Minnesota Simulator

You're finally off work from Target. You just worked another 12 hour shift, doing the work that Americans like you shouldn't HAVE to do. But ICE, according to your favorite streamer Iba Nassah, has ruined all that. What's worse is you got yelled at by a bunch of Karen's, called, a Nazi cause you had to tell them that you ran out of whistles earlier. At least now you can go home and send your wages V-Tubers who pretend to like you after a long day.

You turn the corner toward your apartment and immediately run into a wall of people blowing whistles directly into the air. Someone shouts something about ICE. Another person steps in front of you, holding a phone six inches from your face.

“Hey—stop. You work at Target, don't you? You're a white male so... Just real quick, before you go any further: are you a Nazi?” The blue-haired landwhale in a Spiderman shirt asks, clearly agitated as it records you. You can't quite tell what gender it is, but its followers are converging on your location, their eye narrowing at you. "Say it. Say 'Fuck ICE!'" says the blue-haired ringleader. It's partner, a bald man with a thick beard and a well-built right arm, suddenly gets in your face, breathing right in your nose. "Don't touch me bro!" He exclaims, the stench of plant-based substitutes wafting into your face.

You look around for a path to escape. You're surrounded. You see the Minneapolis PD on the other side of the street handing out donuts to the other protestors. You know they won't help you. You're trapped...

You saw the Nick Shirley video and could not believe on how evil and racist it was. Yesterday, you'd made a reddit post about how you were going to enroll your own little girl, Sally, in a Somali-owned day care to support the immigrant community in these trying times.

The door buzzes open after you knock. Inside, the lights are on but the room is empty—no toys, no kids, just folding chairs and a handwritten sign taped to the wall that says “DAY CAR CENTER.” A greasy looking man, with a bit of a gut and chewing on something questionable, looks at you, then at Sally. His brown eyes seem to glimmer with something unreadable for a moment before turning back to you, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Why are you here? We’re not taking new enrollments today. Or… ever. Also, please don’t look around. My cousin is recording you now. What is your purpose.”

An alarm blares somewhere deeper in the store. Another minority died in police custody. The pigs gave sweet innocent J'Quan a heart attack when they shot the poor unarmed 21 year-old boy. Never mind the fact that he was on drugs and charging at them. He needed help, not to be shot. At least, that's what the experts on BlueSky are saying.

But it doesn't matter now. A crowd is already knocking over shelves. Your manager crouches behind the service desk and grabs your sleeve.

“Corporate says if this location takes too much damage, we’re all terminated. Loss prevention isn’t answering. You’re the closest employee to Sporting Goods. Do whatever you have to do, but don’t let them get the TVs.”

Nick Rekeita opens the door. He's shirtless. Skinny. You thought he was a woman for second with his gay little flower tattoo. The house smells faintly of spilled soda and panic. And smoke. A dog barks from the bathroom. A pug, if you recall correctly. A kid yells for Spaghetti-O’s somewhere upstairs.

"SHUT UP, OR DO I HAVE TO GIVE YOU SOME MORE SPECIAL SNOW AGAIN?!" Rekieta yells. They crying stops immediately.

Nick turns to you, his frustrated demeanor visibly easing as his eyes rake you up and down. “Hey man, come on in. Ignore the noise. Long story short: Kayla thinks you’re hot, there’s cocaine if you want some. You can fuck her while you watch Star Trek. I'll be outside the door listening!”

As Nick drags you in, you notice the house is messy. There are a few kids scurrying about doing chores, smelling terrible. On the living room wall there are two dartboards, one with a picture of Aaron Imholte and one with a picture of Joshua Conner Moon. Both have many darts in them. none have hit the bullseye...

You stand in Jim’s driveway as the wind blows over scattered lawn chairs and empty energy drink cans. Across the cracked concrete, Mister Metokur waits in his wheelchair, breathing like Darth Vaders as he holds a katana in his right hand. His wife films from behind a minivan. Jim's anime figurines watch silently from the window.

“This is it. Now that I'm unbanned from Minnesota, It all comes down to this! The Sektur will finally acknowledge the Ralphamale as its one true daddy! And my sone will finally acknowledge me!” Says Ethan Ralpha, shaking his gunt menacingly towards Jim as he stands next to you.