The crew behind the cameras lost it. Zach, the other soundbite lord, choked on his Red Bull. Dan, the producer, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Ethan’s rage melted into a grin. The tension shattered.
The guest’s face went slack. Hila snorted. The entire crew burst into hysterical, gasping laughter. Even Ethan, mid-insult, lost his train of thought and just pointed at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face.
The soundbites were more than jokes. They were a language. When Ethan began a long-winded, rambling apology for something trivial, Ian would press “I’m sorry… I’m SO sorry,” a clip of a tearful YouTuber, and the whole room would laugh, letting Ethan off the hook. When a guest said something surprisingly profound, the ethereal choir of “Ayyy… he’s a legend” would echo through the speakers.
Ian pressed it.
“Ignore him? He called our Teddy Fresh ‘overpriced garbage.’ Do you know how much organic cotton goes into a single hoodie?” Ethan’s face was turning a shade of pink that matched the set’s lighting. “It’s not garbage. It’s… it’s fashion . You know what he is? He’s a little scrawny boy .”
Hila, knitting a tiny sweater for one of their dogs, didn’t look up. “Just ignore him, Ethan.”
“You know what, Hila?” Ethan said, leaning into his microphone. “This guy… this guy is a real smooth brain .”