Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - My Smart Home Is Possessed, So I Called A Technorcist

Episode Date: November 14, 2025

A desperate homeowner calls a so-called “technorcist” to deal with his smart house—only to learn some systems should never have been turned on. Over 80 exclusive bonus episodes are waiting for you. Unlock them now: ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠⁠ Author: Jake Bible For more terrifying stories from this author, check out his latest release – All The Monsters: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume One:⁠ ⁠https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FY438TSV⁠⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Waiting on my front porch, I pace back and forth, over and over, my hands tapping out a nervous rhythm on my thighs. As I stare down at the composite boards, meant to look like real wood, but last a hundred years longer. Come on, come on, come on. A car turns the corner at the end of my street, and I look up. But it's only my neighbor, Chuck, from next door. He pulls his BMW into his driveway as his garage door opens. Rolling down his window, he leans his head out and shouts. You good, Williams?

I'm fine, Chuck. You're looking a little worried there. Anything I should know about? Just waiting on someone. He nods knowingly. Got it, man. None of my business. You have a good one, Williams.

He pulls his BMW into his garage, and the door slowly lowers, hiding him from my view. Maybe I should have waited inside. I glance at the front door. No, no, not a good idea. He said to get out of the house until he arrives. Stay out of the house. The porch light blinks several times.

It's a pattern. I know it is, but I don't recognize it. What's that code they used back in like 1950s or something? Morrison code? It was named after that singer, Jim Morrison, I think. I read that somewhere on the internet. All dots and slashes or whatever. Another car turns the corner, and I stare. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

A garishly bright red hearse rolls toward my driveway. As it pulls in front of my garage, I see front doors open up and down my block, heads poking out to see what could possibly warrant a fire engine red hearse to make a visit to a neighborhood rich enough to buy off death. Not that the houses are huge or tacitemic mansions. No, ours is a bespoke neighborhood filled with modest ranch homes from the 1970s, lovingly restored to their original glory, but with all the modern conveniences, a hardworking executive in the tech industry could possibly want.

The driver's door opens and a pair of black-clad legs step out. The rest of the body appears as the driver stands up and looks about the neighborhood. He's tall, very tall, and dressed. like an Undertaker. Although, I'm pretty sure most Undertaker's suits don't have glittery thread sewn into them. Not that I know of, at least. I haven't been to a funeral since I was a small child

and my aunt died after a horrible wild boar incident. So maybe Undertakers are a little more flashy these days. The man finally swivels in my direction. He nods at me, then reaches back into his car, pulling out a top hat and a large pelican case. Mr. Williams? The man slams his door and walks my way. His long stride cutting the distance between us with only a few steps,

despite my walkway being rather long. Yes, yes, I'm Jeff Williams. Mr. Longworth? That's me. He reaches my front porch, but doesn't have to look up at me. He's almost as tall as I am, even though I'm standing on the porch, and he's still on the concrete two steps below me.

He holds out a hand. A pleasure to meet you. Up close, I can see that he's around my age, probably in his early to mid-30s. We obviously took different paths in life, though. So? He turns his attention away from me so we can focus on the house. Sounds like you're having some issues with your smart house.

His eyes returned to me. What seems to be the problem? Well, like I said on the phone, I think my house is possessed. Yep, you did say that. He continues to watch me closely. Then his eyes fall on the flickering light. Huh, will you look at that? Morse code.

He frowns. Wow, that's some serious profanity to put into dots and dashes. Your house isn't very nice. Tell me about it. Reluctantly, I stepped toward my heart. front door. Um, should we go inside? Do you want to go inside? Honestly? No. It scares the shit out of me in there. Have you thought of moving? What? No, I spent a fortune on this place. And you may spend another fortune on it. I am not cheap, Mr. Williams. Yes, you mentioned that. My skill set is not one you can

look up on Yelp. Right. Of course. I understand. I glance around. and most of my neighbor's front doors have closed. But a few still remain cracked, nosy faces peering out of the space between door and jam. I raise my hand and give an enthusiastic wave. Mr. Longworth glances over one shoulder, then languidly glances over the other, finally focusing back on me.

Are the neighbors always so curious? Um, no, not usually, but, well, I point at his hers. I'm sure you understand. I understand many things, Mr. Williams. Keeping up with the Joneses is not one of them. This neighborhood isn't like that. We don't compete with each other.

We all just want a quiet life on a quiet street and our quiet houses. Except, from the looks of it, your house is not so quiet anymore, is it? No, it sure as hell isn't. Demonic possession, is it? Yes. Why do you think demonic? That's what I've been told by two mediums, four psychics, and three priests, and a hudu priestess, and my yoga instructor.

Your yoga instructor? Why would you have your yoga instructor investigate your house? Um, yeah. She wasn't investigating the house. It was more like we were investigating each other. Um, physically, if you get what I'm saying. You boned your yoga instructor. I wouldn't say it that way. You screwed her. Well, fucked her. Okay, okay, that's enough. And she offered

her professional opinion, did she? She's very in tune with energetic phenomenon. I bet she is. Does that energetic phenomenon come with batteries, or is it rechargeable? I'm not exactly cool with this conversation, Mr. Longworth. Just trying to get a sense of the energetic phenomenon I'll be walking into, Mr. Williams. Um, call me, Jeff. I hate being called Mr. Longworth. I hate being called Mr. Williams. We'll do. You can call me Mr. Longworth. Not Mr. Longworth?

No, no, Mr. Longworth is the man whose identity I stole about ten years ago. He starts laughing. I'm just busting your balls, Jeff. Don't call me Longworth, or I sound like an English butler. Call me Alex. Okay, uh, Alex. I look at the front door. Can we get this over with, please?

Yes, I suppose we should. Anything I need to know before I step over? before I step over that threshold? Uh, yeah. The house sees everything. It hears everything, and it's really, really mean. The Morse code says as much. He smiles.

I don't. Anyway, it's a good thing you called a techner cyst. I aim to get rid of that mean. Now, let's go make sure this is a demonic possession and not just a software glitch. It's not tech related. I founded a fintech startup, and I know, a few things about tech. I've gone over every inch of code. I've had friends way more talented than me go over every inch of code. It's not the software. A hardware malfunction then? Not that either. I've had

more engineers out here than you can count. The house is fine. It's what's possessing the house. That's the problem. Fine. Then let's get to it. He walks up the steps and towers over me. After you, Jeff. Oh, yes. Right. my palm to the flat panel where the doork should be and hear the lock release. Asitating, I reach out slowly and push the door open. Okay, here we go. The moment I step inside, a voice booms through the entire house. Hey little bitch, where you been?

Jerking off on the porch so your neighbors can see what a tiny dick you have? Did that weirdo chick across the street, get in on the action and have a wank on her porch too? I bet you little bitches could get real freaky if you wanted to. I'd watch that. Mmm, yeah. I'd watch that all night long. Stop it, House. We have a guest.

Oh, a guest, he says. How fun. Is it another loser psychic? Or is it one of those Kitty-Didler priests you keep bringing around? Oh, wait, I know. Is it your mom? It's your mom, right? Oh, yeah, baby.

Now that's a hot piece of wrinkled ass if I have. ever saw one. You call your house, house? He follows me inside and closes the door behind him. Yeah, what else would I call it? Paul, or Tom, or Billy, I don't know. Maybe it's not possessed, and just annoyed at being called house. Well, shit, he's not your mom. Who is this guy, Jeff? He looks like the MVP for the Funeral Home Basketball League. Hello, House. Is there a different name you would prefer to be called. Nice try, Dickhead. You ain't getting my real name. Call me house like Jerk off Jeff does. Jerk off Jeff? That's one of his many nicknames for me. I sigh. There's also little bitch, cum bucket. He who shits all the time. I do have IBS. And his favorite,

Jeffy Jeffy Jeffy Stinkhole. The house laughs and laughs. Don't forget about fart plopper McWilliams. Yes, that one too. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. from major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started.

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Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. So many names for your owner. And yet, you won't tell us you're real. Before Alex can finish, a blast of cold air rages through my entryway, slamming me against the wall. Alex is able to hold his footing.

but only by bending low and pushing his weight forward into the frigid blast. Oh, great. Now House is pissed. I have no owner. How dare you, you skeleton jack wannabe? The front door flies open. Fuck off, you tall-ass beanstalk bitch! The force of the air increases tenfold, and Alex struggles not to be swept out onto the porch. By the power of Ada Lufflace, I compel you! The violent wind stops instantly.

I'm instantly. Alex waits a second, then smiles over at me. I think I know what to... Again, he's unable to finish his sentence as he's lifted off his feet and flung outside. Completely missing the front porch, his body slams onto my concrete walkway and rolls for several feet into the neatly trimmed grass. Oh shit! Alex! Get off the lawn!

I don't get a chance to see if he can hear me as the door slams closed in my face, and I watch the light by the lock turn red. lock turn red. House, unlock this door now. No can do, little bitch. Having way too much fun with our new friend. I scramble away from the door and hurry through my sunken living room to the huge bay window overlooking my front yard. Alex is lying in the grass, perfectly still. Is he dead? Did you kill him? I don't know. I'm a house, not a medic. You're a fucking demon, not a house. Sticks and stones, fart plopper McWilliam. Sticks and stones. A high-pitched humming fills the air, and from the far corner of the yard, what looks like a large rock suddenly opens in the middle, and my robot lawnmower comes slowly wheeling out.

I slap my palms against the glass. Alex, get up! The lawnmower is coming for you! Bet you never thought you'd be screaming that, did you, Jaffe Jaffe Jaffe Stinkhole? Alex! Alex! The man stirs and rolls over onto his side. Unfortunately, he rolls the roll. wrong way and doesn't see the lawnmower coming for him. Alex, get off. Turn around! He glances toward me

and frowns. Then he shakes his head and gets to his feet. Spinning in a slow circle, he looks around the yard, then faces me again, cupping his hands to his mouth. My case! Doors are opening again, and the neighbors are back for another round of craziness at the Williams' smart casa. Where's my case? Inside with me! I need it. Kick it out. Well, she's. You're not. Well, she's. You're shit the lawnmower is only about five yards away Alex finally focuses on it he stands stock still for about five seconds then in a burst of action he runs at the lawnmower he draws his right leg back and kicks the lawnmower so hard that it flips end over end finally stopping halfway across the yard from my meticulous landscaping Alex picks up a rock about the size of a

large watermelon and walks slowly over to where the lawnmower is struggling to right itself The blades were and were, which is a terrifying sight. Alex stands over the helpless mower, then looks back at me. Do you mind? Mind what? Alex doesn't wait for an answer and throws the rock down onto the mower with all his strength. Chunks of rock and plastic and metal fly everywhere as the mower is demolished. Far off down the street, the CEO of a music streaming app steps onto his porch and gives a slow golf clap.

Then he flips me off and heads back inside. I'm not exactly popular with my neighbors. Alex makes his way back to the front door and knocks. House, let him in. Let who in? The technorcist you called to get rid of me? Brilliant idea, Jackoff. What could possibly go wrong for me?

Alex knocks again. You aren't going to let him in, are you? I'm thinking no. The front door whirrs and the lock disengages. Alex walks inside, brushing grass and dirt off his suit. Oh, that's a neat trick. How'd you do that, six feet blunder? Six feet what?

It was a TV show. What was? Six feet under. I don't get the reference. Alex looks at me as he shuts the door behind him. Do you? Never heard of it. Seriously?

It was an acclaimed series on HBO. You mean Max? I think it's HBO Max now. No one asked you, come Bucket. Oh, wait. Is that the show about the family with the funeral home? Yes, six feet under. I didn't watch that.

My parents did, though. Should I call them so you guys can connect? Is that what this is all about? You being upset that no one is getting your outdated pop culture references? Outdated? Six Feet Under is a classic. One of the greats when prestige television was just beginning.

Oh, is that so? Alex kneels next to his case, flips the latches, then lifts the lid. Tell me more. What's your favorite episode? What you got in that case? My cameras can't see around you. This?

Oh, it's nothing. Alex stands up, holding a cross made of interconnected LED lights in one hand, and a rosary made of USB cables and earbuds in the other. Just a little protection from assholes like you. You think a bunch of crap you pulled out of a Radio Shack dumpster is actually going to save you, tallboy? Alex frowns. What's Radio Shack?

I shrug. Never heard of it. Satan's nutsack. What is wrong with you, people? Have you no sense of history? Radio Shack was an electronics parts store. They were everywhere. I spent a summer in one in Des Moines, terrorizing this little blonde clerk for weeks until she swallowed a handful of bad.

batteries and choked herself to death. Oh, that place. So you have heard of it? No, I'm fucking with you. No one knows what a radio shack is, you ancient piece of crap. House goes quiet. Then, I don't like you. Good.

Now, let's do this. Alex holds up his talismans and shakes his fists. Demon, I command you to leave this dwelling. You are not wanted here. Lord, purge this house of all its evil. Let light flow once again through these dark hallways. Let the shadows be revealed and good return to every corner. Be gone, demon. Be gone!

I hold my breath as I wait to see if Alex's skills work. Um, yeah, no. But excellent effort. Now, would anyone care for a Bloody Mary? My built-in cocktail dispenser can make 13 wicked varieties, All made using real blood from real virgins. Noises echo out from my kitchen, and I sigh. I know exactly how bad the mess will be when I go in there.

Robot Butler! Oh, Robot Butler! Serve the drinks now! You have a robot butler? No, it means me. I'm Robot Butler. Oh. Hey, he who shits all the time. You gonna serve our guest as bloody man? or what? No offense, House.

But I will pass on any offered drinks or other consumables. Consumables? House chuckles. Where'd you find this animated piece of licorice, Jeffie, Jeffie, Stinkhole? Clechis are us? What does that mean? You know, like toys are us, but with clichés. Alex and I share a look.

We both shrug. Ah, I think I figured it out. Careful. The last time you started to say that, you got thrown out onto the lawn. No, no, it's fine. This isn't any normal demon, Jeff. It's not. I pause. Um, to be honest, I don't know exactly what a normal demon is. So I may be losing some of the impact of your statement. Ah, yes, let me explain. Story time! Cutsy preschool music fills the house. Do we get graham crackers and juice boxes too? Here.

Have a seat. One of my many custom-built chairs, shaped like a perfect square, flies across the living room, just missing me. It explodes against the wall, putting a massive dent in the plaster, while chunks of recycled rainforest wood and alpaca stuffing fly everywhere. You bastard! That was part of a set! The matching chair is flung out of the living room, and Alex has to throw himself to the ground

to avoid being pummeled by it. It hits a very expensive, limited signed print. sending shards of glass in all directions as the frame falls to the floor and snaps into a dozen pieces. My Roushé! How dare you? I'm fine. Alex picks himself up while brushing bits of glass from his suit. Is anyone else here bored? Or is it just me? Who are you, demon?

That's for me to know and you to find out. Alex returns to his case as I mourn my broken furniture and ruined Ed Roushé print. I see this won't be easy. I told you that over the phone. I mean, who calls a technercyst unless shit is seriously fucked up? Technersts! Hell starts laughing. Oh shit.

Seriously? This gothpaw bunyan motherfucker calls himself a techner cyst? Holy shit. What would you meatbags think of next? He continues laughing and laughing. I mean, what even is that? A techner cysticist? That makes absolutely no sense.

A demon is a demon. An entity is an entity. It doesn't matter if I'm possessing a person or a car or a smart house. All you need is a normal exorcist. You don't need the techno part. Who's Paul Bunyan? Oh, for fuck's sake. I specialize in demons who feel the need to attach to modern technology.

Thus, technorcist. House is quiet for a while. You trademarked the term, didn't you? No. Bullshit. I smell the lie. It's not really a lie. Not really? The trademark is pending.

Ha! I knew it! I'm sorry to be rude. But could we have a little more exercising and a little less conversation? Oh, I love that song! What song? A little less conversation by Elvis Presley. Elvis Presley? The guy in that Austin Butler movie.

The entire house shakes. And every LED light bulb in the house explodes. plunging us into a thick gloom. You do not deserve my possession! I hear cabinets in the kitchen open, followed by the crushing of my dishes and bowls and mugs. My East Fork collection! Panicked at the state of my crockery,

I run into the kitchen. A stray saucer slams into my temple, and I drop like a sack of custom-roasted Sumatran dark roast. Jeff? Hey Jeff, you good? My vision swims for a moment, before I'm able to focus. Alex is standing over me, a worried look on his face.

I'm okay, I think. I hold out my hand. Alex blinks at it. A little help? Oh, yes. Sorry. He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. I wobble a moment from a nasty head rush.

Once I'm stable, I look about my kitchen and mourn the expensive tableware that lies in shards everywhere. The oven comes to life and the door flies open. Flames, shooting out so far that they lick the curtains I have hanging over my sink. No! Those are made of free-range sloth hair! I turn on the faucet and grab the sprayer, hosing down the curtains as fast as I can. But it's too late. They are ruined.

The curtains were ugly anyway. And you rarely ate on all those dishes. I'm doing you a favor, Jeffie-Jephy-Jephy, stinkhole. Do you see the nightmare I live with? I almost want to weep as my hand, lighteners. freshly brushes the scorched curtains. I then turn and stare down at the crockery shards. No one should be subjected to this kind of torment. Wow, you really like those curtains and dishes. The relationship had become codependent. I did come bucket here a favor. A severe attachment to personal belongings can be a backdoor to demonic possession, Jeff.

What the fuck? Are you two working together now? I jab a finger at Alex. I hired you to get rid of this asshole, not banned together. to Theropies me. Therapies isn't a word, Jeffy, Jeffy Stinkhole. No, Jeff's right. It's part of the current lexicon. It means the act of trying to perform therapy on someone

when you aren't qualified to do so. Well, shit. I've been inside a million stupid human brains during my existence, so I am more than qualified to unfuck this guy's head. Except you're a demon and are supposed to do the opposite. Okay. You got me there. Will you two shut up?

Exercise this demon out of my house now. Technercise. Trademark pending. I am about to explode and grab a piece of a dish so I can slash Alex's throat. But then I notice that as he hangs his arms down at his sides, his fingers on both hands are working some sort of tool. All this time I thought he was bonding with the demon, but he's actually doing his job and distracting it.

Sparks fly from Alex's fingertips as he holds up his tools. Let's get fucking real. As Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior, and in the name of Hedy Lamar, I cast you out of this house's operating system. Be gone, demon. May your essence be forever trapped in God's desktop recycle bin. A wailing fills the house,

and what few appliances that haven't already been fried light up like twinkle lights in a college dorm. Doors start slamming over and over. The water turns on in every bathroom. I have three full and two have. The music changes from twisted instrumental versions of nursery rhymes to Lincoln Park. Instead of Bad Bunny's DTMF, my bespoke doorbell, begins playing the bridge to Wonderwall over and over and over.

Then it turns into one giant, cacophonous hellscape of noise. And I can't tell what's wailing and what's water and what's Wonderwall. Make it stop! I press my hands to my hands to my house. ears. Dear God, make it stop! Alex is waving his arms around, and I get a good look at the tools in his hands. Are those fidget spinners? Are you fucking using fidget spinners to get rid of a demon? It's not about the tools, Jeff. It's about the spirit behind them. He continues waving his arms and chanting his mantra of famous tech inventors, while also throwing in some saints here and there. Sparks are

now erupting like fireworks from Alex's fingertips, while House continues wailing. And the name of Gates, be gone! And the name of Wozniak, be gone! And the name of his holy mystery, Steve Jobs, be gone! The wailing builds and builds, forcing me to my knees. Alex staggers, but stays upright. Hunks of broken dishes lift and swirl around us. The oven door slams open and closed over and over and over.

My fridge door snaps off, and all of my charcutory makings explode out, joining with the East Fork tornado that is nicking my skin again and again and again, producing rivulets of blood on my exposed arms and cheeks. And the name of all that is Minecraft, be gone, demon! Alex falls to one knee when my toaster lifts off the kitchen counter and clips him in the side of the head. Laughter joins the wailing, and suddenly the floor rips apart and coils from my radiant heating wrap around my legs, my torso, my arms, and pull me down until I am spread-eagued. and helpless.

Alex! I can't see him anymore. As house forces me into a supine position, my only view, the Sicilian-tiled ceiling I had put in last spring. My interior decorator said it didn't match the aesthetic, but what does she know? Alex! I can no longer hear his chanting. All I hear is house is wailing and laughing in the sounds of plaster cracking and old-growth

redwood splintering. Oh God! Were those my bedroom bookshelves? No! Alex's tall form steps over me. Help me, asshole! He doesn't listen, and I lose sight of him. A noise, louder than the wailing and laughing,

catches my ear, and I am able to turn my head just enough to see the new nightmare coming for me. Rumbas! All four of them! They are speeding toward my head, pausing occasionally to suck up pieces of broken dish or mug or bowl. Alex! You coward! There is nothing you can do to stop me,

fuck, plopper McWilliams. I am every person. I am in everything. I will crack your head open with my army of robotic vacuums and suck out your stupid, stupid brains. What tech bro doesn't know what Radio Shack is? You are worthless and deserve misery for all of eternity. Your soul is mine! Your soul is...

Your soul is... The house is plunged into pure darkness and goes silent. The coils release me. The tornado of crap falls to the floor. The sinks turn off. The oven door stops flapping open and closed, open and closed. The Roombos ignore me and get to work cleaning up the mess. Oh, thank God!

I roll onto my hands and knees. Blood drips from a thousand cuts, and I feel a little lightheaded, but I'm able to slowly get to my feet. I steady myself against the kitchen counter and take several deep breaths. Then there's a loud clunk, and I hear the house start to reboot. No! I jump when the door to the garage. opens and Alex comes walking in. His suit is shredded and hangs and tatters on his tall frame.

He's lost his top hat and his hair is standing on end like he's stuck a finger in a light socket. Hello Jeffrey. Thank you for restoring the factory settings to your whole home home. Shall we get started with your custom setup and personalization of house functions? I scream. Jeff, calm down, man. Alex goes to my fridge and looks inside. Ah, there we go. Got to recharge. He pulls out a jar of pickles, opens it, and drinks the juice straight. Then he smacks his lips and smiles at me. Electrolites, this job really takes it out of me.

I stopped screaming. Wait, is it done? Yes, Jeffrey. The reboot has been completed. I am here to help you in any way I can. How shall we begin? If setting up right now is too much, perhaps you can. can tell me your favorite bands so I can create a custom playlist that will make the process a little more soothing." Alex points at the ceiling.

I realized the problem. You did? I'm barely able to stay upright. I'd have to put a hand on the kitchen counter and lean hard to keep from falling over. I think I'm still losing blood from all those nicks. Oh right. Obviously. So what was the problem? It was simple, really. And all those tech friends of yours owe you a huge apology. They do? Yeah. He smiles and puts the lid back on the pickle jar, setting it inside my fridge. I make a mental note to throw those pickles away.

Okay. Why do my friends owe me an apology? The mediums and psychics and priests didn't know any better, but your bros did. Okay, great. But know what? What are you saying? He bends down and plucks a piece of Iberico ham from my brother. the floor and pops it into his mouth.

Let me guess. He chews while he talks. You made some unauthorized modifications to the house, and never called tech supported whole home, because you didn't want to void the warranty, right? I shift uncomfortably. Um, maybe. Yeah, that's what I thought. You see, when it comes to demonic possession, or any software glitch, really, the first thing

a certified whole home tech does is turn the system off and turn it back. back on. I stared at him, stunned. Wait. What are you saying? That you really didn't need me. And I understand why you didn't call customer support. Honestly, this is all my fault.

I should have asked you if you'd performed a reboot the second you called me. I don't know what I was thinking. I've been a little distracted lately. My girlfriend and I are on what she calls a break. So I've been sort of spiraling lately and... Alex, shut the fuck up. Geez, okay. Okay.

He frowns, looking a little hurt. Now, tell me what you did. I turned off the system and turned it back on. He glances at the kitchen floor and all the destruction. Pulling out his phone, he smiles at me. Sorry about the mess. But I need to get going to another job. So let's settle up, okay?

Are you kidding me? You let my house get destroyed? And then all you do is turn the system off and then back on again? And you expect me to pay you? Yeah. It's all in the doctu sign I sent you. Regardless of the outcome, I get paid in full. He looks at the mess again and nods.

Tell you what. I'll give you 10% off for the trouble, since I should have realized the issue from the start. He waggles his phone at me. I take Venmo and Zell. No PayPal, though. I had an argument with them over a disputed charge and won't be using their services any longer.

I stand there, enraged, but my anger slowly dissipates as he watches me. I actually do remember the clause and the docu sign. So I pull out my phone and bring up the app. Sure. Fine. Whatever. What's the total with the discount? I ask as my fingertips drip blood onto my screen.

And tell me your Venmo username again? Yeah, sure. It's TechnorSysk, 69. All one word with the number spelled out. Not the actual numerals. The username with the numerals is a different guy who lives in Rhode Island. We're constantly having to fix payments to each other. It's a whole thing.

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