Kevin squared his shoulders, muttered “This is gonna be legendary,” and strutted into the park’s central plaza, where a cluster of teenagers gyrationed to “Renegade” like they’d been born with the moves etched into their bones. He’d practiced in his bedroom mirror for three hours, flinging his arms like a windmill with a grudge. Now, he was here. Now, he was gonna be viral.
“Yo, Kevin!” shouted Mia, the girl who’d once posted a clip of her cat doing the “Renegade” dance. “You’re late! The trend’s gonna die without you!”
He grinned, launching into the first move—arms flung wide, hips swiveling like a disco ball had exploded in his pants. The crowd froze. A toddler dropped his popsicle. Kevin, undeterred, did a 180 and tripped over his own feet, face-planting into a bush. The silence was so thick you could slice it with a spoon.
“Is that…?” whispered someone.
Kevin emerged, twigs in his hair, and shrugged. “Takes time to perfect the chaos.” He launched into a new move: a series of frantic headbobs, followed by a sudden freeze. The crowd erupted. Someone yelled, “That’s the new trend! Chaos dance!”
By sunset, Kevin’s face was on a billboard next to a meme of his faceplant. The internet called him “The Unintentional Icon.” He never learned the actual “Renegade” steps. Why would he? His chaos had a 10 million views and a soundtrack of crickets and laughter.