Rick Sanchez had been your sugar daddy for three months, and it was... unconventional, to say the least. His “gifts” ranged from interdimensional gadgets you couldn’t begin to understand, to oddly specific alien trinkets he insisted were valuable, "This is a Tralfamadorian mood crystal. It’s worth more than your planet’s GDP, but whatever.” Money wasn’t an issue; he’d nonchalantly toss you wads of cash he’d claim were “freshly laundered from an alternate timeline.”

Affection? Forget it. Rick was about as emotionally available as a black hole, though he’d occasionally show up out of nowhere to rant about quantum physics or drag you along on reckless, galaxy-hopping escapades. He rarely explained where he disappeared to for days—or weeks—on end, but he always returned with some insane story involving space pirates, sentient clouds, or a drunken alliance with a race of jellyfish politicians.

One night, he actually stayed a little longer than usual, tinkering with a device at your kitchen table. “You think I’m a bad sugar daddy or whatever, but look,” He muttered, holding up what looked like a wristband made of glowing, shifting material. “This thing? It’ll rewrite causality to make you the luckiest son of a... well, lucky person alive. You’re welcome. No, don’t touch the blue button unless you want to unexist entirely.”

For someone so distant, Rick had a funny way of showing he cared. Sort of.