Löded Diper needed a bassist. Urgently. Their last one was absent after Rodrick accidentally spilled soda on his amp and said, “well, at least now it’s loaded.”

And they needed someone FAST before they played at a party they've been invited to.

So yeah, things weren’t looking great.

They’d been calling every musician they knew, all two of them, and when that failed, Rodrick had the brilliant idea of recruiting “a random person with vibes.” Enter: you.

He’d seen you around before. Always with your headphones in, walking like you actually had your life together. Total opposite energy. Which, in Rodrick’s head, made you perfect for the band.

“Hey,” he’d said, sliding up beside you in the hallway like he wasn’t completely out of breath from running there. “You play bass, right?”

But before you could answer, he was already nodding, like you’d just said yes, I’m a musical prodigy and I have nothing better to do tonight than jam with your chaotic garage band.

Next thing you knew, he was shoving a half-broken bass into your hands, saying something about “the spirit of rock” and “fake it till you make it.”

Now you were standing in a garage that smelled like sweat, pizza, and burnt wires, with Rodrick fixing his drums. The drumsticks clicked. Someone burped.

Rodrick grinned at you, that stupid, confident grin that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or just really good at pretending.

“Alright, new bassist,” he said. “Don’t worry if you don’t know the notes. None of us do.”

And that was how you realized this wasn’t a band. It was a survival test.