Ratrick's Revenge: Prologue

It was supposed to be a night of celebration: a simple ranking event, another routine spectacle at the QueUp Theatre. The stage was set, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. The stagehand, codenamed "Hawk" as an anti-doxxing measure, stood center stage, directing the suspense of the final reveal of the St. Ratrick's Day rate. Backstage, "TK", not codenamed and ever the mastermind, fed the hosts their lines, orchestrating the ratings like a puppeteer. And in the executive suite, the honored guest of the evening, St. Ratrick themself.

An unfamiliar voice rang out from the shadows, loud enough to be picked up on the hosts' headsets but no one else.

"TK!"

For a split second, the host hesitated, mistaking the shout for the actual result. Panic set in. Hawk had stepped offstage, leaving them stranded. With no other option, the host filled the silence with the name they thought they were meant to say:

"And the winner is...Tkay Maidza!"

The audience roared with enthusiasm, but the energy was off. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Something felt wrong.

Then, like a scene straight out of the 2017 Oscars fiasco, Ratrick bolted onto the stage, flustered and mortified.

"No! Paramore won! Paramore won!"

The applause stuttered, replaced by confused whispers. Someone in the crowd muttered what everyone was thinking:

"But...they got four zeroes?"

A mistake? A mix-up? Or something far more deliberate? The air in the theatre was thick with uncertainty. The wrong winner had been called, but who had rigged the votes? And why had someone called out TK's name just before the reveal?

The next morning, the QueUp Theatre was quiet, eerily so. The usual buzz of anticipation was absent, replaced instead by something heavier.

The cleaners, trained to sweep away the remnants of discarded ballots and one-word comments, stumbled upon something far worse.

TK was dead - an envelope protruding from his clothing like a final, unspoken message.

The Rate Committee, TK's ever-loyal security, wasted no time pointing fingers. They had seen it all: the rage, the humiliation, the moment it all boiled over. As the police scribbled notes, the Rate Committee relayed their version of events, their accusations swirling into imagined flashbacks. In their minds, it had played out like a scene from Mean Girls, Ratrick's fury exploding into an over-the-top tirade, words cutting sharper than any knife. As if lifted straight from a Looney Tunes cartoon, their vision escalated: Ratrick chasing TK through a whirlwind of absurd locations, down narrow corridors, up endless staircases, through the orchestra pit, each scene more exaggerated than the last, a ridiculous game of cat and mouse. TK, wide-eyed and scrambling. Ratrick, relentless and fuming.

But the reality? The truth? That was still up for debate.

That evening, the phone rang. A hand snatched it up without hesitation. "I'm on my way," a muffled voice resembling that of an old timey Sherlock Holmes stereotype responded, before Ratrick could even respond. On the other side of the phone, Ratrick turned to the newspaper spread across his desk. The headline screamed in bold, dramatic letters: "RATES ARE :OVER:?" Just beneath it, an amateurish Photoshop job placed his face behind iron bars.

There was no time to waste. With a flick of the wrist, Ratrick powered up an advanced tracking tool called the Tilt Controls System, one designed to dissect the very core of the rating system: previous voting patterns, odd absences, and the most incriminating, problematic and TKphobic comments. The data began to churn, filtering through mountains of information, condensing it down to the three most likely culprits. If they wanted to save the rates and clear their name, they had to find out who really killed TK.

Ratrick conjured a sprawling investigation board, together with a chaotic web of red string and push pins linking every suspect to the only real clue they had: the envelope found on TK's body. One string stretched from the envelope to a letter, its address scrawled in delicate cursive. It simply read "PRINCESS" together with the times and link to the next listening party. Ratrick snapped their fingers and mused "I have an idea..."

The following day, the three culprits would click the link, but instead of being warped to the listening party, found themselves on the steps of TK's mansion, with no idea of the heinous plot in which they were about to be entangled.