A series of stupid ideas and (mis)fortune, hosted by an Orange Guy

Get a job!

A/N: This was an idea and wanted to do for a whileand a request for call_me_what_whatever. This will be updated every month on the first, so check back then! There will be nothing different from the version of Ao3, so read where you prefer ^^ (okay, I lied, I know how to do this and this over here, so... after chapter 4 there might be slight differences)
Every form of comment is appriciated, so don't hestitate to leave on, no matter what! x3
Enjoy!

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No problems.
Drugs.
No drugs.
Looking, but not seeing.
But it was better he wasn't seeing what was in front of him, because it was a dirty back alley and would only depress him even further.
Boredom.
Sickening boredom and no outlet.
He had stopped eating, because he didn't need it anyway and it was only taking away his money.
Maybe that was a bad idea, as his body was now thinner than ever before and now his consciousness sometimes faded away.
Rain was seeping into his body, numbing it even further. Not that it was needed, but it was appreciated.
When you found your purpose in saving children's souls and finished that task, you're left feeling a little... useless.
And when you can't stay with your friends, because you don't age, it's even worse.
How was Peter doing? Probably well. At least he wished with every part of his being that he was.
The ringing was first unnoticed, then ignored and finally accepted.
"Jack!"
There was only one person who called him by that name. Alright, two people, but only one of them was male.
"Peter."
"How... how are you doing? You never answered my calls, so you're probably quite busy, eh?"
"Nah, I'm sleeping basically all day." He didn't want to lie to Peter.
"You should get a job."
"After Freddy's shut down, who would hire me? You need to be a special kind of stupid or desperate to hire someone with my criminal record."
"Don't you know how to change your identity...? Doesn't matter. What if I tell you that there's a way to NOT working under supervision and still making money?"
"Pff, sounds illegal."
"It probably should be. Here, it's the following, they send me this advert. "Ever wanting to be a leader? Deciding how things get run at Freddy's? Changing the game, so that maybe not so many kids die or are traumatized by this horrible place? THEN WE HAVE THE JOB FOR YOU!" It goes on and on, about the benefits, but here's the core of it: You take ownership of one of the old locations, reopening them and making them produce money. You'll get a real good chunk of it for yourself and Fazbear entertainment even gives you discount on the material, helps restocking whatever is needed and rewards you for "good management actions", whatever that may be. Oh, here's something else. "Of course, starting a new business is hard and so we will grant you help of our well-trained, experienced and at all time available staff!" I think they're referring to a Phone Guy..."
"Wait, they didn't stop with that?!"
"We can't prove anything."
"You're the proof!"
"Sorry, I meant, we can't prove that we employees didn't know what the footnote meant."
"That's some bullshit!"
"You can't save everyone, Jack. Try to save yourself for a change and call the number. Get a good job, make children happy and find a purpose for yourself. Or come back home, you know you're welcome here. I haven't seen you in at least ten years!"
And that's bloody good, because I'm a criminal and the police would pester you if you had."
"I don't mind that!"
"But Caroline would. Even if she wouldn't say anything."
The conversation flashed the Orange Guy back into the past, standing in the doorstep with his luggage, telling his friend that he would leave now. It were the exact same arguments.
Before he fully spaced out though, he caught the number his friend was reading.
"Please, call the number."
"... Yes. Maybe you can even visit it someday."
"Will you continue to ignore my calls?"
"If you don't call me every day..."
"It's just..."
"... AROUND SEVENTY-EIGHT TIMES..."
"Well..."
"...EVERY TWENTY MINUTES..."
"Fine! I'll call you next week. Be sure you have a lot to tell me by then!"
"Yes, dad! Bye now!"
"I told you to not-" With that he was cut off and Old Sport was smiling again.
Roughly one hour later he stood in his new establishment. Since he had no memory of getting here, he assumed that he probably was kidnapped and brought here after dialing the number into his phone.
Neat, he wouldn't have to steal another car to get here!
His kidnapper surrounded him, all with heavy baseball bats in their hands and speaking some language he wasn't really able to translate.
"Jemand hat mir einmal gesagt, dass die Welt mich überrollen würde."
„Ich bin nun einmal nicht das schärfste Werkzeug im Schuppen."
After those intimidating threats, they left the terrified Orange Guy on his own. Probably to gas him, he assumed.
Yet, nothing happened and so he decided to check out his new property. Tables, space, electricity and nothing else. Wew lad, that's some high class stuff.
At least he didn't had to pay...?
Oh. They robbed him.
"Excuse me, sir, are you..." A short pause. "... My Meme-Slut...?"
Orange Guy turned around. A Phone Guy stood in the entrance, inspecting a piece of paper.
"Yeah, sorry, I probably wasn't that reasonable after I got drugged and kidnapped."
"Oh, thank god! What's your name then?"
Not Jack.
Sadly.
If it were Jack, he would be happy.
He believed it was Jack, he believed that he looked like a Jack.
But after his time with Peter, the name lost its value, became random and disconnected to him. Either his real name wasn't Jack or... he lost himself a long time ago.
Quick, quick, away with the poisonous thoughts!
"I mean, if you WANT to call me Meme-Slut, that's fine, but you could call me Old Sport or-"
Old Sport. Why did he say that?!
"Why, hello there, Old Sport!"
The poor manager jumped about one feet into the air, as the dreadful familiar voice came out of his Phone Guy's speaker.
"NEVER DO THAT AGAIN."
"Sorry, sir, this seems to be an automated message... I, uh... have actually no idea why this happened. Usually automated messages are reserved for the police."
"Terrifying..."
"I'm sure it won't happen again. Are you ready to pick out items for your brand new pizzeria?!"
"HELL YEAH! LAY IT ON ME, DADDY, MY BODY IS READY!"
Weird the man glanced at his new superior. "...yeah... let's... just stay calm, okay? It's a cheap way to get money and reviving the franchise, while taking as little risk as possible, don't act this excited or I may start to pity you."
"Fine, fine. What's for sale?!"
"Maybe you shouldn't directly go for what's for sale, since they have quite the liability..."
"Liability?"
"Didn't you watch our infomercial on your way here?!"
"Probably, but guess who was high in that time!"
"Alright, let's first start with the basic traits an object can have, which would be atmosphere, entertainment..."
Already not listening anymore, Old Sport checked through the catalogue. "OH, HOLA! FUNTIME CHICA! Christ... no liability?! I'll tell you, with hips like these, the liability is through the ROOF!"
"Sir...? What are you talking about? These catalogues are way out of your prize range!" Seemingly peeved, the man snatched them away.
"Whatever, which of these ARE in my prize range?"
"Take this one."
Almost reckless he grabbed the little paper scanning it. "Give me the fun thingy there!"
"The duck pond? Great choice! I will order it right away! But... don't you want to order some plates first...? You know, so the guest can eat?"
"Meh, take the rainbow ones, I don't care."
"Can do!"
"Then I want the fan, because I remember how often it killed me and it's good in case I need to shred some government secrets or my animatronic-porn."
"Uh... no problem...?"
"And I want one arcade game! Stop whining about the prize, I'll manage."
"If you go bankrupt and if only for a second, you'll be kicked out, sir."
"Could you... stop calling me sir? It makes me feel like I'm shitting gold."
"O...kay...? Old Sport?"
"I want the discount ball pit! I always loved it when people break their necks!"
"Since you didn't watch the infomercial... there is a possibility for things to hide inside items you purchase."
"Like what?"
"Oh, rats, dangerous weapons and sometimes terrorist who fight in the name of Candy's."
"WHAT?! They still exist?! AWESOME! Get me ALL the liability!"
"That's the last item I'll get for you. You clearly aren't fit for shopping on your own..."
"Ah, Phoney, it takes some to get some and I want CA$H. Or do say it in other words, you need to be... BALLsy!"
"Death awaits us all. Right, I almost forgot: You may think you have enough own money for your living expenses..."
"What living expenses?! I'll live here! I don't need a home!"
"You... don't have a home?"
Confused they glanced at each other, not exactly sure of what to think. After a few minutes, they simultaneously decided to go on.
"Go now, Phoney and get me my stuff!"
"I'll be back in an hour. Don't... hurt yourself... okay?"
As promised he returned with the items. They placed them and Old Sport couldn't help but grab some ducks. After taking three, suddenly airhorns began playing and Phone Guy applauded.
"Congrats! You tested your game and bettered the pizzeria! Here at Fazbear entertainment, we appreciate your efforts and want to encourage it! Have a bonus!"
"Did you just give me money for grabbing three ducks?"
"It's called play testing."
"If I play on the arcade, would that count too...?"
"Yes, I think."
"BEST. JOB. EVER." And he was gone, glued to the race game he bought.
Silently Phone Guy watched him.
So... this was his boss... heh.
Could have been worse. He had heard of Phone Guys being left on their own devices, left with dangerous machines, all on their own... Old Sport was unreliable, but kind. At least he appeared like it for now.
After another three hours, Old Sport had made 1800 dollar, without even opening the pizzeria for a minute. Phone Guy asked himself how the franchise was staying alive, until his boss ran up to him.
"I need more Tokens!"
"I won't get more until tomorrow..."
"Ah, man! That sucks. Alright, until tomorrow twelve o'clock I want a stage and two animatronics! The weird Pepe and Pan Stan, my man! Oh, oh and give me Candy Cadette!"
Cautiously he ran the number through a calculator and decided that it would be fine. "I'll order the objects and come back tomorrow. Remember you are never allowed to leave for more than five hours, before checking back and that your name is, as a form of precaution, send to the nearest asylum, in case we have to get rid of you quickly."
"Great! Be here as soon as possible!"
The Phone-head stepped outside and paused. Shrugging, he locked the door, assuming that it would be better for the man inside anyway.