That’s when he found it: a dark, dusty corner of the internet called . The banner read: “Facebook Cheats – No Clicks. No Bots. Just Psychology.”
Step two was darker. “Comment on a celebrity’s post with a political opinion so wildly incorrect that everyone feels compelled to correct you. Every reply is an engagement. Every angry react is a data point.”
He needed more. Not for business. For validation .
He typed: “Honestly, penguins aren’t real. They’re government drones.”
He deleted the app.
He smiled. It was the most honest breakfast he’d ever had.
By step four, he was running a Facebook group called “We Stan a Conspiracy Queen.” Step five had him faking a crying video about a lost wedding ring (he was single). Step six required him to start a feud with a local celebrity chef over whether pineapple belongs on pizza.
Then step seven arrived via encrypted message: “Congratulations. You are now a Lord of Likes. Your final cheat: Post a photo of yourself holding today’s newspaper. Caption: ‘I am a real person with real feelings. My soul is for sale. Starting bid: 10,000 likes.’”
