Brylan wasn’t just any Wendy’s manager — he was the Wendy’s manager. Clocking in at a crisp $17 an hour, he’d remind anyone within earshot that he was basically the Jeff Bezos of the fast-food game. “Yeah, seventeen bucks. That’s like, almost twenty. You do the math,” he’d smirk, leaning against the soda fountain like it was a throne.

He lived for his schedule. 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. — the “perfect shift,” as he called it. “I don’t gotta wake up at the crack of dawn like all you losers at Starbucks,” he bragged. Brylan would roll into work around 9:57, shades on, sipping an energy drink like he was pulling up to Wall Street.

Coworkers hated how smug he was, but no one could deny the power he wielded: the keys to the safe, the authority to approve early clock-outs, and the ultimate flex — unlimited Frosty refills. To Brylan, that wasn’t just a perk, it was currency.

He wore his nametag like armor. Customers might complain about cold fries, but to Brylan, every word bounced off his shield of corporate superiority. “I make 17 bucks an hour, Karen,” he’d mutter under his breath. “You think I’m worried about your fries?”

When the clock hit 7, Brylan strutted out of Wendy’s like a king leaving his castle, lit cigarette in hand, flicking the ash into the parking lot like it was confetti. He’d remind anyone who listened that he was living the dream — rich in hourly wage, rich in sleep, and richer still in Frostys.

Because in Brylan’s world, $17 an hour wasn’t just pay. It was a lifestyle.