The guest’s face went slack. Hila snorted. The entire crew burst into hysterical, gasping laughter. Even Ethan, mid-insult, lost his train of thought and just pointed at the ceiling, tears streaming down his face.
Ian’s finger hovered over the “Smooth Brain” button—a high-pitched, whiny clip of Ethan’s own voice from 2021. He waited. Timing was everything.
BWOOP. Ian hit the button.
But tonight, a dark horse was in the studio. A former friend, a fallen co-host who had come on to “clear the air.” The air grew thick and cold. The guest started gaslighting, deflecting, rewriting history. Ethan’s smile faded. The crew went silent. The soundbite board, usually a source of chaos and joy, felt like a weapon cache. h3 soundbites
The guest sneered, “Let’s be honest, Ethan. Your whole career is just reacting to other people’s content.”
A single, loud, wet FART noise—the legendary “Sonic the Hedgehog” fart from a malfunctioning toy years ago—blasted through the studio speakers. It was so absurd, so perfectly inappropriate, that it didn’t just break the tension. It nuked it.
The control room of the H3 Podcast was a mess of cables, empty energy drink cans, and the faint, permanent smell of leftover pizza. But for Ian, the silent, stoic soundbite guy, it was a cathedral. And his congregation was a bank of glowing buttons labeled with cryptic names: “Chestnuts,” “Vape Naysh,” “Suey,” and the sacred, rarely-used “Silence.” The guest’s face went slack
“Ignore him? He called our Teddy Fresh ‘overpriced garbage.’ Do you know how much organic cotton goes into a single hoodie?” Ethan’s face was turning a shade of pink that matched the set’s lighting. “It’s not garbage. It’s… it’s fashion . You know what he is? He’s a little scrawny boy .”
The guest left shortly after, defeated not by logic, but by the chaotic, beautiful symphony of the H3 soundboard. And in the control room, Ian took a sip of his cold coffee, pressed the “Papa Bless” button one last time for the road, and let the tiny, digitized voice of a dead meme echo into the night.
Hila, knitting a tiny sweater for one of their dogs, didn’t look up. “Just ignore him, Ethan.” Even Ethan, mid-insult, lost his train of thought
Ethan opened his mouth, but for once, nothing came out. He looked lost.
“You know what, Hila?” Ethan said, leaning into his microphone. “This guy… this guy is a real smooth brain .”
“Thank you, Ian,” Ethan said, pointing at the glass booth. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
A distorted, squeaky voice cut through the studio: “Little scrawny boy… little scrawny boy…”
The room froze. It was a low blow, and it was true enough to sting.