The Influencer Who Tried to Destroy Me

Three years ago, I converted my storefront into a fast-food place selling boxed lunches, serving the construction workers across the street.

I'd worked sites before—knew exactly how hard they had it. I'd also choked down my share of overpriced, garbage-quality lunches from vendors who didn't give a damn.

So I renovated the place to code and set my price at a flat $8. Fifteen different dishes every day, unlimited rice refills.

Business exploded. Workers started coming from sites miles away.

When I ran the numbers at month's end, I was barely breaking even—actually covering labor costs out of pocket.

But watching those guys eat well, eat full, made it worth it. I knew I was doing something right.

Until the day a livestreaming influencer showed up and changed everything.

He pulled his car right up to my entrance and started shouting. "Family! Stop eating street-stall boxed lunches. Starting today, I'm giving out benefits! Three bucks for an all-you-can-eat buffet!"

I knew immediately—he was here for me.

——

While his crew set up the scene, he kept yelling into his phone. "Everyone get over here! Rice and soup, all you want! Plus we're doing giveaways in the stream—prizes up for grabs!"

He pulled container after container from an insulated cooler: braised pork ribs, steamed sea bass, black pepper steak. Nothing like ordinary boxed lunches.

My $8 meals already lost money just to build a reputation. This guy was hawking a $3 buffet loaded with hearty meat dishes.

I recognized him. Marcus Cole—"Conscience" Cole, his fans called him. He specialized in livestreams where he pretended to "care about workers." Also $8 a meal.

A few days earlier, he'd set up right here. First time his stream ever crashed and burned—at the same price, every worker chose my shop instead.

After he ended that stream, he'd walked in with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a few guys trailing behind him. "Hey. Next few days, you close up. I promised my fans I'd give out benefits here."

I stared at him. "Marcus, if you're giving benefits to workers, I'm all for it. But why do I have to close? That doesn't make sense."

His boys started banging on the tables.

"The hell's your attitude? You know who this is? Million-follower influencer!"

"Tips roll in smooth everywhere else, and then we come here and get embarrassed—not a single construction worker showed up to eat!"

"Who the hell sells boxed lunches for eight bucks? We're staying a few more days. You don't close up, don't blame us for what happens next."

I grabbed my phone. "So what if he's a big influencer? Get out or I'm calling the cops."

They cursed their way out the door. Marcus paused at the threshold and threw back one last line: "You refused the toast. Now you'll drink the forfeit. Just wait."

Now, they were back.

The crowd around their stall kept growing. Workers still lined up at my counter hesitated, glanced over—then drifted away.

"Hey Alex, the food over there looks pretty good. I'll check it out for you."

I forced a smile. "Go ahead. Honestly, I'm curious too."

Eight dollars versus three. For guys making two, three hundred a day, that five-dollar difference made the choice instant.

By noon, I had hundreds of boxed lunches sitting untouched.

Marcus strolled in, smirk plastered across his face. "Get it now? You don't close tomorrow, I'll show you what real pressure looks like."

I shook my head. I'd already prepaid a month's worth of ingredients to lock in fresh supplies.

And some workers had paid months of meal fees upfront. I owed them lunches.