Ignore the baby oil

You’re starting to feel the slightest edge of worry as you eye the truckload of baby oil, crates piled high, each stamped “Sensitive Cargo” in crisp black letters. The delivery guy doesn’t meet your gaze as he hauls box after box into the mansion, avoiding eye contact like he’s sneaking in some contraband.

But hey, who are you to judge the artistic genius of Mr. Diddy? Maybe he’s into…well, moisturizing. Geniuses have their quirks, right?

You’re trying to ignore the truck and focus on how this night is supposed to be the big break when a guard steps up to you. He says, not quite meeting your eye, “if you would follow me, please. Mr. Diddy is… expecting you.”

His voice has that graveyard-shift-at-the-hospital tone, like he’s given up trying to understand what’s happening here. But that’s fine. You’re here to make connections, not question Mr. Diddy’s skincare routines. You plaster on a polite smile. “Uh, great! Lead the way.”

He takes you through an endless corridor, one that twists and turns like something from a maze, lined with strangely erotic art. Just as you’re wondering if this corridor even has an end, the guard stops at a massive door covered in black velvet.

Then, without warning, the door creaks open to reveal the man himself—Diddy, in all his regal, larger-than-life presence. He’s wearing a silk robe that glimmers like molten gold and carrying a cigar the size of your forearm.

“Ah! You made it!” Diddy’s grin is wide, almost too wide. His eyes, gleaming in the low light, don’t quite match it. He steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder, his grip a tad too tight. “Welcome to my domain. I’ve got big plans for you, kid.”

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Mr. Diddy,” you say, your voice a little too high-pitched in your own ears. “I’m such a huge fan, and this is really, honestly, like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He chuckles, gesturing for you to come closer. You take a few eager steps forward, the candles casting your shadow long and wavering against the walls. “So,” he says, his eyes gleaming, “tell me, John. Are you ready to give it everything you’ve got?”

The way he says it makes something prickle at the back of your neck. But you nod, swallowing your nerves. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

His smile widens, showing just a bit too much teeth. “Good, good.” He claps his hands, and from out of nowhere, two hulking security guards appear, flanking you like silent specters. “Then let’s get you ready.”

“Ready for…?” You barely finish the question before one of the guards nudges you forward, leading you down yet another corridor.

“The party, of course,” Diddy calls after you. “My friends are dying to meet you.”

When you reach the grand hall, you see the other guests—a crowd of Hollywood elites, influential politicians, big-name moguls. You recognize some faces right away: Bryan Singer, the X-Men director; Jerry Seinfeld, the legendary comedian; and even Ron Perlman. A lot of the guests are affluent, high-profile types, many of them vocal supporters of Israel, like your manager.

Your heart skips. This is really it. These are the kind of people who could make your career in seconds.

But then Diddy snaps his fingers, and the two guards step forward, each holding a bottle of baby oil, uncapping it with an unsettling nonchalance.

“Now,” Diddy says, voice smooth and playful, but his eyes cold, “we’re going to see if you’ve got the right shine, kid. Strip down, and let’s see you give it a go.”

You laugh nervously, waiting for someone to break the joke. But no one laughs. One of the guards gives the bottle a little shake, and a hush falls over the room as every eye in the hall turns to you.

Choose your own adventure:

1. Strip and rub baby oil all over your body.
2. Run.