Black Friday isn’t for the faint of heart.
It’s not just a sale. It’s survival of the fittest. A game of patience, strategy, and sheer endurance.
Everyone has a plan, a goal, a dream deal they’re willing to brave freezing temperatures and brutal crowds to snag.
And at the center of it all? The unwritten rule: you wait your turn.
But there’s always someone who thinks they’re above it all. Someone who believes the rules don’t apply to them.
That’s the thing about Black Friday, though. It doesn’t reward arrogance.
It rewards the people who put in the work, who respect the chaos, who play the game the right way.
And this year, the game was about to teach someone a lesson they wouldn’t forget.
Lines, Loyalty, and Limited Stock
I pulled into the parking lot a little after 3 a.m., my breath fogging up the windshield as I parked under one of the few working streetlights.
The cold was the kind that gnawed at your fingers even through gloves, but I wasn’t about to let it stop me. Not today.
The line had already started.
A cluster of chairs and blankets sprawled along the sidewalk outside the electronics store, like a patchwork quilt of dedication. Most of the faces looked as tired as I felt. Bundled up, sipping coffee from thermoses, or scrolling on their phones to pass the time.
I stepped out of the car, grabbing my camping chair and thermos from the trunk. The wind cut through my coat like a knife, and I shivered as I joined the line.
“Morning, Samantha,” Marcus called from a few spots ahead. He was a Black Friday regular, always prepared with a heavy-duty sleeping bag and a playlist of lo-fi beats to keep him company.
“Hey, Marcus,” I said, settling into my spot. “How’s it looking?”
“You’re lucky you got here when you did,” he said, nodding toward the growing line behind me. “They’ve only got 15 of the consoles. You’re in the top 10, though, so you’re golden.”
The tension in my chest eased slightly.
The gaming console had been on my radar for weeks. Limited stock, huge discount, and the perfect gift for my little brother.
Missing out wasn’t an option.
The camaraderie in the line was as much a part of the ritual as the waiting itself. People passed around hand warmers, swapped stories about past Black Friday chaos, and shared intel about deals at other stores.
It wasn’t all competition. There was an unspoken sense of fairness, a mutual respect for the hours we were all putting in.
At 4 a.m., the store manager stepped outside, clipboard in hand. His breath puffed out in white clouds as he addressed the crowd.
“Alright, folks, here’s the deal,” he said. “We’ve got 15 units of the gaming console. First 15 people will get wristbands. No wristband, no console. No exceptions. Once you’re inside, you’ve got 30 minutes to shop. Be ready.”
I held my breath as he worked his way down the line, handing out neon green wristbands. When he reached me, he paused and glanced at his clipboard.
“Number 10,” he said, sliding the band onto my wrist.
I exhaled slowly, relief washing over me as I adjusted the snug band.
Marcus grinned back at me. “Lucky number 10, huh? Guess you’re all set.”
“Guess so,” I said, settling back into my chair. I tightened my scarf against the cold and sipped my coffee, feeling the weight of the wristband on my arm like a ticket to victory.
But Black Friday wasn’t over yet.
The Queue Jumper Appears
By 5:30 a.m., the line had doubled. People shuffled their feet to keep warm, breath clouding the air as the sky started to lighten.
The buzz of anticipation was palpable. Black Friday was a marathon, but the finish line was finally in sight.
And then he showed up.
A black SUV rolled into the parking lot, its headlights slicing through the dim morning haze. The engine purred as the car idled at the curb.
I glanced up, mildly curious, and saw him step out: tall, cocky, and far too clean-cut for someone supposed to be braving Black Friday.
His sneakers were spotless—white as snow—and his puffer jacket looked like it had just come off the rack.
He didn’t have a chair, a blanket, or even a backpack. Just his phone in one hand and an air of entitlement that radiated like heat.
The line collectively tensed as he sauntered toward us, his eyes flicking over the crowd like we were a minor inconvenience.
“Really?” Marcus muttered under his breath. “This guy?”
The man strolled down the line, his phone in hand, making no effort to hide his disdain.
“Y’all really camped out for this?” he said, smirking. “Couldn’t be me.”
No one responded. Most of us had learned to ignore people like him. Arrogance isn’t worth engaging with.
But the guy wasn’t done.
He walked the length of the line, pausing near the front. I watched as he glanced at the wristbands, his smirk widening.
And then, without a word, he stepped into an empty spot behind the first person in line.
Just like that.
“Uh, excuse me?” a woman near the front said, her voice sharp. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He turned, his smile unshaken. “Relax. I was here earlier. Just had to run home for a bit.”
A ripple of disbelief spread through the line. Marcus leaned over to me, muttering, “This dude serious?”
I stared at the guy, who was now leaning casually against the wall, scrolling on his phone like he owned the place.
“Yup,” I said. “He’s serious.”
The murmurs grew louder, people pulling out their phones to record. Someone called out, “Hey, if you were here earlier, where’s your wristband?”
Evan didn’t even look up. “Anthony’s got me covered,” he said smoothly.
My eyes flicked toward the manager, who was standing near the entrance, clipboard in hand. From what I could tell, Anthony hadn’t noticed this guy’s stunt. Or if he had, he wasn’t dealing with it yet.
But I knew something this person didn’t.
Black Friday is a game. And the rules don’t bend for anyone.
Not even for guys like him.
Bluffing the System
By the time the doors opened at 6 a.m., the line buzzed with a mix of excitement and simmering irritation.
The murmurs about the guy who cut the line had grown louder as people passed the time. Some recorded him from a distance, while others vented to each other in low, frustrated whispers.
No one liked a queue jumper, especially on Black Friday.
This guy, however, didn’t care.
He stood near the front of the line, scrolling through his phone like the crowd didn’t exist. When someone muttered, “You don’t even have a wristband,” he just smiled without looking up.
“Don’t need one,” he said confidently.
Marcus leaned over to me, shaking his head. “Bet you ten bucks he crashes and burns,” he said with a smirk.
When the doors opened, the line moved in an organized shuffle. Wristband holders were directed to one entrance while the rest of the shoppers filtered through a second set of doors.
The employees scanned each wristband, checking them against their clipboard lists before letting people in to claim their items.
I got through the checkpoint easily, flashing my green wristband and moving toward the gaming console counter.
The excitement was mounting. Only a few more minutes, and I’d have the console I’d waited all night for.
But I deliberately slowed down near the counter, watching over my shoulder as the line cutter swaggered toward the wristband checkpoint.
This was going to be good.
The guy stepped up to the employee at the door like he owned the place. “Hey,” he said, grinning. “I’m here for the console.”
The employee glanced at the list, then at his empty wrist. “Wristband?”
He gave a small laugh, the kind of laugh that said, This is a waste of my time. “Oh, I don’t have one. Anthony knows me. We’re good.”
The employee hesitated. “The manager? He didn’t mention anyone without a wristband. I can’t let you through unless you have one.”
The man’s grin faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered. “Look, I talked to Anthony last week. He said I’d be fine. Just let me through, and I’ll grab my console.”
Before the employee could respond, Anthony, the manager, walked over. He must have overheard the conversation because he approached with a clipboard tucked under one arm, looking unimpressed.
“Everything okay here?” Anthony asked, his sharp eyes locking onto Evan.
The rule breaker’s confidence came roaring back. “Yeah, we’re good. I was just explaining. I talked to you last week about the console. You said you’d hold one for me.”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. “I did?”
“Yeah,” the guy said, nodding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We had a whole conversation. You said to just come by.”
Anthony’s face was unreadable as he crossed his arms. “I do tell people to stop by on Black Friday,” he said slowly. “But I also told everyone they’d need a wristband to purchase the limited items. Do you have one?”
The guy’s smirk cracked for the first time. “Well… no, but I’ve been here all morning. Ask anyone!”
Anthony glanced at the crowd, where several people were now watching with phones raised. I saw my chance and spoke up, my voice loud and clear.
“Actually, he showed up an hour ago and cut the line. None of us have seen him before that.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the line. Marcus added, “Yeah, rules are rules, man. We’ve been out here all night. Where’s your wristband?”
The man’s expression twisted as he realized he was losing the crowd. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “I’ve been here. I waited just like everyone else!”
Anthony didn’t flinch. “If you’d been here, you’d have a wristband. No wristband, no console. Rules are rules.”
He nodded to the security guard stationed by the door. “Please escort him out.”
Rules and Karma Collide
The security guard stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the line cutter’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said calmly.
The guy’s face flushed a deep red. “This is insane! You can’t do this! I’ll pay extra. Double the price! Just let me buy the damn thing!”
Anthony shook his head. “This isn’t an auction. It’s about fairness. And right now, you’re holding up the line for people who followed the rules. Goodbye.”
The guard gently but firmly guided the guy toward the exit.
The crowd in line started clapping, the sound swelling as he was marched out of the store. Someone even gave a loud, sarcastic whistle.
I didn’t clap. I didn’t need to. Watching that guy’s bluster crumble under the weight of his own entitlement was satisfying enough.
When I reached the counter, the employee scanned my wristband and smiled. “#10, huh? You’re in luck. This is one of the last consoles.”
I grinned, feeling the weight of my hard-earned victory. “Perfect,” I said, sliding my credit card across the counter.
As I exited the store, console in hand, I spotted the entitled line cutter pacing near his SUV in the parking lot, furiously yelling into his phone.
“I don’t care what it costs! Just get me one!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the cold morning air.
He turned, locking eyes with me as I walked past. His gaze dropped to the box in my hands, and his face twisted with a mix of disbelief and pure frustration.
I paused, letting the moment sink in.
“#10,” I said casually, holding the box up just enough for him to see. “Earned it.”
Evan opened his mouth, but no words came out. For the first time all morning, he was speechless.
Marcus caught up to me, his own box tucked under his arm. “You just made my day,” he said, laughing.
I just smiled as we walked toward our cars.