My Coworker Faked Buying A Sports Car — Then Showed Me A Picture Of My Own Vehicle

Part 1

Watching a grown man construct an elaborate lie to stroke his fragile ego is a unique form of torture.

Tyler sat across the sticky booth table, leaning over his empty pint glass with a smug, manufactured smirk.

Adjusting his posture to maximize his space in the booth seemed to be his main priority.

Greg sat next to him nodding along to every single word.

The overhead fan rattled against the ceiling beams of the crowded pub.

Checking my watch under the table revealed we were only forty minutes into Friday happy hour.

Running a hand through his heavily gelled hair gave Tyler an air of manufactured confidence.

He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward to ensure we were both hanging onto his every syllable.

Our weekly team drinks usually involved complaining about management or comparing project deadlines.

Tonight had quickly devolved into the Tyler show.

Exaggerating his accomplishments was practically a competitive sport for him.

Last week he claimed his fake designer watch was a rare vintage import.

Nobody in the office ever called him out on his endless stream of tall tales.

Keeping the peace was easier than dealing with his fragile ego.

He brought up his latest theory about modern dating and how the entire system was completely broken.

People only cared about superficial metrics according to his extensive and entirely anecdotal research.

He threw his shoulders back, letting his tightly tailored shirt strain against his chest.

Ultimate proof of this societal decay was finally in his possession, he announced proudly.

Fascination washed over Greg’s face, causing him to lean in even closer.

I took a slow sip of my drink, using the glass as a valid excuse not to respond.

Fingers tapped against the worn wood of the table in a steady, irritating rhythm.

Tyler explained his grand social experiment to us with absolute sincerity.

Car shopping had apparently been his main focus earlier that week.

Settling on a brand new Camaro was his way of rewarding himself for a recent phantom promotion.

Posting a few pictures of it on his social media was just to show his network what he was considering.

Dramatic pauses were a staple of his exhausting storytelling technique.

Scanning our faces ensured we were suitably impressed by his immense financial flex.

His inbox was supposedly flooded within twenty minutes of the upload.

Women he had never even met were suddenly messaging him out of nowhere.

Mock disappointment colored his voice as he shook his head slowly.

This just went to show how shallow some people really were in today’s twisted society.

They were all after the wrong thing entirely.

Self-respect was apparently a foreign concept to these mysterious women slipping into his messages.

Reading out loud from his supposed message requests became his next performance piece.

One girl apparently praised him for appreciating classic American muscle cars.

Another mysterious admirer allegedly begged him for a sunset drive up the coast.

He laughed at the sheer desperation of these imaginary women.

Greg was practically taking notes on how to achieve this level of magnetism.

Shaking my head at the ridiculousness of the situation went completely unnoticed by both of them.

That specific model of car wasn’t exactly cheap on our current salaries.

A down payment on that specific model required years of strict budgeting for anyone in our department.

I knew this firsthand, having just spent three years surviving on instant ramen to afford my own vehicle.

Bringing my new purchase to the office for the first time today was a massive personal milestone.

His conversation then shifted aggressively to the topic of meeting people in person.

He insisted the real world was the only place to find true authenticity in a potential partner.

He claimed his height was the only reason women didn’t immediately fall for him without the car.

Being under six feet was practically a death sentence in the modern dating market according to him.

His elaborate theories always circled back to how unfair the world was to guys like him.

A loud cheer erupted from the pool tables behind us.

The smell of stale beer and fried food hung heavy in the warm air.

Setting my glass down hard enough to rattle the ice finally interrupted his endless monologue.

Narrowing my eyes at him felt completely involuntary at this point.

I asked him directly if he actually bought a sports car and had random women throwing themselves at him.

Believing that narrative was incredibly difficult for anyone with a functioning brain.

Crossing my arms over my chest created a physical barrier between us.

My voice remained low and steady over the heavy background noise of the bar.

Telling him I really didn’t buy a single word of his story changed the atmosphere instantly.

Rapid blinking betrayed Tyler’s sudden panic at being openly challenged.

His jaw tightened defensively as he calculated his next move.

Shifting his weight in the booth made the vinyl squeak loudly.

Puffing his chest out slightly more was his default defense mechanism whenever he felt threatened.

Insisting he wasn’t going to lie to me sounded exactly like a line rehearsed in a mirror.

Bringing up his physical stature out of nowhere entirely derailed the argument.

Exactly five foot ten was the height he aggressively claimed to be on every dating app.

Women always told him he looked much taller in person anyway.

Leaning across the table allowed him to ask me directly if I thought he was tall.

Staring at me waiting for validation made the silence between us incredibly uncomfortable.

Glancing down at his boots provided all the answers I would ever need.

Thick rubber soles added at least two noticeable inches to his frame.

Shifting my gaze back to his face offered absolutely no reassurance.

Greg jumped in eagerly to defend his mentor’s honor.

Bragging was not Tyler’s intention at all according to Greg’s warped perspective.

This was simply a prime example of how superficial women think.

Backing up the claim about the direct messages made Greg complicit in the sad fantasy.

Earnest nods directed my way were clearly meant to persuade me.

Reaching into his jacket pocket broke the awkward staring contest.

Tyler pulled out his phone and unlocked the screen with an arrogant flourish.

A smug smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

Promising to show me the exact pictures he posted was supposed to finally shut me up.

Swiping through his chaotic photo gallery took much longer than expected.

Tapping on a specific image finally enlarged the definitive proof he was seeking.

Sliding the device across the sticky wood pushed it right into my direct line of sight.

The bright screen illuminated my face in the dim lighting of the booth.

Glossy red paint dominated the entire foreground of the picture.

A distinct scuff mark sat unmistakably on the bottom left corner of the front bumper.

Custom matte black rims matched a very specific aftermarket order I knew intimately.

A faded parking permit hung loosely from the rearview mirror in plain view.

Tracing the outline of the license plate with my eyes confirmed my absolute worst suspicions.

Leaning back waiting for my apology gave Tyler a severely misplaced sense of victory.

Picking up the phone allowed me to get a much closer look at the background details.

The familiar parking lot of our office building framed the shot perfectly.

Tyler slid his phone across the table to show off the custom red paint job, and my lungs completely emptied.