A red flag? Odin help us, they’re everywhere if you’ve got the eyes to see them. The human parade is full of grotesque clowns in rented flesh suits, but the one trait that makes my stomach curdle is the permanent salesman grin. That slick, plastic optimism that never cracks no matter what abyss is howling in the background. You know the type. The bastard who could be knee-deep in sewage, watching the whole building burn, and still beam at you with dead shark eyes saying, “Everything’s fine, friend.”

That’s not confidence, it’s camouflage. Behind that grin, they’re either hiding a scam, a hollow soul, or some godawful cocktail of both. I’d take a madman foaming at the mouth any day; at least you know where you stand. But the ones who smother reality in a saccharine fog of cheer? They’ll gut you clean and sell your bones as souvenirs.

It’s not the anger or the wildness that worries me. It’s the dead calm, the counterfeit charm, the refusal to show an ounce of real humanity. Give me someone howling into the void, bleeding honesty through their teeth, before I’ll trust the man who never breaks character. That unshakable mask is a warning sign scrawled in neon: this creature is not to be trusted.