A Texelz game · Steam, planned for Q4 2026
SHE TOOK THE KIDS.
YOU TOOK THE JOB.
A pixel-art idle sim about a man who gets paid to drink, in a house that changes every single time you buy something.
Day 58. The couch, the plaques, the neon, the good fridge and the television were bought one at a time.
What it is
You take a job nobody should take. Twelve beers on the board, each one worth more and hitting harder than the last. The rent is real. So is the hangover.
Underneath the counter there are four numbers pulling against each other — money, energy, buzz and respect — and every choice you make feeds one at the cost of another. Drink faster, earn more, remember less. It's an idle game with a bad decision at the center of it.
Buy an upgrade and it appears. The rug, the lamp, the second fridge, the certificate on the wall. You can read your whole save by looking at the room.
Texts from people who are worried about you. Calls you shouldn't take. A landline that goes off at 2am. Your kids have their own numbers and they use them.
The clock doesn't move while you're reading a memory or a note. Nothing in this game punishes you for paying attention.
Every upgrade is a prop
Left is day two: a folding table, a dead TV and forty-six dollars. Right is day fifty-eight. Nothing in that room is decoration you unlock — it is the shop list, standing up.
Same camera, same character. 41 props, three houses and a shop with 79 things in it.
Day nine, same room. A bed, curtains, a lamp. It starts small.
House two. You moved once, and it shows.
The shop on day one. What you haven't found yet stays ??? and stays that way.
Brewber Eats. Food is a mechanic, and so is the guy who brings it.
New · the block
There's a door on the far right of every house. Through it is Mulberry Street, and the clock keeps running the whole time you're out there.
BrewCorp HQ has a marble lobby, a three-tier fountain nobody drinks from, and elevators marked STAFF ONLY. The receptionist gives you one complimentary six-pack a day — and about one time in five it's a case of something you haven't unlocked yet.
The gas station has the rack by the counter: eight permanent perks bought with chips, and chips only come out of rehab. One keeps a slice of your money through it. One keeps your entire job tree. They survive every reset, which is the whole point of them.
Your neighbour never answers the door. Six different ways of not answering, one a day.
Mulberry Street. Your house on the left, work on the right.
The lobby. The fountain cost ninety thousand dollars.
Fuel-N-Go. The rack is the one by the counter.
Chips are rare. There are eight things to spend them on.
Every empty remembers which screen you left it on. Drink on the bench, chuck the cans, walk into a shop — and when you come back out it's one in four that somebody's standing next to them.
Pick up that can.The officer · costs you 8% of your wallet
He only turns up leaving a building that isn't your house. Your own floor is your own business.
He waits until you do it, and you get nothing for that can.
Rain, snow, wind and fog, rolled fresh each morning. Purely for looks.
It changes every morning and it has no mechanical effect whatsoever. It's there because a street that's the same every day isn't a street, it's a menu.
Hollis Ferry, population whatever
Turn it on and leave it on. Three networks, 35 episodes and 14 commercials, all written out, all playing on their own timeline whether or not you're looking at the screen.
You never have to watch it. Nothing you need is in there. It is the thing on in the background of a life, and it runs about twenty-three minutes deep so far.
From across the room, where you'll usually hear it.
The menu room is your save, furnished. Three slots, and none of them get deleted by me.
The part that isn't funny
The job is the joke. The rest of it isn't. Between shifts there are memories you can sit down and read, texts you can answer badly, and a slow accounting of what the money actually cost. You can play this as a pure numbers-go-up game and never open any of it. Most people won't.
A memory. The clock is stopped while you read it.
Your daughter texts. You can leave her on read.
The phone keeps everything anyone said to you.
And some nights just end.
How it stops
Four endings genuinely finish your save — credits, a card, a slot marked FINISHED. The fifth changes everything after it instead. And after any of them the game offers to put you back at the moment before you decided, so you can go and see the other one.
No, they're not listed here. You get to find them.
Endings play out in your house, with whoever you managed to keep in it.
And then this. Take it, or go back to the moment before and take the other one.
Honest status
This is a solo project and it's not finished. Here it is as the game's own upgrade screen — bought, buying, and the ones I'm not telling you about yet.
Last updated September 2026. Planned launch is Q4 2026 — that's the target I'm building to, not a promise, and I'll move it here before I move it quietly. Not on Steam yet: there is no store page to link and I'd rather say so than fake one.
Casting call · open now
33 speaking parts across three shows and fourteen commercials. Every part is fully written — you get the whole script, not a paragraph of vibes.
Parts run from one line to forty. Some are gendered, eight are written open. Record at home, on whatever you have, dry and unprocessed — I do the phone filter, the wind and the helicopter on my end. There's no deadline. I'd rather have the right voice than a fast one.
Read the packets, pick what you like, and send the takes to legitwizard12 on Discord. That's me, and it's the only place auditions go.
Send auditions here
Discord. That's the only place submissions go — message me the part you want and your takes as files, and I'll come back to you. No form, no deadline, no agent.
Both packets carry the eight open parts, so read whichever you like — or both. Every part lists the character, the voice I'm hearing, the trap to avoid, an audition line, and the full script behind it.