Aliens Stole My Wi-Fi

It all started at exactly 2:47 AM on a random Tuesday when my Wi-Fi stopped working. Now, for most people, that’s mildly annoying. For me, it was a code-red emergency. You see, I wasn’t just scrolling memes or watching cat videos (okay, maybe a little of that)—I was in the middle of an epic online battle in Call of Duty. One second I was sniping enemies like a digital Rambo, and the next, my screen froze, and my soldier stood there like a clueless statue, ready to be shot.

I rage-quit real life.

After angrily restarting the router seventeen times, sacrificing a goat (okay, a packet of noodles) to the tech gods, and whispering sweet nothings into the LAN port, I finally gave up and opened the window for some fresh air.

That’s when I saw it.

Hovering above the mango tree in our backyard was a flying saucer. Not a metaphor. Not a hallucination. A literal UFO. Blinking lights, humming sound, the whole alien aesthetic. And guess what? My Wi-Fi signal was back… but renamed.

Instead of "Kuddus_5G", the name was now "GalacticNet_51".

I blinked.

It blinked back. Or maybe that was just a blinking light. Still, I was 86.3% sure that aliens had stolen my Wi-Fi.

So I did what any logical, sleep-deprived human would do: I grabbed my cousin’s old drone, attached my broken webcam to it, and sent it flying toward the ship while yelling, “RETURN MY INTERNET, YOU SPACE THIEVES!”

To my surprise, the ship’s bottom panel opened, and my drone got sucked in. The signal disappeared again. But not for long.

A few minutes later, a WhatsApp call came in.

From a number that read +51 Planet ZubZub.

I answered. Obviously.

A blue, three-eyed alien with a Bluetooth headset appeared on my cracked screen. “Greetings, Earth Male. This is Captain Zorp of the Wi-Fi Liberation Fleet.”

“Dost, you took my internet.”

He nodded politely. “Affirmative. Your Wi-Fi signal was the strongest in this quadrant. We needed it to stream our favorite Earth content.”

“…Netflix?”

“No. YouTube. Specifically, something called ‘Funny Goat Falls in Ditch Compilation.’ Magnificent cinematography.”

I didn’t know whether to be honored or offended. “Can’t you get your own Wi-Fi?”

“Our planet has strict data caps. Plus, GalacticNet customer service is a nightmare. You wait three light-years just to talk to a slime-bot.”

I tried to explain the concept of asking before hijacking someone’s internet, but Zorp cut me off. “In return, we offer you a gift. Access to the ZubZub Intergalactic Streaming Service. Over 7 trillion shows, 900-dimensional VR, and zero buffering.”

Tempting. Very tempting. But then I remembered: I hadn’t finished downloading the latest season of Stranger Things.

“Can I at least have half the bandwidth?”

Zorp paused. “Hmm. Negotiations begin. You are a worthy opponent.”

Suddenly, I felt like I was in an interstellar bargaining session at a tech bazaar in Old Dhaka.

We struck a deal: I’d get 60% bandwidth, and in return, I’d supply them with weekly playlists of viral content. Their favorite genre? “Humans Falling Off Chairs Unexpectedly.”

With the treaty in place, the ship flew back above the mango tree, blinking in gratitude. My Wi-Fi was faster than ever. I swear I could stream 4K, play Call of Duty, and download five Bollywood movies at once without a single lag.

But word got out.

A week later, another ship appeared. Then another. Soon, my backyard looked like a cosmic parking lot. Spaceships from Andromeda to Alpha Centauri started arriving with data-thirsty aliens craving Earth’s juiciest content.

My Wi-Fi password—“1234ILoveBiriyani”—got leaked across the galaxy.

At first, it was fun. I became a celebrity among intergalactic freeloaders. They brought me gifts: anti-gravity slippers, a self-cleaning pan, and a chocolate bar that sings lullabies. But then the problems began.

One Martian tried to set up a shawarma stall in my living room. A group of space hamsters hosted a rave in my bathroom. And someone—still unconfirmed, but I suspect the tentacle guy from Saturn—ate all my mom’s frozen shingaras.

Worst of all? My Wi-Fi slowed down. To dial-up speeds.

In 2025.

I snapped.

I marched outside, climbed onto the roof with a megaphone, and yelled, “NO MORE WI-FI FOR YOU LOT UNLESS YOU PAY RENT!”

The aliens looked at each other, confused. “What is this… ‘rent’?”

So I had to teach them about human economics. It was like explaining TikTok to a goat. Still, they were eager to please. One group offered me space crystals. Another gave me 17 bottles of anti-balding serum. A polite robot from Jupiter insisted on teaching me “Zogrob Yoga” which looked suspiciously like breakdancing.

Eventually, I started a business.

“GalacticNet Café – Earth’s First Alien-Friendly Co-Working Space.”

We had bean bags, samosas, free charging ports, and oxygen masks. My dad thought I’d gone mad. My mother just wanted her kitchen back.

But the money rolled in. Sort of. One alien paid in interdimensional coupons. Another gave me stock in a Martian cryptocurrency called "ZubCoin" that crashed within hours.

Still, I was living the dream—until the government found out.

They showed up in black vans, scanned the house, confiscated two alien blenders, and accused me of running an unauthorized space café. I tried to explain, but it was hard to keep a straight face when a lizard-faced ambassador was sipping tea in our living room.

The café was shut down. The aliens left. My Wi-Fi returned to normal.

Boring. Normal. Quiet.

Too quiet.

No more random disco lights above the mango tree. No more alien karaoke nights. No more interstellar debates about whether pineapple belongs on pizza (turns out, it does—in 12 galaxies).

I missed them.

Then, last night, just as I was about to sleep, my phone buzzed.

New Wi-Fi network detected: GalacticNet_Returns

I smiled.

The mango tree lit up.

I opened my window, held up a plate of freshly fried shingaras, and whispered:

“Welcome back, you bandwidth-hungry weirdos.”