The God of Pranks' Unlikely Servant

Chapter 2: First Mission: The Soggy Sandwich

"Move in, Noob. Let’s make him regret every day he ever made you feel small," the voice echoed, vibrating against Noob’s sinuses like a wet thumb on a wine glass.

Noob leaned against the rough brick of the alleyway, his heart doing a frantic, arrhythmic jazz solo in his chest. "I’m not a prankster. I’m a gamer. I sit in the dark and click things. I don't do public social engineering."

"You're a vessel for the primordial essence of chaos," the voice countered, sounding bored. "Do you really want to let that power go to waste on a lunch break? Look at him. He’s complaining about the artisan sourdough. It’s almost a moral imperative to intervene."

Noob peered around the corner. Chad was sitting at a bistro table, his posture radiating that specific, expensive arrogance that only came from private schools and trust funds. He was waving a waiter over, his expression pinched.

"See the way he's snapping his fingers?" the voice whispered. "That’s a felony against hospitality. Do it. Or I might just start vibrating your internal organs until you sneeze continuously for three days."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me. I’m very bored, Noob."

Noob groaned, pulling his hoodie tight around his glowing arm. "Fine. But if I get arrested, I’m telling the cops I was possessed by a cosmic jerk."

"They'll believe you. You look like you haven't slept since 2019."

Noob pushed off the wall and crossed the street, his left hand twitching uncontrollably inside his hoodie pocket. He felt like a bomb ticking down to zero, his arm pulsing with a rhythmic violet light that made the fabric of his sleeve shimmer like an oil slick. He reached the cafe patio, the smell of roasted coffee beans and pretension thick in the air.

He didn't want to do this. He wanted to go home and try to recalibrate his graphics card, but the static charge in his left arm was dragging him toward Chad’s table like a magnet.

"Excuse me," Noob muttered, trying to look invisible.

"Watch where you’re going, buddy," Chad barked, not even looking up from his phone.

The voice in Noob’s head let out a delighted cackle. "Oh, he’s spicy today! Aim for the condiments. I want a culinary catastrophe."

Noob reached the table. His left hand, seemingly possessed by a will of its own, suddenly ripped out of his hoodie pocket with the speed of a striking cobra. It didn't reach for Chad. Instead, it reached for the ornate, silver-plated condiment tray, specifically the squeeze bottle of artisanal lemon-herb mayonnaise.

"Wait, no!" Noob hissed, desperately trying to grab his own wrist with his right hand.

"Oh, yes!" the voice cheered.

Noob’s left hand bypassed the bottle’s lid with impossible, ghostly precision, unscrewing the cap and tilting the nozzle directly into the dark, Italian leather interior of Chad’s loafers.

Squish.

"What the—?" Chad jumped, his foot twitching.

"I... I tripped!" Noob stammered, his right hand clamped firmly over his left wrist as he tried to yank it away. "Clumsy! Sorry! Slippery shoes! My shoes are, uh, high-friction, and the sidewalk... it’s uneven!"

Chad stood up, looking down at his feet with an expression of pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "Did you just... did you just shove something into my shoe?"

"Me? No! I’m a citizen! I’m a law-abiding, mayonnaise-averse citizen!" Noob yelped.

"Get security," Chad snapped, his face reddening. "This weirdo just... he’s got mayo on his hand!"

"It’s not my mayo! It’s a, uh, manifestation!"

"A what?"

"A manifest-station!" Noob blurted out. "For the bus! I’m waiting for the bus!"

"You're in a cafe, you moron!"

The voice in Noob’s head roared with laughter. "This is comedy gold! Now, give him the pièce de résistance. The tie!"

"Stop it!" Noob whispered, his left arm thrashing like a hooked fish. "We're leaving! We're leaving now!"

"Not until the tie is saucy!"

Noob scrambled backward as security guards started to peel themselves off the interior wall of the cafe. He felt the cold, violet light surging through his shoulder, his left arm suddenly snapping forward like a whip. He tried to dive out of the way, but he caught his foot on the leg of a chair.

He went down hard, his left hand lashing out and catching the edge of the table. The remaining half-full jar of mayonnaise flipped, catapulting into the air.

"Oh, come on!" Noob yelled as he tried to swat the jar away.

Instead of hitting the ground, the jar erupted. It didn't just spill; it exploded in a spray of thick, creamy white goop that seemed to defy the laws of gravity. It coated the table, splashed across the pristine suit jacket of the nearby manager, and finally, landed with a wet thwack directly on top of Noob’s head.

He sat on the pavement, covered in lemon-herb dressing, staring up at a furious Chad and two very confused security guards.

"You're dead, kid," Chad growled, wiping a dollop of mayo off his own pristine silk tie.

"It was an accident," Noob said, his voice small and pathetic as he tried to wipe his eyes. "I think the universe has a vendetta against your fashion choices."

"The universe?" The guard grabbed Noob by the collar. "You’re coming with us."

"Wait!" the voice in his head suddenly boomed. "I have a better idea. A classic exit. The fire alarm!"

"No, don't—"

Suddenly, the air in the cafe surged with that same electric charge. A miniature lightning bolt crackled from Noob’s left ear, arcing directly into the overhead sprinkler system.

Clang.

A fire alarm siren wailed, a sound so piercing and distorted it sounded like a dying robot screaming in pain. The sprinkler system hissed to life, dumping gallons of icy water onto the patio in seconds.

"Chaos! Glorious chaos!" the voice cheered.

"I’m going to be murdered," Noob whimpered, using the sudden, blinding spray of water as a curtain. He scrambled to his feet, slipping on the mayo-slicked floor, and lunged toward the exit.

He didn't look where he was going. He was just a human-shaped mess of mayonnaise, rain, and sheer, unmitigated panic. He sprinted through the doorway, his head down, focused only on not getting tackled by security.

He rounded the corner of the cafe building, his momentum carrying him full-tilt into someone walking the opposite way.

Oof.

There was a soft, feminine gasp, a scent of vanilla and expensive perfume, and then a heavy thud as both of them collided with the brick wall. Noob felt his hand land on something soft—a shoulder. He blinked, shaking the water and mayo from his hair, and looked up.

Standing before him was a woman. She wasn't just a woman; she looked like she had stepped off the cover of a magazine, despite the fact that she was currently covered in a fine mist of cafe sprinkler water. She had sharp, elegant features, piercing eyes that seemed to see right through his pathetic exterior, and a look of absolute, icy detachment.

It was Santiary.

"Oh, great," Noob squeaked, his hand still frozen on her shoulder. "Just my luck. Hi. Hello. I’m, uh, a walking sandwich right now. Please don't ask."

Santiary stared at him, her gaze traveling from his mayo-covered hoodie to his glowing, twitching left arm, and finally settling on his face. She didn't scream. She didn't call security. She just arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

"You're a very strange person, aren't you?" she asked, her voice calm and smooth as velvet.

"I’m a disaster," Noob corrected, desperately trying to hide his glowing arm behind his back. "I’m a, uh, culinary performance artist. You wouldn't happen to have a napkin, would you?"

The voice in his head was practically vibrating with excitement. "Oh, she’s gorgeous. And she’s clearly amused. Don't blow it, Noob! Give her a line! Something suave! Something dashing!"

Noob looked at the beautiful woman, then back at his own reflection in the cafe window—a disheveled, mayonnaise-slicked mess with a hand that looked like it was powered by a neon sign.

"So," Noob managed, his voice cracking violently. "Do you come here often? Or is this, uh, a one-time thing where you get assaulted by guys who look like they’ve been in a fight with a deli?"

Santiary blinked, then a slow, dangerous smile crept across her lips. "I think you've already had enough excitement for one day, 'performance artist'."