The God of Pranks' Unlikely Servant

Chapter 5: The Tycoon's Toilet Trouble

The golden retriever’s eyes glowed with a faint, mocking violet light as it held Noob’s gaze. "The final curtain falls," the dog intoned, its voice a synthesized nightmare, "upon the stage of greed."

Noob didn't wait for the next stanza. He turned on his heel, grabbed Santiary’s wrist, and bolted.

"Are you insane?" Santiary shouted, trying to keep her footing as they sprinted across the park lawn. "Why are the dogs quoting Shakespeare? And why are you running like the hounds of hell are actually chasing us?"

"Because they are, in a weird, poetic, sentient kind of way!" Noob panted, his left arm thrashing like it was trying to escape his hoodie sleeve. "We have to go! Now!"

He’s right, you know, the God of Pranks chimed in, his voice strangely subdued. That wasn't me, Noob. That was something ancient. Something that doesn't appreciate my brand of comedy. We need to leave. We need to go big. We need to focus on a target that can drown out that weird, literary static.

"What, like a tycoon?" Noob wheezed, ducking behind a hedge. "You want me to go after the guy who runs the tech firm? That guy is guarded by human-sized security drones!"

Exactly, the God purred, the violet energy in Noob’s arm beginning to hum with renewed, malicious vigor. Target identified: Marcus Thorne. The man who puts the 'con' in tycoon. His office is four blocks away. Let’s make him the punchline of his own press conference.

"Santiary," Noob said, skidding to a halt. "Are you still with me? Because I’m about to do something monumentally stupid, and it might involve federal charges."

Santiary adjusted her hair, her breathing only slightly elevated despite the sprint. She looked at the park, where the dogs had returned to their normal, non-literary behavior, and then back at Noob. "I already lost my calm at a sandwich shop. I might as well see how this ends. Where are we going?"

"The Thorne Tower," Noob said, pointing toward the gleaming glass monolith dominating the skyline.

"The CEO’s office?" She raised an eyebrow, a dangerous smirk tugging at her mouth. "You're going to break into the most secure building in the city while your left arm is essentially a glowing neon sign for 'criminal activity'?"

"I have a plan," Noob lied.

It’s called an invisibility cloak, kid. Try to keep up, the God whispered.

The lobby of the Thorne Tower was a fortress of marble and indifference. Noob and Santiary stood before the reception desk, the air thick with the smell of expensive air freshener and corporate greed.

"Look at the scanners," Santiary whispered, nodding toward the laser grid at the turnstiles. "Those aren't just thermal. They’re weight-sensitive. How do you propose we bypass those?"

"I don't," Noob said, feeling the heat rise in his left hand. "I just walk."

Focus on the air around you, the God commanded. Bend the light. Think of yourself as a bad connection in a high-res stream. Pixelated. Invisible. Now!

Noob felt a sickening pop in his ear. Suddenly, he couldn't see his own hands. He looked down and saw the marble floor right through his chest.

"Whoa," he breathed.

"You're gone," Santiary whispered, her eyes wide. "That is... that is terrifyingly convenient."

"Come on," Noob said, though he didn't know if he was speaking or just thinking. He grabbed her hand, and they glided through the turnstiles. The security guards didn't even blink.

They reached the private elevator bank. Noob fumbled with the panel.

Third floor up. The executive washroom. The water supply is fed by a dedicated line directly from the main tank. It’s perfect, the God instructed.

"Why the bathroom?" Noob asked, his voice echoing oddly.

Because a tycoon who can't wash his hands in peace is a tycoon who has lost control of his environment. Also, I think the pipes have a funny resonance. It’ll make the water sparkle with, quite literally, sparkling water.

"You're a child," Noob groaned, though he punched the button for the executive floor.

The elevator doors opened to a carpet so plush it felt like walking on a cloud. Noob steered them toward the heavy mahogany door marked Private Executive Suite.

"Santiary, you stay here. Keep watch. If anyone comes, uh, do something distracting."

"Like what?" she asked. "Trip someone?"

"You're a natural," Noob whispered.

He slipped into the washroom. It was larger than his entire apartment. He approached the main plumbing manifold hidden behind a small maintenance panel.

Now, channel it, the God urged. Don't just turn the water on. Infuse it. Turn the carbonation up to eleven. I want that toilet to feel like a soda volcano.

Noob placed his glowing hand on the copper pipes. He felt a surge of energy so intense it made his teeth ache. The pipes groaned, turning a bright, vibrating violet. Ch-ch-ch-pop! The sound of carbonation hissed through the walls like a thousand tiny snakes.

"It’s working," Noob whispered, sweat pouring down his face. "But the pressure... it’s building too fast!"

Hold it!

The pressure gauge on the wall began to spin. 100 PSI. 200 PSI. The copper pipes began to swell.

"I think I’m going to burst the entire building's plumbing!" Noob shouted, his hand stuck to the pipe by the sheer force of the magnetism.

That’s the beauty of it, Noob! The press conference is in the lobby!

Outside in the hallway, he heard a shout. "Hey! Who’s there?" It was the voice of a security guard.

Then, he heard a soft thud followed by a giggle. Santiary.

"Oh, goodness," she called out, her voice sounding entirely too innocent. "I’m so sorry, I think I tripped over my own shoelaces. And... oh, are those expensive-looking vases? My, these are wobbly."

Crash.

"Hey! Get away from the display!" the guard roared.

Noob panicked and pulled his hand away from the pipe. The violet glow surged, then erupted.

BOOM.

The sound was like a cannon fire. A jet of highly carbonated, icy water blasted through the ceiling of the lobby, followed by an absolute deluge. It wasn't just water; it was a pressurized, bubbling fountain of doom that sprayed directly into the path of the gathered media.

"Now! Run!" the God cackled.

Noob deactivated the cloak and sprinted into the hallway, colliding with Santiary. They didn't stop. They bolted toward the stairwell just as the ceiling above the stage in the lobby groaned and gave way.

The sound of a hundred reporters screaming filled the building. Above the din, Noob heard a familiar voice—the Tycoon, Thorne, screaming in rage.

They burst out of the side exit of the building, gasping for air, leaning against the cold concrete of the alley. Noob was drenched, his sleeve torn, his left hand still sparking.

"Did we..." Noob panted, wiping hair from his face. "Did we do it?"

Santiary pulled out her phone, her hands trembling with suppressed laughter. She tapped the screen and held it up.

It was a live stream. Marcus Thorne was standing on the podium, his suit soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead. As he turned to storm off stage, a rogue pocket of pressurized carbonated water hit the release mechanism of his belt.

His trousers dropped to his ankles, revealing a pair of neon-green boxers featuring tiny, smiling cartoon dolphins.

"Oh, no," Noob whispered, his eyes widening. "He’s a dolphin guy."

Santiary burst into genuine, melodic laughter, the first time he’d seen her truly lose her composure. "He’s a dolphin guy. You destroyed his dignity with a plumbing disaster."

And the rating on the stream? the God asked, his voice vibrating with pride. Millions of views in seconds. Total, unadulterated chaos.

Noob looked at his trembling left hand. The glow was dimming, fading into a gentle, rhythmic pulse. He looked at Santiary, who was laughing so hard she had to lean on his shoulder.

"You know," Noob said, a small, tired smile forming on his face. "For a disaster, this was actually... kind of fun."

Of course it was, the God replied. Now, about the Mayor’s office. I heard he’s having a ribbon-cutting ceremony tomorrow, and I’ve always thought giant scissors were prone to snapping.*

Noob groaned, leaning his head back against the brick. "Just one day. Give me just one day without a PR crisis."

"Not a chance, performance artist," Santiary said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. "Not a chance."