I cranked up the volume on my VR headset and tried to ignore the loud orgasms and music thumping through my wall.
J-Dawg8’s voice crackled in my ear, between machine gun blasts and ogre howls.
“What is that? Porn?” he asked.
“You can hear that?” I sighed.
“Pretty sure my deaf grandma can hear that, bro.”
“It’s nothing. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
In-game, J-Dawg8 unleashed a fireball fist—his knuckles tearing through several zombie ogres, splattering their organs into the air. An in-game pop-up flashed.
Ogre-Fister Bonus! +4,500
“I mean, no judgment from me,” J-Dawg8 chirped. “I do watch my fair share of porn.”
“Yeah? You should watch your six!” I yelled.
I blasted a giant ogre that was about to chomp J-Dawg8’s head off. Another in-game pop-up flashed.
Bro-Tection Bonus! +7,000
His avatar gave me a nod.
“Thanks, bro.”
“No problem.”
My in-game character compensated for my real-world appearance. Instead of lanky, my avatar resembled an action figure—heroic, tall, and rippling with muscles. My veiny biceps bulged as I blasted dual laser rifles. J-Dawg8 was a purple, tatted orc with dreads.
I gunned down waves of backup ogres fast approaching our avatars. Dozens of ogre-skull icons floated up to my kill count as the number ticked upwards.
My eyes darted to the time in the top corner of my HUD.
9:03 AM
“Crap. I gotta get ready for work.”
My avatar froze in an odd stance while I navigated the pause menu. J-Dawg8 swung blazing haymakers as the skeletal ogres swarmed in. It was no use. They smothered him, pinning him to the ground, biting and tearing his flesh to shreds. A pop-up flashed.
Zombie Buffet!
“Damn,” J-Dawg8 huffed. “Almost had ‘em.”
“I’ll hop back on tonight.”
“Sam… bro… forget about this game tonight. Go out and have some real fun on your birthday.”
I paused, unsure of how to respond. Yes, it was my 26th birthday. For the past week, I had tried to put it out of mind. The day didn’t feel any different or special. It felt like just another Saturday.
“Thanks,” I muttered, signing off.
I set my VR gear on a charging stand. The moaning grew louder through the drywall, underscored by the rhythmic knocking of a headboard. Even worse, the howls of pleasure were synced up to the beat of a crappy techno track.
…unsst… unsst… unsst… “YES!”
…unsst… unsst… unsst… “OH GOD!”
…unsst… unsst… unsst… “WHOOO!”
I washed up in my bathroom, doing my best to ignore the post-coital chatter leaking through the wall.
“I think you banged one of my fillings loose,” she said.
“Well, they do call me Jackhammer at work.”
I came out in my work uniform—black slacks and a bright, red shirt with a cartoon rat logo emblazoned on it. My mother entered the apartment, clutching her robe with one hand, holding a lit cigarette in the other. She strode past me, blonde hair in rollers and curled up on the couch with the remote.
“Really, Mom? What is he, like… twenty-five?”
“Twenty-eight,” she corrected, tapping her ashes. “And he works construction. You know—you should think about that. Better money.”
I shook my head, lost somewhere between disgust and shame.
“You couldn’t wait until I was at work?”
She shrugged, blowing a cloud of smoke, “Get your own place… you won’t have to hear it.”
I tossed my keys inside my rucksack and headed towards the door.
My mother called out after me, “Oh, and hey—bring a pizza home. I don’t feel like cooking tonight.”
I turned back to remind her that it was my birthday, but remained silent. Instead, I caught her wiping a tear, holding an old photo of my dad in his football uniform. She raised a bottle of vodka and took a long swig.
----
I exited the apartment and found myself face-to-face with my mother’s boy toy, Tony. He stood there, locking his door, in an orange vest and hard hat. He was ruggedly good looking, tall, and ripped. I stared at the “MOM” tattoo on his bicep. Tony looked over, tracing my eyes to his tattoo. He extended a hand.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“Oh, hey. It’s Sam… right?”
I stiffened, hands in pockets, teeth clenched at the extreme awkwardness of the moment. Tony retracted his hand, glanced at my outfit, and stifled a laugh.
“Nice uh… uniform.”
“SCREW YOU, JACKHAMMER!”
I kicked him in the nuts, sending him sprawling to the floor. Okay… wait… That didn’t happen. That’s just what I wished I had done. Instead, I simply lowered my gaze and walked away. I imagine Tony watched me go with that smug smirk, probably adjusting his hard hat, and gripping his crotch.
----
I rode the SEPTA subway, squished between an obese man with terrible psoriasis and a woman with two rowdy kids on her lap. One of them picked his nose and wiped it on my shirt. The little brat smiled at me as if he’d just given me a gift.
I pulled a tissue from my rucksack and tried to wipe off the mucus. It didn’t work. Instead, the snot smeared into a larger, gooey stain. I sighed and looked across at the ads on the train wall. One caught my attention. It featured a prominent blue pill with the tagline:
“DON’T LEAVE HER DISSATISFIED. SACK UP, SOLDIER!”
Someone had spray-painted a graffiti dick and balls over it.
SKREEE!
There was the loud blare of a distant, powerful horn. A gust of air rushed to meet the train. The shock wave rattled the cars with such force that several windows shattered. The passengers screamed.
“What was that?!” the mother asked.
The mother, the obese man, and I all exchanged glances.
The train screeched to a halt and the lights flickered. The conductor warbled over cruddy speakers, “…sorry folks… mechanical problems… substantial delay.”
I glanced at my phone. It was glitching. I tapped the screen a few times until the display cleared up. I checked the time.
9:55
“Damn! I’m gonna be late.”
“Hey!”
The mother to my right was incensed. She cupped the ears of the children on her lap.
“Watch the potty mouth!”
The little boy on her lap giggled, excitedly chanting, “Damn! Damn! Damn!”
The mother’s eyes widened with rage. Before I could apologize, I sniffed the air, smelling something foul. I turned to see the obese man’s guilty smile.
“Sorry. Dairy always does this to me—but I love it so.”
----
When I finally emerged on Broad Street, downtown Philly looked wrecked—like the aftermath of a seismic shock. Auto windshields and glass windows from every building were shattered or blown out. Car alarms wailed from every direction. Electric vehicles were stopped at odd angles in the middle of the street, causing massive backups. Traffic lights were blinking on the fritz. The sky was darkening with an odd swirl of purple storm clouds. Flashes of lightning arced between them.
A grubby man shuffled up next to me, “World’s messed up, man.”
“What was it? Earthquake?” I asked.
“Maybe. Or maybe a giant bitch farted. Either way, I’mma get high. Got five bucks?”
----
I arrived at Rat E. Cheddar’s Pizza Palace—a knock-off, family restaurant and arcade that was several notches down in every conceivable way from the more popular vermin venue it was fashioned after. Workmen were covering the blown-out windows with sheets of plastic. People on the street were assessing the damage to their cars. I trudged to the rear employee entrance. I grabbed the door handle, closed my eyes, and summoned the resolve to endure another crappy shift.
Inside, I walked down the staff hallway, sighing at the macabre, rat-themed décor. I hated the job but it was all I could manage, while saving for an apartment and studying video game design at community college. I dreamed of creating amazing AAA titles, but for now, I was relegated to making pizzas for sugar-whacked kids.
I instinctively thumbed my phone to ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ as I passed a “PHONES OFF!” sign. Past employees had defaced the walls with all sorts of vulgarities that no one had bothered to paint over. I glanced at a few of the greatest hits.
“Eff your pizza!”
“My rathole itches.”
“For good pepperoni, holler at Marcus.”
I paused at the wall-mounted “Employee of the Month” plaque. My manager, Jackie’s, wide, cheesy grin stared back at me from behind the greasy glass frame. I shook my head. What kind of asshole manager consistently awarded herself the honor of “Employee of the Month?”
Jackie Fulbright. That’s who.
Someone had already drawn a sinister mustache onto her face and a goatee over her double chin.
I popped my head into Jackie’s office.
“Hey, sorry I’m late. Whatever hit the city, really messed up the train lines.”
Phone to ear, Jackie turned to me with her patented “bow before me—I’m better than you” look. She was so proud of the fact that she had an office, crappy as it was.
“Tell me about it. Did you see the front entrance? I’m on hold with insurance now. Gotta get the windows replaced. Oh, and that’s your second tardy this month, Mr. Wynbrook. One more and that’s a write-up.”
She put a check mark next to my name on an employee demerit list on her desk.
“Can’t you cut me some slack—it being my birthday and all?”
Her eyes widened.
“Ohhh, that’s right. It’s your birthday. Well, why don’t you add an extra five minutes to your lunch break? My special gift to you. Mmmkay?”
“Thanks.”
As I walked away, I could hear her bitching to the insurance agent on the phone, “I don’t know what it was. Probably some secret government weapon they don’t want us to know about. Just fix my damn windows!”
I walked past the dormant arcade and entered the kitchen. I took a moment, closed my eyes, and whispered my mantra, “Time to save the world—one slice at a time.”
I turned on my favorite playlist—a collection of old school jazz greats, featuring Quincy Jones, Count Basie, and Chet Baker. I went to the corner and lifted a carefully hidden, potted basil plant. I set him on the counter.
“Hey, Count Basil. What’s shaking?”
I know for some people, it’s silly to talk to plants, but I read up enough on the subject to believe in its benefits. And, besides this was our little thing.
I sprinkled flour across a long countertop. I buckled on a custom leather belt with holsters on either side, containing my two favorite pizza cutters. I had rocked the holsters for the past six months, and as a result, had endured more than my share of mocking, but I thought it was pretty cool.
I did a couple of deep breathing exercises I had learned once in therapy and tried to let go of the strange start to my day. They worked a little and I relaxed a bit. Being in the kitchen helped. Though it wasn’t much, the kitchen was my refuge. In here, I was commander of the ingredients, an artisan of the dough. It was early still and quiet. Soon, more pizza peons would be arriving, goofing off, and complaining. I launched into my prep work with a Zen-like approach, knowing that any minute, the momentary calm would be lost.
Skinny as I was, my forearms were strong from years of button-mashing and gaming. Striated tendons flexed as I punched mounds of dough. I imagined the dough balls were the heads of my coworkers or strange boss beasts from OGRE-SPLAT.
I shouldered a nozzle-tipped, plastic bag of pizza sauce like it was a gun and fired red blobs onto the center of each dough circle.
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
“HEAD SHOT! HEAD SHOT! HEAD SHOT!” I shouted.
That’s when I noticed Sola Fuego staring at me. A waitress. Twenty-four, gorgeous, with honey-tanned skin. I always had a crush on her, but never dared to mention it. She looked at me and smiled, tying on her server apron.
“Kicking ass and taking names, huh?”
Nervous, I pointed at the pizzas.
“Oh, hey, Sola. Hah. I was just—playing with myself.”
“Sounds exciting. You’re a funny bird, Sam Wynbrook.”
She exited the kitchen with a giggle. I palmed my face.
“Really, Sam? Playing with yourself? Headshots? You dumbass!”
A moment later, my expression changed.
“Wait a minute. She knew my name. She called me Sam.”
I was all smiles now. Sola Fuego had, in fact, called me by my name.