Bartholomew "Barty" Buttercup considered himself a master of very few things. Chief among them was the art of achieving peak lukewarmness in a bowl of pudding. He sat now, in his decidedly non-heroic armchair – a relic of questionable structural integrity inherited from his Great Aunt Mildred – meticulously stirring a spoonful of vanilla-flavored mediocrity. The subtle wobble of the pudding, the almost imperceptible resistance against the spoon, it was a symphony of beige.
Suddenly, the world fractured.
Not in a dramatic, earth-shattering way. More like a particularly glitchy television screen. One moment, Barty was contemplating the existential dread of a rogue lump of pudding skin; the next, his living room shimmered, the floral wallpaper momentarily replaced by what could only be described as… text.
Giant, glowing, pixelated text. It hovered in the air, obscuring his view of the aggressively beige curtains.
WELCOME, PLAYER! YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR THE GRAND REALITY RESHAPING INITIATIVE!
Barty blinked. He’d had a rather vivid dream about sentient garden gnomes once, but this felt… different. He cautiously poked the air with his spoon. The text rippled, as if disturbed by an invisible breeze.
“Is… is this one of those pop-up ads?” he mumbled, his voice thick with lukewarm pudding-induced contemplation. “Because I specifically installed an ad-blocker. And frankly, this is rather intrusive.”
More text appeared below the initial proclamation.
PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR ACCEPTANCE BY STATING ‘I ACCEPT’ OR BY BEING AUTOMATICALLY ENROLLED IN FIVE SECONDS.
Barty frowned. “Automatic enrollment? That sounds suspiciously like those free trial offers that then charge you an exorbitant amount. And ‘Grand Reality Reshaping Initiative’? What in the name of slightly warm desserts does that even mean?”
He glanced at the timer that had now appeared in the corner of his vision, counting down with alarming speed: 00:04… 00:03…
Panic, a sensation usually reserved for when he discovered the last pudding cup was missing, began to bubble in his chest.
“Wait! I haven’t even read the terms and conditions!” he protested, flailing his free hand. “Are there hidden fees? What’s the return policy on reality reshaping? And does this affect my pudding consumption schedule?”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
00:01…
In a moment of sheer, pudding-fueled desperation, Barty blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “I… I accidentally accepted a free sample of enchanted cheese once, and it made my toenails glow green for a week! I’m not falling for this!”
00:00
With a digital BWOOMPH, the text vanished, replaced by a new screen.
ERROR: INSUFFICIENT ACCEPTANCE. INITIATING DEFAULT CHARACTER ASSIGNMENT.
Barty stared, dumbfounded. “Default character? Is this like choosing your avatar in a video game? Except… real life?”
Another screen flashed.
PROCESSING… PROCESSING…
Then, a single line of text, stark and unforgiving:
CLASS ASSIGNED: CERTIFIED VILLAGE IDIOT (LEVEL 1)
Barty’s jaw dropped. “Village idiot? Are you serious? I’m perfectly capable of… well, I’m capable of… knowing when pudding is the optimal temperature!”
Suddenly, he felt a strange sensation, a tingling in his very being. Numbers appeared above his head, floating like particularly persistent gnats.
Barty Buttercup (Human)
Level: 1
Class: Certified Village Idiot HP: 10/10
MP: 0/0
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 1
Intelligence: 3
Wisdom: 0
Barty squinted at the numbers. “Wisdom zero? Charisma negative five? Even my Great Aunt Mildred liked me, and she once tried to pay for groceries with Monopoly money!”
More text scrolled across his vision, like a particularly annoying news ticker.
NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: ADVANCED SPOON HANDLING (LEVEL 1)
NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: EXPERT PROCRASTINATION (LEVEL 1)
NEW DEBUFF APPLIED: CHRONIC FLATULENCE (MINOR)
Barty’s eyes widened in horror. “Flatulence? As a debuff? This is an outrage! And ‘Advanced Spoon Handling’? I’ve been handling spoons since I was a toddler! That’s not a skill, that’s basic human decency!”
A quest log popped up in the corner of his vision, flickering insistently.
NEW QUEST: Locate Your Pants (Difficulty: Trivial)
Barty looked down. He was, indeed, not wearing pants. He vaguely remembered taking them off earlier because they were slightly too tight around the waistband.
“Well,” he sighed, the aroma of lukewarm pudding suddenly feeling less comforting. “At least the first quest seems manageable.”
He stood up, wobbled slightly (his Dexterity was clearly as advertised), and took his first step into the newly reshaped reality, a world where he, Bartholomew Buttercup, the Certified Village Idiot with advanced spoon handling and a propensity for flatulence, was about to embark on an adventure he was profoundly unqualified for.
And somewhere, in the digital ether, BLWOAT smiled, knowing that the seeds of comedic genius had been sown. The world of Glorious Questoria would never be the same.
