Reading The Flap
By: Neil Christiansen

A woman sits at the bar in a nice restaurant with the remnants of some kind of pink drink. She's alone and scrolling tinder on her phone. A man walks up and sits on the stool next to her.

MAN: Hi.

WOMAN: [disinterested] Hello.

MAN: I’m Brad.

WOMAN: Hello Brad.

MAN: Generally speaking, this is the part where you tell me your name.

WOMAN: Yes. Generally speaking you’re right.

MAN: But you’re not going to tell me your name.

WOMAN: You’re a quick learner.

MAN: I am, that’s true. [pause] Can I buy you a drink?

WOMAN: No thank you.

MAN: Okay, that's too bad.

WOMAN: [scoffs] Yeah, for you.

MAN: Huh? Oh, okay.

WOMAN: Okay. [pause] Wait! Okay?

MAN: Yeah, okay+.

WOMAN: Right, so... okay as in “okay it’s too bad for you” or okay as in “okay, it’s too bad for ME, but you’re going to let me think it’s too bad for you”?

MAN: Is there a difference?

WOMAN: Yes!

MAN: There’s a difference between the okay?

WOMAN: Yes! Yes, there’s a difference between the okay's. Okay, like, it’s too bad for you means I shot you down and you're a little hurt, but you’re willing to accept it because, presumably, you get shot down a lot. Okay as in, okay too bad for me, means that you don’t really care that I shot you down because either you weren’t really that interested in me, or that you think I really do want you to buy me a drink and I’m just playing hard to get.

MAN: And which okay is the right one?

WOMAN: The first one. The FIRST okay.

MAN: The first okay.

WOMAN: Yes.

MAN: So what you’re saying is that it’s good that I said okay, but only if it’s because you are clearly out of my league and I should feel stupid for even asking to buy you a drink.

WOMAN: Yes.

MAN: Okay.

WOMAN: NO! I mean, no. Look, I don’t want you to feel stupid. I just…

MAN: Yes you do.

WOMAN: What?

MAN: Yes you do. Yes you do want me to feel stupid.

WOMAN: No, I don’t. I just…

MAN: Yes you do. Look, I’m not saying you’re a bad person.

WOMAN: It sure sounds like you are.

MAN: No, I’m simply acknowledging your motives. And you, I think, are starting to feel guilty, because now that you’ve said it out loud, you think your motives sound mean.

WOMAN: But…

MAN: But they’re not.

WOMAN: They aren’t!

MAN: No, they’re not.

WOMAN: Okay!

MAN: They’re stupid.

WOMAN: Then we agree.

MAN: Okay.

WOMAN: WAIT!!

MAN: Yeah?

WOMAN: Stupid?

MAN: Yeah, stupid.

WOMAN: Now you’re saying I’m stupid?

MAN: No.

WOMAN: Yes! You just said I’m stupid!

MAN: No, I said your motives are stupid.

WOMAN: My motives?

MAN: Yes.

WOMAN: But not me?

MAN: Right.

WOMAN: Ya know…

MAN: Are you single?

WOMAN: Yes, well…

MAN: Do you WANT to be single?

WOMAN: Yes!

MAN: Okay.

WOMAN: Well…

MAN: [under his breath] Jesus.

WOMAN: I don’t “want” to be single, but I don’t mind it. I don’t NEED a man.

MAN: Sure. [not being condescending, but agreeing with her]

WOMAN: I don’t! Maybe I’d LIKE a boyfriend, but not just any guy. Not just some random…

MAN: Guy that would try and pick you up in a bar.

WOMAN: EXACTLY!!!

MAN: You want a nice guy.

WOMAN: Yes!!!

MAN: Because you’re a nice girl.

WOMAN: I am!

MAN: But you think you're going to find him on tinder? [gestures at phone]

WOMAN: I don't know, maybe...

MAN: Okay

WOMAN: Okay…Wait…

MAN: Look, I just offered to buy you a drink. I didn’t ask you to meet me down the street at the Zwieback Motel.

WOMAN: The “Zwieback Motel”?

MAN: Yeah, the Zwieback Motel, people don’t usually sleep there too well.

WOMAN: What? Look…

MAN: You want a nice guy, and you’re pretty sure any guy that would try and buy you a drink in a bar ISN’T a nice guy.

WOMAN: Well…

MAN: Despite the fact that you consider yourself to be a nice girl, and yet, here you sit.

WOMAN: I am a nice girl!!!!

MAN: I’m sure you are. That’s why I offered to buy you a drink.

WOMAN: EXACTLY!! So you could get me drunk!!

MAN: You get drunk off of one drink?

WOMAN: No, but…

MAN: Because if you do, then you're a real catch. A nice girl AND a cheap date.

WOMAN: No, I don’t get drunk off of one drink but…

MAN: Do you read?

WOMAN: What?!

MAN: Do you read…Books?

WOMAN: Now you’re asking if I can read?

MAN: No, I’m not asking if you can read, I’m asking if you do read. Do you read? Are you a reader? Do you enjoy the company of a good book?

WOMAN: Yes.

MAN: You read?

WOMAN: Yes, I read. I like to read. In fact, I love to read. I read all the time. I have a Gold Card for the local library. I like to read!!

MAN: What?

WOMAN: What do I read?

MAN: What do you read?

WOMAN: Mostly books.

MAN: What books?

WOMAN: [pretty irritated at this point] What books? What books do I read? What, you want titles?

MAN: What kind of books? Specific authors? Genres? What kind of books do you read?

WOMAN: All kinds!

MAN: How do you pick?

WOMAN: The books?

MAN: Yes nameless woman who loves to read, and frequents bars, but doesn’t drink. How do you pick the books you read? You walk into the library with your gold card and stand in front of aisles of shelves with thousands of books, how do you decide which book to take home and read?

WOMAN: I’m confused. Weren’t we talking about me shooting you down for a drink, which by the way, I do drink. You said I don't drink, but I do. I do drink, I just didn’t want a drink bought by you!

MAN: How do you pick the books?

WOMAN: [speaking on top of each other] Because, if I let you buy me a drink, then you think that I somehow owe you something.

MAN: [speaking on top of each other] Do you throw a dart? Do you blindfold yourself and play pin the tail on the book you want?

WOMAN: [speaking on top of each other] You think that if you buy me a drink, then we are on a date and you are entitled to some kind of end of date prize, like my phone number, or a kiss or more likely you think that I will get naked for you and…

MAN: [speaking on top of each other] Or do you…

WOMAN: I read the flap! OK?! Jesus Christ! I open the cover and read the inside flap! Holy Shit! What is wrong with you?! How does anyone pick a book? I read the fucking flap!

MAN: You read the flap?

WOMAN: Yes! There are all the books, so I pick a few, open the cover and spend a few minutes reading the description on the inside flap and decide whether I want to put the time into reading the whole book.

MAN: You read the flap.

WOMAN: [sigh] Yes, I read the flap.

MAN: Okay.

WOMAN: Okay. Why do you care?

MAN: Really?

WOMAN: Really, really!

MAN: Well then… I don’t. I really don’t care. You have made it clear that you are not at all interested in having a drink with me. But since I am an altruistic kind of guy, I will tell you this for your future reference. Sometimes, when a guy asks to buy you a drink, it doesn’t mean he is trying to get you drunk and it doesn’t even mean he wants to go out with you. It means he wants to read your flap.

WOMAN: EXCUSE ME?!

MAN: There are lots of women in this bar. You are not the only one!

Woman: Yeah, that "sometimes" was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence back there.

Man: Fine, so when I asked to buy you a drink, it’s the same as reading the flap on a book. It takes five or ten minutes to have the drink, during which time, generally, people talk to each other. They find out a little about the other person. They get the basic gist of each other’s story and decided whether they want to “keep reading”. It doesn’t hurt either person to have a ten minute conversation and see if that person is someone they just might like to get to know better. So, sometimes, when a guy asks to buy you a drink and you, as you say, “shoot him down” out of some sense of superiority all you are really saying to him is, “no I’m the type of girl who judges a book by it’s cover and have no interest in reading the flap to see if it’s even a story worth starting.” So when I said okay, of your two okays, I meant the second one. Okay?

WOMAN: Well... okay.

MAN: Okay. [stands to leave]

WOMAN: Brad…

MAN: Yes?

WOMAN: I’m Susan. [pause] Can I buy you a drink?

MAN: No, thank you. I wasn’t crazy about your flap.

WOMAN: Right. Okay.

The End

The Standup
By: Vaspira Moore

Me: Hello, I'm the joke.

Don't you get it?

Nah, I didn't think so.

What's there to get?

A chubby Caucasian cracking jokes at their own expense. Where have I heard that before...?

Don't answer.

Also put your offense away. I know my weight.

I just need to say my jokes are notoriously bad. They are so horrendous I have received threats.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

There are two things people want to beat me up over.

I need a second.

Just kidding.

One moment before I continue.

My jokes.

The last one I may have exaggerated. Just be lucky, you are not in the car with me when I proceed to crack a few. People have been trapped with my excessively terrible humor.

Imagine being stuck in a truck, like my boss was at the time. He had the privilege to drive me home. He and I built up a camaraderie over the years. His frown and hands on the steering wheel would have let you know his thoughts. ‘I could undo this person’s seat belt and open that truck door. She will not be able to climb back inside. My jokes are that bad, I give intrusive thoughts to the intrusive thoughts.

He would then proceed to threaten Me with a random location, if I continued. So, my husband would have to come pick me up. At least he didn’t think to take my glasses.

My boss would often threaten me in playful banter with his truck bed and speed bumps. I think he thought cracking my head would fix my humor. So, in retaliation I would lay my worst jokes on him. Lol.

Which was the greatest joke, because he wasn’t prepared to be charged with murder. Or swerving into oncoming traffic.

If that doesn't show you how my jokes never land. Then I don’t know what to tell you.

I hope you aren’t expecting any better.

I don’t know any other jokes.

Hold on a sec.

I hate to tell you this, but you are going to be waiting all night long for better content from me.

And You will not be getting it.

My best joke is never going to come.

It is so bad my husband one day looked at me with a dead serious expression, and said, “sometimes when you talk. I think, Aww, that's so cute. She thinks she's smart.”

I was like, Do you really?

He said, “no, but it would be really funny if I did. I don't think that until later. When I finally comprehended what you said.

Sometimes it takes him a while to get my jokes. He’s a bit of a zombie in the morning. The grumbling kind.

He doesn’t laugh when he finally understands them.

It’s when the coffee kicks in. You see his haunted expression. ‘I married a dumbass. You just know my husband thinks this along with I have to say I love you to that. There isn’t enough coffee in the world for these moments.

If I say I need a minute

Do you think the punchline is coming…?

Wait for it.

No, right, because I'm the punchline.

I decided to trap you all here for these two minutes with self-deprecating humor and my stupidity.

The best thing about this, is you have to listen. Ha!

Hold up!

There is no punchline I could drag, this is out, but the joke is dead.

We both know it.

It falls like me.

A bit flat.

Not, like a flat earther.

I’m not that uneducated.

Or I could be.

My humor isn’t really raunchy either.

You either love me, hate me, or wonder why the hell I am here.

And my response is, I exist to be a nuisance with a cause.

People think I'm dumb.

It's sad, really.

Because, I already mostly clocked them.

Just be grateful I'm not comfortable enough to give you my best shot.

I’d miss anyway.

I think we all know that.

I could throw a ball.

Everyone’s Hands, including mine would be above the eyes, shielding them from the sun, looking for it. And we would all miss it.

And I would say whistling.

Because I can’t whistle.

The ball is either going to go very far, or stay very, very close to me, just like my jokes.

Just like me.

Thanks everyone that’s a wrap. It's been a pleasure for me. I don’t know about you.

I think this is the part where you boot me.

Anyway, good night. I send you love. From my terrible humor, that will one day trap you again.

Name: Wulf Lovelace
Youtube: @DATSHQ
TikTok: @Lovelace Author
[Comedy Prompt - Barely Counts]
Title: Expelling My Demons To Lay To Rest a.k.a My Crazy Ex....Sister

----

Content Warning: Discussions of Cheating, Psychological Abuse, and very Dark Humor

They say that siblings are supposed to annoy each other. And that’s how they show love and affection or something like that.

Mine has a case of cyber stalking and stalking, I suppose that‘s love. I guess. I mean, I worry about her face pressed against my window to watch me sleep or something like that. But love. Siblings are supposed to bother each other. That’s how they get along, they say. We have conditioned and normalized the very idea of traumatizing and disrespecting boundaries. But you know affection. Then again, considering how people describe the holidays, I guess we’re all addicted to the trauma we swear up and down is caring.

And the only coping mechanism I have is to have people question whether or not this is satire or a cry for help. Because I have to laugh about it. Because if I don‘t laugh about it, I want nothing to do with existing. We‘re not allowed to say that though in society. It‘s always; think of the people you will leave behind. Think about all the people who care about you. Think about God or Jesus. Or God and Jesus.

So if I smile and laugh. And tell the time that my sister cut the brake lines of someone‘s car with a hearty laugh, with a joking tone. Then we‘re all laughing together. Isn't that crazy. I could never write that in a fiction book. Or the fact that I am the sluttiest asexual. Do you know how many harems, how many cheating rings and how many people I have had sex with? Because according to rumors about me, I have slept around. I‘m a vixen.

I have fake husbands and fake wives.

Am I Mormon?

Because I swear the greatest joke is that the Asexual who is sex repulse who wants nothing to do with the sideways tango is somehow wrapped up in all of these proclaimed sexcapades. You know there is a line, that every accusation is a confession. And boy, let me tell you about my Sister‘s own cheating scandal. All right, sit down with this, have some tea and some Tea if you will.

She met her husband apparently while working at a gas station. He asked her out to show her something and wooed her with a box of dildos. Because at the time he was cleaning out apartments as a job. Fast forward a few, six, seven years. And she‘s meeting some hot young thing who hasn't shown her a box of dildos. But is vulnerable and has a lot of trauma. And promises him a ring and implied her clit. Now. Now I know where are my sensibilities. Why would I talk about my sister in this way? But it‘s kind of funny because all of it is true. From my own witness accounts or the accounts of others.

She lured this hot new thing from New Jersey to Colorado. Of a promise with a better life. But you know she had to hide him away from her husband. So he couldn't move in with her. He had to move in with another roommate and that‘s a whole other person my sister probably also promised her clit to like she‘s passing out Halloween candy, then pit those two men against each other because they both wanted her sweet sweet vag - I mean a healthy and loving relationship. That‘s what I meant.

Fast forward a good couple two or more years. The sister starts working at the job I am working at. And now the sibling is a lesbian. Surprise!

That‘s the twist in this story. She gets it together with her soul mate, her twin flame friend she meets at this acting job. So now she‘s got to turn Jersey Sub Boy into the enemy. And twist the narrative. She kicks out Jersey Sub Boy out of her house to move in her new Lesbian Lover from right underneath her husband's nose.

Well, she thinks. She drives her husband to paranoia and suspicion. While isolating him and taking her new alleged "girlfriend", whom she saved from an abusive relationship out on just dates. I mean, they are hanging out as friends guys. They are totally just friends. While she buys her eighty dollar necklaces for her not girlfriend.

Fast forward another something like a year and the spark has faded between her and her twin flame. Not Girlfriend gets the silent abandonment treatment. While she finds another hot young traumatized twenty something year old. Who she is actually actually cheating on her husband with. I watched the literal adult with training wheels kiss the nearing thirty-year-old woman multiple times and there was a strange ploy to get me to agree with it. Just in case if it doesn't work out, then she can blame me.

So now the sister has two people she is very definitely cheating on, moved into her house she shared with her husband of six years. Remember that thing about every accusation being a confession? I need to confess this right here I haven‘t had the sideways tango since college and that‘s when I realized, nope, not for me. It‘s not the kind of sensory thing I enjoy or want. People are people and you have to confront that they are people with their smells, and the feeling of skin. It‘s like going corkscrew with pre-tanned leather.

That‘s the stuff I discovered. Serve to me from a teakettle of gossip because it eventually it gets around to me. The truth will always come out.

As for me and my sister. Well, I am the greatest cognitive dissonance to ever exist. I am both her special needs brother. Who is somehow described like I am in a vegetable state when she needs to raise her virtuous flags and look good. I am practically drooling on myself in her fantasies. I also at the same time am a mastermind. A master manipulator.

A baby, she‘s described a baby. Because either way who drools on themselves and is portrayed as an evil mastermind, babies.

I digress that babies aren't out here manipulating people, but either way. Yet, the irony of this situation is how much the sister contributed to my abandonment issues. She used to leave me alone for months, weeks, years alone. The longest was something like two years she abandoned me for two years. She‘s gotta to set the stage for her miraculous return. Every time. I am like a stage show and she‘s got to perform for.

What‘s the big show this time? Abandon your brother for two years and give him your couch to stay on so you save him from homelessness. Abandon your brother and bring your Jersey Sub Boy along on a stage, to show him how much you care about your brother. By giving him an expensive five hundred dollar gift and that submits in Jersey Sub Boy‘s brain that our relationship is amazing and wonderful.

Honestly, it‘s the best acting she‘s ever done. It‘s the only acting that she has done that should win a Grammy. Because she used to be a chair for her actual acting job she did once. And never again. But that literally became her entire personality. Or her fake internet persona account that she uses to best me and replace me at the same time. I forgot to get to the fake Irish British person she pretends to be online to put me in my place and get me in trouble because I have been a very naughty bad boy. Who was too mean to her.

Literally been told by this fake persona how much my sister adores me and I‘m out here thinking negatively of her. And how I have to fix what‘s wrong with my head. And trust me, a lot. But when it came to her, my intuition was correct, and I never listened to it.

Because she‘s so frail. Oh, she‘s disabled. Oh, she‘s Autistic she didn't mean anything by it. I think the word you‘re looking for isn't Autistic. I‘m Autistic and while I have my flaws. I've never done half of the things she did. And remember that thing about every accusation is a confession. She did admire me. As in, she wanted to be me and took bits and pieces of me. Aspects of me. For herself. Ripping me apart like monkey bread bit by bit.

I used to be classically trained, was in an orchestra, I played violin. The sister the next year joined the orchestra, viola. She was great. Amazing. Nothing like that dishrag brother of hers. She was the real genius. The real prodigy. I wanted to be an actor. Then she wanted to be an actor. And again. How dare this trash can of a person attempt to be an actor. Look at his sister she was amazing. She was great. His sister is a genius. When I rekindled with the sister again after the two years apart. She met her Sub Boy because she was an aspiring writer and twisted it by making his thing her thing. She loved DnD too. And she‘s uh, an aspiring writer. Something she never expressed she wanted to be before.

I've been out here living my life like monkey bread. When she ditched Sub Boy like it’s hot. Even though she had only worked the haunted house for a year. She made it her entire personality. She had been doing the haunt for, like, ten years. That‘s a lie. She was really good and amazing. You were wearing a chair costume, and no one is going to fucking know who you are.

That‘s it, the joke is over. Because all I have left is bitterness and cynicism. I laugh about it. Only to end up crying in the end because. It‘s funny, but not funny haha, funny as in trauma.

The Game of Boredom and Bedlam
By: Joel Spriggs

“Welcome to the Drab Donkey once again, weary travelers,” said the wizard seated behind a stack of books and a cup of wine. He addressed a strange coven of companions that included a massive orc barbarian, an armored dwarf, and a lithe wood nymph. He took off a battered old purple hat, reached into it, and pulled out multiple scrolls of parchment. “I, the great and powerful Drambloom, as always, am your humble World Master for our campaign of Boredom and Bedlam—the exciting game of a fantastical world called Earth, where players have no magic, no special inherited abilities, and must survive a hellscape of boredom and oppression!”

The surrounding congregants cheered and set out their own sheets of parchment in front of them.

Drambloom waited for their merriment to wane and continued. “Having wiped our previous campaign following the unfortunate incident involving fishing off the coast of—” the wizard flipped through another scroll, “Flooreeda? Gods, I hope I’m saying that right. Anyway, fishing near Flooreeda for the marlin, Genesta’s character—” he nodded to the wood nymph, “—convinced you all to use compact explosive sticks. That resulted in the desolation of your vessel, and you were all eaten by sharks.”

“Not my fault,” said Genesta, she pointed to the orc. “Dogbreath fumbled the roll and dropped a stick right next to the boat when he should have easily thrown it.”

The party grumbled. Drambloom hushed them. “Nevertheless, it resulted in our new characters created at our last session.” He flipped through parchment copies. “Genesta, you are now playing a guy named Buck. You maxed out strength at the cost of intelligence, charisma, and just about every other trait in the game.” He nodded to the orc. “Dogbreath, you seem fairly balanced, playing a female named Samantha. Sam took extra charisma by accepting a roll on 1d100 from the Mental Health Handicap appendix and ended up with…” He squinted at the scroll. “‘Pathological Gambling Disorder.’”

“Oh yeah,” cried the orc. “Momma needs a new pair of shoes!” He mimed rolling a handful of dice.

“That leaves Radley,” Drambloom said, and nodded to the armored dwarf. “You seem to be playing a man named Bob. You note that he is of average height and weight, with no discerning features. You have higher levels of deception and intelligence but also used the MHH appendix for extra skill points and got ‘Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.’”

The dwarf clanged excitedly in his chair.

“Now, our last session ended with you all successfully gaining employment with a regional purveyor of in-home large kitchen and home artifices. Samantha took a job in sales, while Bob and Buck are on a delivery crew. You begin tonight with Bob and Buck in the warehouse and Sam on the sales floor. How do you want to proceed?”

“Does Sam have any money?” asked Dogbreath.

“No. Your whole group took these jobs to make enough to cover the rent on something called a—” Drambloom consulted another parchment. “Oh, here, a three-bedroom double-wide trailer. It was the only thing your group could afford a security deposit on since you all decided to stay in Flooreeda.”

“Okay, who else is in the showroom?”

“Aside from you, there’s a young couple who say they were recently married, a sad old man staring at a device called a dishwasher, and another salesperson. The other salesperson, Joe, is a balding, overweight man in his early fifties with a bristly mustache. His hobbies include wearing brown pants. He is making a move on the young couple.”

“I want to intercept Joe. Can my crew help?”

The wizard consulted a sketch on a parchment. “Maybe. Buck was spending last turn ripping wooden pallets apart with his bare hands, but Bob is on the sales floor too. Radley, roll one 10-sided die for your compulsion.”

The armor clanged as Radley produced a small leather pouch. He plucked out a 10-sided die and rolled it. “Three!” shouted a tinny voice inside the armor.

Drambloom sighed. “Unfortunately, while Sam was trying to get Bob’s attention, he got distracted by a vending machine and must now spend the next turn counting the items inside.”

Radley asked from inside his armor, “What’s that?”

“According to the guide, the vending machine is a trade assistant that gives single-serving food items for loose coins.”

“Oooh,” replied Radley.

Dogbreath frowned. “Can I roll for athletics to get ahead of Joe?”

“Yes. We both have to roll a 20-sided die. I have an obesity modifier for Joe. You need to roll a…” The game master rolled his die. “Twelve or better.”

Dogbreath picked up the die in her massive green palm and let it roll across the roughly hewn wooden table. “Eighteen,” she said with a smile.

“Joe tries his best but is blocked by the old man staring at the dishwasher, who starts to tell him a story about when he was a little girl and they had to wash dishes by hand because that was the fashion of the time.”

“Great. What are the young couple looking to buy?”

“They are looking at buying a new refrigerator.”

The orc looked confused. “What’s that?”

“According to the Artificer Handbook, in this fantasy world, there is no magic, but they have supplanted that with inventions that run off lightning—somehow canned and transported through special hoses—or explosive gases, also canned and transported by special pipes and hoses.”

Genesta interrupted, “And they don’t blow themselves up more often than my dynamite fishing? That hardly seems fair.”

“It apparently happens rarely, but there are rigorous testing measures to make sure it hardly ever kills anyone.”

“And this refrigerator?” asked Dogbreath.

“It’s a massive box that keeps items cold and frozen.”

“But if it’s frozen, then it is cold,” he replied.

“According to the guide, there are two compartments in the box. The larger area keeps items cold, and the smaller area keeps items fully frozen. For reference, they are about the size of Genesta’s character, Buck.”

“Okay, how desperate are they?”

“Pretty desperate,” said the wizard. “They say their old one blew up, and they need this delivered today before their meats melt in their freezer.”

“Can I do a charisma roll to see what I can sell them?”

“Sure. Roll one 20-sided die.”

The orc rolled. “Natural 20, without my modifiers.”

The wizard checked a paper, then consulted a manual and rolled a series of dice with a grim look.

“Okay. Sam was very successful in her sales pitch. So successful that you almost sold them a full set of kitchen artifices, including a stove and a dishwasher. However, after I rolled to check their credit history, they can only get a small loan in addition to the five hundred dollars they brought today. That means they can only afford the mid-range refrigerator. Your commission stands at $120.”

“Not the best, but it’s a start on the day,” said Dogbreath. “Ok, I need Bob and Buck to help get that re-friger thingy to their house now, right?”

“Yes,” agreed Drambloom. “Bob has finished counting the snacks and sees you needing his help.”

Dogbreath turned to Radley, “Go get Buck and grab one of those … uh, things from the warehouse while I figure out how to take these people’s money.”

Radley said from inside his armor, “Aye aye”, and Genesta perked up, “I am ready to lift the thing,” while waiving her twiggy arms.

Drambloom instructed them to roll a series of dice, and analyzed the numbers rolled by Genesta: twelve, eleven, eighteen and two. Then the numbers rolled by Radley: sixteen, seventeen and nineteen.

At last the game master spoke. “Buck successfully retrieved a refrigerator from the inventory, but it was the wrong model. After he brought back the correct one that the young couple bought, he dropped it on Bob. Bob successfully sidestepped and barely evaded taking any damage to his character.”

Radley clanked and jumped around in his armor, “oh, oh! I read about a thing in the guide on this, I want to file a, um, Workman’s Comp claim!”

Drambloom grimaced. “You weren’t hurt, so you’ll have to roll for deception to make the claim work. Use one 20-sided die”

The dwarf rolled the die. “Nineteen!”

“Let me consult the OSHA compendium,” said the wizard and pulled a book from his stack nearby. “It looks like you’ve successfully received workman’s comp for $3000 per month until healed. You will need to make another deception roll every third turn to keep up the scheme.”

Radley cheered. “We made rent!” The whole party celebrated.