The Butcherino's greasy yellow eyes drilled into Kevin, promising a world of hurt delivered via rusty meat cleaver. Its ridiculously oversized dump-truck wobbled with each heavy step, a constant, grotesque reminder of the meme magic that had saved him twice but left him utterly drained. Clout: 0/15Kevin stumbled back, his sensible office loafers slipping slightly in the encroaching Marinara Mire that oozed from the sluggish Spaghetti Servitor nearby. The Servitor itself seemed content to just… exist, spreading its saucy domain and occasionally mashing a meatball fist against the marble floor like a bored toddler. Further away, the Angel Hair Skirmisher was frantically trying to scrape the sticky sauce off its delicate limbs, temporarily preoccupied. Cold comfort.
The Butcherino advanced, ignoring the other pasta abominations. It had eyes only for Kevin, the source of its profound, ass-related indignity. It raised the cleaver, testing its weight, and then did something that made Kevin’s blood run cold.
It spoke. Its voice was a wet, gurgling rasp, like words forced through layers of phlegm and gristle, yet somehow holding distorted echoes of Carl, the office building’s actual custodian.
"Fresh... meat," it gurgled, grinning wider, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth stained crimson. "Tenderize... yes..."
It wasn't just a monster. It was a of Carl, twisted into this culinary nightmare. Did the System do this deliberately? Was Carl's consciousness trapped in there somewhere, forced to watch through greasy yellow eyes as his body committed unspeakable acts? The thought was nauseating.
The Butcherino took another step, then paused, its head tilting as it looked towards the wall where Dave lay motionless. It ambled over, its wobble-ass swaying hypnotically. Kevin watched, frozen in morbid fascination and horror, unable to look away.
The creature nudged Dave's body with its foot, then knelt beside him with a grunt, the movement surprisingly fluid despite its bulk. It poked Dave’s slack face with a grimy finger.
Oh god.
The Butcherino raised its cleaver. Not to strike, but almost… thoughtfully. It ran the flat of the blade along Dave's arm, then wiped it clean on Dave's expensive-looking (and now ruined) shirt, leaving a fresh streak of gore. It sniffed the air above the body, then shook its head with a low, disappointed gurgle.
"Too... lean," it rasped. "No... marbling."
It stood up, leaving Dave's corpse momentarily unmolested, and turned its attention back to Kevin. Its yellow eyes seemed to appraise him, stripping him bare, calculating his fat content.
"You..." the Butcherino gurgled, pointing the cleaver. "Maybe... ... have better... cuts."
The sheer, callous horror of the moment – the creature assessing his dead colleague like a piece of meat, the implication that it ate its victims, the System’s nonchalant commentary – sent a wave of revulsion through Kevin so profound it almost doubled him over.
Clout: 5/15
But the Butcherino was closer now, much closer. Too close for comfort, too close to guarantee the spell would stop it before that cleaver descended. Kevin needed space, or a weapon. His eyes darted around. The broken keyboard was useless. Gary was groaning nearby, trying feebly to push himself up, but clearly wasn't getting anywhere fast. Dave… well, Dave wasn't getting up at all.
The cleaver. The Butcherino had dropped it earlier when Kevin hit it with the first Gyatt. It lay gleaming dully on the marble floor about ten feet away, near the edge of the Marinara Mire.
An insane idea sparked in Kevin’s exhausted, terrified brain. Use the monster’s own weapon against it. He had [Makeshift Weapon Proficiency]
The Butcherino raised its cleaver again, preparing to charge the final few feet. Kevin didn't hesitate. He took his freshly gained 5 Clout, focused all his revulsion and panic into that single, stupid word, and screamed it directly at the Butcherino's already comically oversized rear.
"GYATT!
The effect was noticeably weaker this time. The Butcherino's ass swelled again, but not quite to car-sized proportions – maybe just a minivan this time. It still slammed the creature downwards (THUD-CLAP!
Clout: 0/15
But it was enough. While the Butcherino was momentarily down, Kevin sprinted. Not away, but the fallen cleaver, his shoes sinking slightly into the edge of the disgusting Marinara Mire. He skidded, scooped up the heavy, greasy weapon, its handle disturbingly warm.
The weight felt alien but solid in his hand. He had a real weapon. A terrifying, gore-stained, probably cursed weapon, but a weapon nonetheless.
He spun around, cleaver raised defensively, just as the Butcherino pushed itself back up, its ass deflating slightly back towards merely "apocalyptically large" proportions. It saw Kevin holding its cleaver, and its yellow eyes narrowed into slits of pure, murderous fury.
"MINE!" it shrieked, its voice cracking with rage, losing the Carl-like undertones and becoming something purely monstrous. It charged, ignoring its wobble, moving with terrifying speed.
Kevin braced himself, heart pounding. He had no Clout, mediocre stats, and a skill that meant he sucked slightly less at hitting things with keyboards. Now he had a cleaver. Time to see if that made any fucking difference at all.
Just as the Butcherino closed the distance, cleaver against cleaver, a new, blaring notification box erupted in Kevin's vision, far larger and more intrusive than the usual updates. Its border pulsed with an aggressive red light.
A timer appeared in the corner of Kevin's vision, ticking down relentlessly. Five minutes. Five minutes until he, Gary (if he was still alive), the Butcherino, the Spaghetti Servitor, the Angel Hair Skirmisher, and god knows what else in the lobby were forcibly teleported into some kind of pasta-themed deathmatch arena.
The Butcherino's cleaver came whistling down towards Kevin's head. The apocalypse wasn't just trying to kill him; it was putting him on a fucking deadline.
Kevin reacted purely on instinct, fueled by adrenaline and the [Makeshift Weapon Proficiency] fuck it. He didn’t try to block the Butcherino’s downward chop head-on; that seemed like a quick way to lose an arm. Instead, he twisted, letting the descending cleaver whistle past his ear while simultaneously bringing his own borrowed blade up in a clumsy, desperate arc.
CLANG!
Metal shrieked against metal. The impact jarred Kevin’s arm to the shoulder socket, but his desperate parry somehow deflected the Butcherino’s blow wide. The monster’s cleaver bit into the marble floor, sending up sparks and chips of stone.
Kevin stumbled back, heart jackhammering. He’d actually parried it. Holy shit. Maybe this cleaver thing wasn't entirely suicidal.
The Butcherino roared in fury, yanking its cleaver free from the floor. It didn’t pause, immediately swinging again in a wide, horizontal slash aimed at Kevin’s gut. Its movements were brutish, powerful, but lacked finesse. It fought like… well, like a butcher hacking apart a carcass.
Kevin ducked under the swing, the wind from the heavy blade ruffling his hair. He tried to bring his own cleaver around for a counter-attack, but the weapon was heavy, awkward. His [Makeshift Weapon Proficiency]
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He needed to think. Four minutes and change left on the Colosseum di Cannelloni death clock. The Butcherino was enraged, focused solely on him. The Spaghetti Servitor was still slowly oozing, a passive area denial hazard. The Angel Hair Skirmisher was struggling in the sauce nearby. Gary was down but possibly still alive.
Could he kill the Butcherino in four minutes? Unlikely. Could he the Butcherino for four minutes? Maybe slightly less unlikely.
The Butcherino lunged again, this time leading with a shoulder charge, trying to use its bulk while bringing the cleaver around in a follow-up chop. Its massive, wobbly ass threw its balance off slightly, a lingering side effect of the repeated Gyatt attacks. Kevin saw the opening – a momentary imbalance.
Instead of trying to parry again, he dodged towards the monster, ducking under its swinging arm. He brought his cleaver up, not aiming for a killing blow, but slicing downwards across the Butcherino's outstretched weapon arm.
The blade bit deep. Not through bone, but through thick, unnatural flesh and sinew. The Butcherino bellowed in pain and rage, its cleaver swing faltering. Dark, viscous fluid – thicker and oilier than blood – spurted from the wound.
Kevin thought, scrambling back as the Butcherino clutched its wounded arm, its yellow eyes somehow burning even brighter with hatred. It seemed less hindered by the pain and more homicidally infuriated.
It charged again, ignoring the wound, swinging its cleaver with its uninjured arm. The attack was wilder now, less controlled, but still lethally dangerous. Kevin backpedaled desperately, using the scattered lobby furniture – an overturned couch here, a luggage cart there – as makeshift obstacles, trying to buy time.
His gaze flickered to the countdown timer: [ 03:48 ]. Then to Gary, who was stirring, trying to sit up despite the obvious pain in his side. Then to the Angel Hair Skirmisher, which had finally freed itself from the Marinara Mire and was zipping towards the injured Gary, sensing an easy target.
Fuck. He couldn't protect Gary while fighting the Butcherino.
He needed Clout. He needed to distract these goddamn things. He risked a glance at Dave's corpse again. The System had mentioned "Manual Butchery." Did that mean...?
A truly horrific idea bloomed in his mind. It was disgusting. It was borderline psychotic. It might even generate some serious Clout from sheer, unadulterated fucked-up-ness.
Kevin dodged another wild swing from the Butcherino, using the back of a surprisingly sturdy armchair. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and yelled towards the corpse-inspecting monster, "Hey! Butcher-freak! Forget the lean cuts! Dave signed an organ donor card! Full buffet!"
Silence. Even the Spaghetti Servitor seemed to pause its oozing. The Angel Hair Skirmisher hesitated in its approach to Gary. The Butcherino stopped its assault mid-swing, its head tilted, yellow eyes blinking slowly.
It processed the statement. Then, a low, appreciative gurgle rumbled in its chest. It glanced back at Dave's body with renewed, horrific interest.
"Organs..." it rasped. "Yes... cuts..."
It actually turned away from Kevin, lumbering back towards Dave's corpse, cleaver held ready not for combat, but for… harvesting.
Clout: 10/15
He didn't have time to feel guilty. The Angel Hair Skirmisher, momentarily distracted, now resumed its approach towards Gary. Kevin spun, facing the zipping pasta menace. He couldn't afford to waste Clout on this thing if he needed it for the Butcherino later, or for the arena.
He still had the cleaver.
"Gary! Roll!" Kevin shouted.
He charged the Skirmisher, swinging the heavy cleaver low, aiming to sweep its fragile pasta legs out from under it. The Skirmisher darted back, avoiding the clumsy sweep, then zipped forward again, launching a series of rapid pinprick stabs with its hardened pasta limbs.
Kevin grunted as several sharp strands pierced his trousers and stung his leg. Minor damage, maybe 1 HP lost, but annoying. He swung the cleaver again, more wildly this time, using his [Makeshift Weapon Proficiency]
Behind him, sickening wet, chopping sounds began emanating from where the Butcherino was hunched over Dave's body. Kevin forced himself not to look, focusing on the Skirmisher.
Countdown: [ 02:15 ]
He needed to end this quickly. He feinted another low sweep with the cleaver, then brought it upwards quickly as the Skirmisher dodged back. The pasta creature, anticipating another horizontal attack, zipped right into the path of the rising blade.
SCHLICK!
The heavy cleaver sliced cleanly through the Angel Hair Skirmisher’s fragile form. It didn't explode; it just… fell apart, like a bundle of dry spaghetti dropped on the floor, its animating force dissipating instantly.
Angel Hair Skirmisher Eliminated! +25 XP!
Kevin barely registered the notification. He spun back towards the Butcherino. The creature was still horrifically preoccupied with Dave's corpse, seemingly extracting something glistening and red. The sight was stomach-churning.
The Spaghetti Servitor was still oozing slowly towards the center of the lobby, apparently content in its passive aggression. Gary had managed to drag himself towards the relative cover of an overturned reception desk.
Two minutes left. Kevin looked at the Butcherino, then at the cleaver in his hand, then at his 10 Clout. He could try another Gyatt, maybe try to finish it while it was distracted? Or save the Clout for the Colosseum?
The ticking clock forced the decision. Survive now, worry about the arena later.
Charging a seven-foot-tall, cleaver-wielding, ass-heavy butcher custodian currently engaged in amateur organ harvesting felt like several different kinds of suicide rolled into one convenient, greasy package. But the timer was ticking: [ 01:58 ]
Kevin gripped the borrowed cleaver, its handle slick with... something he didn't want to identify. He aimed for the center of the Butcherino's broad, hunched back, hoping to sever a spine or hit something vital. He poured all his pathetic STR
The sickening sounds stopped. The Butcherino must have heard him coming. It started to turn, its movements sluggish, weighed down by its gravity-defying posterior and preoccupied with its gruesome task. It brought its own cleaver around, not in a practiced block, but more like an instinctive swat, dripping with fresh gore from Dave's impromptu autopsy.
Kevin didn't flinch. He couldn't afford to. He adjusted his aim slightly, going for the gap under the monster's rising arm, hoping to plunge the cleaver deep into its side or kidney area.
Just as his blade was about to connect, the Butcherino . Its oversized ass, perhaps destabilized by the sudden turn, shifted violently. The creature stumbled, its defensive swat going wide, its own momentum carrying it off balance.
It was the opening Kevin needed. He drove the cleaver forward with everything he had.
The blade sank deep into the Butcherino’s side, just above the hip, hitting something solid that crunched sickeningly – probably bone. The monster shrieked, a high-pitched sound of agony that abruptly cut off into a wet gurgle. Its yellow eyes widened in shock, then rolled back in its head. Its grip on its own cleaver loosened.
It staggered back, pulling away from Kevin’s embedded blade, thick, oily fluid pouring from the wound. It clutched at its side, took one more wobbling step, and then collapsed face-first onto the marble floor with a final, shuddering THUD
Kevin stood there, chest heaving, arm aching, covered in splatters of gore – some Dave's, some the Butcherino's. He stared at the fallen monster, then at the cleaver still buried deep in its side. He’d done it. He’d actually killed the fucking thing.
Victory Tasted Like Bile and Old Coffee: +75 XP! Butcherino Kill Bonus!
He almost collapsed from relief and exertion. But the timer spurred him on: [ 01:15 ].
Loot. He needed the loot. And Gary.
He rushed over to the Butcherino's corpse, ignoring the horrific mess surrounding Dave's body nearby. A faint shimmer appeared above the Butcherino. Kevin grabbed the items as they materialized:
Kevin grimaced, shoving the apron, scroll, and disturbingly squishy organ into his pockets. He couldn't wield the cleaver properly yet (STRSTR
He hurried over to Gary, who was propped against the overturned reception desk, conscious but looking terrible. "Gary, can you move? We have less than a minute!"
Gary nodded weakly. "Think so. Ribs... feel like fire."
Kevin glanced at the Spaghetti Servitor. It was still oozing aimlessly near the center of the lobby, seemingly unconcerned with the recent violence or the ticking clock. Maybe it wasn't included in the teleport? Or maybe it was just really, really dumb pasta.
Countdown: [ 00:45 ].
"Okay, lean on me," Kevin said, helping Gary up. He looked around the lobby one last time. Dave's body, the Butcherino's corpse, the scattered pasta fragments, the slowly spreading Marinara Mire. What a fucking nightmare.
He suddenly remembered the espresso beans. He still had four left. Maybe a DEX boost would help in the arena? He popped one into his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste. The familiar Jitters kicked in almost instantly, making his hands tremble but sharpening his senses slightly.
Kevin Miller gained buff [Minor Jitters]! (+1 DEX, -1 Stability).
Countdown: [ 00:20 ].
"Okay, Gary, brace yourself," Kevin said. "Whatever happens next, stick close."
The air in the lobby began to hum, charged with static electricity. The emergency lights flickered violently. A faint blue glow started emanating from the floor around Kevin and Gary, and, further away, around the Spaghetti Servitor. Even Dave's and the Butcherino's corpses began to glow faintly.
So much for the dead staying dead. Or at least, staying put.
Countdown: [ 00:05 ].
[ 00:04 ].
[ 00:03 ].
Kevin tightened his grip on Gary. The blue glow intensified, becoming blinding. A roaring sound filled his ears, like a thousand meme trains arriving at once.
[ 00:02 ].
[ 00:01 ].
[ 00:00 ].
The world dissolved into blinding blue light and incoherent noise.
