DoucheMage

by Damien Hanson

  Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter 1- The Dick Becomes The Dicked

  Chapter 2- Butler Butler and the PENIS Ride

  Chapter 3- Ware Ye Wrecke thee Entyre Shoppe

  Credits and Stash

  Chapter 4- The Legend of the Mighty Douche

  Chapter 5- Getting Drunk and Having Sex With Halflings

  Chapter 6- Farting in the Face of Danger

  Chapter 7- The Minmaxer’s Guide to Exploiting the Hottest Loopholes

  Chapter 8- Yadda Yadda, Psychic Vampire

  Chapter 9- Sh*t, Brian’s Dead

  Chapter 10- My Baby Dragon Says Yes, Curtis!

  Chapter 11- Mommy Chokes a Bitch on a Bastard Sword

  Chapter 12- The Supple Orb of Boobsight

  Chapter 13- Studelon the Studly

  Chapter 14- Dead Owlbears Do My Bidding

  Chapter 15- Lustful Little Leprechaun’s Lads

  Chapter 16- Hey, Hey, the Gang’s All Here!

  Chapter 17- Official Reviewers Guild Investigation and Execution Service: ORGIES

  Chapter 18- Nolan Wrote This Sh*tty Chapter

  Chapter 19- Morelon Vs. Absolutely Everyone

  Chapter 20- The Return of the Glitch

  Chapter 21- BEHOLD THE FURY OF MY SMOKING CHAIR

  Chapter 22- The Everbolt is Defeated and Everyone is Happy

  Chapter 23- Tilting with the Everbolt

  Chapter 24- Salesmen & Sorcerers

  WIENER- Winners Investing Extra Niblets End up Rewarded

  ORGASM: Organizational Readers Guidance Assistant for System Mastery

  Important Acronyms

  Cast of Characters

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  Coming soon in the Glitchworld Universe ...

  Chapter 1

  About the Authors

  DoucheMage

  A GlitchWorld Novel

  Nolan Locke

  Damien Hanson

  A Nerd! Production

  Cover Design by Brent Meske

  Copyright © 2020 Nolan Locke, Damien Hanson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  For more information, address: damienleehanson@yahoo.com or nolanlocke.author@gmail.com

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798668972227

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We want to take a minute to acknowledge all the a**holes we’ve encountered in our combined seventy-something years on this earth: the ones who whooped loudly in bars and challenged us to take it outside when they were clearly fall-down drunk and in no condition to beat our asses. We’re also thinking about the ones who proudly told us about how many girls they’d boned in their twenty-five years on this earth. And who could forget the people who came to Korea thinking only of the money they could make, rent-free, after a paid trans-oceanic flight, who didn’t give a flying pickle about the children they’d have to teach while hung over on a Monday… or a Tuesday… or literally any day, actually.

  Brah, you helped shape this into what it is: a real butt-stuffer of a novel.

  I want to dedicate this book to every time you dropped something on your nuts, every moment someone leaned over and went ‘What’s the capital of Thailand’ moments before flicking you in the dick. And this book is definitely dedicated to all the times you hissed a breath watching anyone nut themselves while doing something inadvisable and just plain stupid.

  To the pain, baby.

  Prelude

  The general rule to accounting at Musky’s Tax Office was to keep your head down and stay hidden. If you didn’t you might end up working the weekend. And the weekend is when Big Brett Musky had you all to his own.

  “Get to work, Brian,” Brett Musky yelled, his wicked smile self-indulgent, greasy and cruel. He wore a large and long fire-orange power tie that screamed douche - underneath it his white shirt was stained with something red and greasy from breakfast. The man was a slob but he always demanded perfection from his employees - Brian in particular it seemed since he was the one who most often shared in these weekend ‘power sessions’. The man had a beard that glistened with oil and his hard expression suggested that this work was of the greatest importance. Which Brian knew wasn’t true because there wasn’t anything here to work on. It was really too bad he’d gotten all his work for the week done on Thursday. Everything had taken care of itself when he’d designed a macro to automate all his report write ups. Then it was just a matter of staring into his screen with the correct amount of glaze in his eyes to make sure the Musky man didn’t come inspect his work. To that end, he kept an unfinished version of the report on screen just in case Musky shoved his beard where it wasn’t wanted.

  “Which is basically everywhere,” he muttered.

  As it turned out, the macro had saved him a lot of work and he’d spent his time playing garbage app games and surfing clickbait, but ultimately it ended him here, on his day off. He surveyed his meticulously cleared, empty desk, up at the mad gleam in Brett Musky’s eye, and sighed.

  “Yes sir,” he said. First order of business: create an event on Monday to clutter up his desk. Further note: do so slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion. Second order of business: manufacture a fake girlfriend and try to beg off the power sessions by complaining that he had a solid date planned. He considered how much lewd detail to include in his fantasy date, to put Musky off the scent. He wrote ‘a low-moderate amount’ but stopped when he realized he didn’t know how much information was TMI. He’d never had I to TM.

  He needed to get a girlfriend, actually and for real. Preferably someone who wouldn’t mind when he caved to Musky and came in for a Saturday of warming a desk chair. Or maybe one psycho enough to call him up and scream at him enough to let him stay home.

  Somedays he felt like he might cry– but then he’d look at Brett’s big stupid rich face and remember the job market. Brett knew he could bully him. He was just a scrawny white boy with a mop of red hair and freckles peppered over a near-sighted big-nosed face and finding a job in this economy was hard enough without looking like some reject of humanity– which he did. But it wasn’t a big deal today. His gaze washed over the billionaire’s fat face and the one crazed eye (the other was quite clinically sane) and he felt assured.

  Tonight, if that phone call I got meant anything at all, I am finally going to give him his comeuppance.

  The caller had promised either a king’s ransom or the chance to put the fat ass behind bars. It’d be a tremendous humiliation on “The Muskyteer”, and if he blackmailed the bastard hard he’d finally have a chance to play through the ultimate game.

  His boss seemed to realize that there was nothing on Brian’s desk to work on, and he sighed, lurching off in his Frankensteinian gait to his office through the dusky interior of the unlit cubicled workroom to browse through his make-work files. Brian could hear him rifling through the manila folders and crisp white documents. He looked down at the floor and daydreamed. His vision went to the “YouStreamIt” videos - the perfect game, real life, real setting, Prestige Gaming. He imagined himself atop a snowy mountain. Bolts of thunder and lightning crashed down about him, his robes dark and his eyes glowing red with the sort of evil that inspires one to drop all that they have and retreat in terror. He imagined an NPC of Musky screaming as his skin melted off and his glasses ran through the muck, dragging bloody trenches.

  And then I’d make the bastard my zombie butler.

  Brett shuffled papers more loudly in his office, then clumped back out on his smudged black dress shoes. “Would you look at that? Looks like there’s absolutely nothing there to be
done.”

  “So I can go then?” Brian asked, his voice heavy with hope.

  Brett’s lip curled up into a condescending smile. “Only if you want to lose your job. Grab up some office manuals. Study. You check out when I check out and I’m not going to be checking out for a long while.”

  Oh I think you will be after tonight. Enjoy this, you monster. Enjoy your bully session with good old Brian. Because it’s going to be your last one ...

  Chapter 1- The Dick Becomes The Dicked

  The atmosphere, thick with the laughter and crying of little children, set Brian’s teeth on edge. Still, Genovese’s Pasta Emporium had decent carbonara for men who liked to put money toward their retirements, and they had endless breadsticks. Brian always selected a table near the window, facing the bustling kitchen. He inevitably waited for his opportunity to stuff several breadsticks into a zipper bag like an undercover cop waiting to make the bust. He was generally about as memorable as furniture out of Target. If he had one quality his supervisors and coworkers would recognize, it would be his reliability. He could wait a good thirty minutes to dart his breadsticks under the table and into the depths of his briefcase. In the four years he’d been coming here, he had never been caught, which supplied countless free meals toward the cause.

  That cause: to retire before the age of sixty (he was projecting, currently, to retire at age fifty-seven, but was always on the lookout for any other ways to shave off a few months here and there).

  So far he had put three breadsticks away for later, and was hoping to get another two saved, when the man walked into the restaurant. No problem.

  The person appeared about as conspicuous as a Fed in a thriller film: black glasses, wide-brimmed hat, and an honest-to-God facemask above his black trenchcoat and nondescript black clothing. Brian detected about four square inches of pale skin.

  “Mr. Morecock?”

  A housewife at the next table ducked and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop from spitting Coke all over the table. Brian, used to this, made eye contact with the man, then waved at his table before catching the incredulous server’s eye and waggling the empty breadstick basket.

  Brian finished with his recounting of the day and faced his dinner partner full on. The man had told him that he’d give him everything he’d need to end his boss, so Brian had felt it right to tell him why he was so intent on doing so.

  “And you are…?”

  “I’d prefer we didn’t go down that road,” the man said, in a surprisingly high voice. How many layers was he wearing?

  Brian shrugged. “As long as we get Musky.”

  The housewife ducked again and gave him some side-eye. Geez, she was just terrible at eavesdropping.

  “I’ll just need to confirm a few matters,” the man said. “You have reason to dislike your boss, correct?”

  “Oh,” he chuckled. “Oh, yeah. Plenty. You could write an entire book about all the crap I’ve gone through in the last four years.” He then launched into an impromptu presentation, drawing pie charts on napkins and detailing exactly all of the crap he had gone through. He finished with an exasperated sigh. “And, as you can see, I’ve been specifically called out, almost without fail, at least twice a month.”

  “So that’s why you hate the guy?” the man asked, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

  “Yep. Abso-damn-tootly,” Brian answered, finally looking down at the twists of noodle, chunks of chicken and white creamy sauce now congealing on his plate. “The guy is a monster. He makes a ton of money and doesn’t actually even have to be there at all– we all do our work despite anything he tells us to do. In fact I charted it out on my computer– when the Muskyteer is in play, productivity stays away. It is an actual goddamn empirical fact.”

  The stranger couldn’t help himself. He gave a hearty laugh and then fumbled to keep his slipping sunglasses from spoiling his identity.

  “Yeah. Haha. Laugh all you want but it is a comedic tragedy is what it is. Especially since I’m pretty sure he only hired me because he could smell all of the previous high school and middle school bullies from before.”

  “Tsk tsk,” said the stranger. “That’s a damn shame.”

  “Damn right it is!” said Brian, stabbing his forked through cream chicken pasta and shoving it forcefully into his mouth. “Ow,” he added, wishing he hadn’t decided to try for dramatic effect. Plus, the housewife at the next table was sneering at him.

  “So it is good that you’ve met me then. Brett’s a horrible person who I detest for my own reasons– he’s been asking for trouble for a long time. And I happen to know that he’s also a thief and a cheat. A very non-professional professional. Someone with a list of illegal transactions a mile long that very very much are begging to be used in an advantageous and angry way.”

  “That’s good. I like that,” Brian smiled. “So why not give it to the cops?”

  “There might be too much heat– too much interest in me and my organization.” The man pulled out a briefcase and plopped it onto the table. He popped it open and the lid slapped down into Brian’s pasta. It was a sad end to a good meal.

  “I don’t know how much of that was called for,” frowned Brian. “But, hey, if it gets the Muskyteer off my back I’m in for anything.” He dragged his finger over a splash of white on the suitcase, and plunged it into his mouth. “That is good sauce!”

  The stranger snorted and waved his hands over the contents of the briefcase in a tight circular motion. “I’d think, with everything that’s on the line for you in your personal life, maybe you should take this more seriously?” He pulled a document out of the stack, pulled an expensive-looking gleaming chrome pen with LED lights from his pocket, and began marking ticks and x’s through its boxes. “Do what you want with what I’m about to give you. Just don’t try to figure out who I was and don’t talk about any of this to anyone. Put the bastard in jail, blackmail him, I don’t care. Just so long as he’s hurt enough for some various unnamed others to take what they need out of his sudden loss of power.”

  “I don’t get how blackmail or jail would lead to the same luxurious conclusion,” Brian mulled aloud, grabbing a hold of the top folder and pulling it open. His eyes widened when he saw what was inside. “Is this…”

  “Not a word,” said the stranger. He pointed at the folder. “I know everything that’s in this case. We don’t need to say anything about anything. Nor do I need to answer questions.”

  “And my payment?” Brian asked. “Do I need to tithe something, give you a monthly fee, anything like that?”

  The stranger grabbed Brian’s arm and spoke in a low whisper. “Removing Musky from his present set of circumstances however you want, it’s all the same to me. No more questions,” he said, looking about the dark interior of the restaurant. It was a fancy shiny sort of place where everything was polished so much that a person could pick their teeth in their reflection if it weren’t also classy– a word here that means it was lit solely by the light of candles. A waiter tripped and shrieked behind them, his face hitting the open flame of a candelabra.

  Brian’s right eye twitched, his face screwed up uncertainly. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Is this illegal?”

  The stranger sighed and grabbed the folder out of Brian’s hands, throwing it into the case and snapping it shut. “This is standard operating protocol. And you are about to lose it if you don’t just shut up and take what’s been given to you. What does it matter? It isn’t like the president and his Congress are going to do anything about it. They’re busy stiffing the working man just like your boss is.”

  “Right, right, I’m sorry ...” Brian shook his head and laid a hand reverently upon the case, caressing its sauce spilled side. “No more questions.”

  The stranger nodded and stood up, leaving the case where it was. “See to it that Brett Musky gets hurt and hurt bad. Go at him hard. Hell, retire to Prestige Gaming if he’ll go for it.”

  Brian’s eyes took on a new light. The stran
ger looked into their brilliance and saw himself wreathed all over, like some all-powerful and benevolent angel.

  “Tha– thank you,” Brian gushed, shocked at how easily everything had gone.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Morecock. Godspeed in your new life. And a bit of personal advice– don’t let people bully you. Be the alpha, not the beta.” The stranger tipped his hat and walked off, almost falling over the server with a basket full of breadsticks. Her forced smile curdled as soon as he stood up and made to leave, now with two briefcases.

  Outside, he made for Jenkins Park and had himself a bit of a sit down. The case snapped back open, and he riffled through folder after folder, his mouth agape and his eyes full of dollar signs. He’d be an alpha alright. With this kind of money, and digital paradise all around him, he’d be a god.

  ***

  “You son of a bitch!” Brett screamed, looking over the copied documents spread over his house-sized mahogany desk. Brian had used the company copier to make them– just another knife up the fat man’s asshole. He’d included a few copies of his bare ass as well. Brett spied one as he rifled through the papers and his face went scarlet.

  Brian cast a glance over at the calendar: Saturday.

  Power session indeed.

  “I…” The boss man scowled and stared over the papers full of their incriminating numbers and columns. Brian just stood and watched, a big smile riding his face as the crazed billionaire finally ran into a fish bigger than he was. Brett swept his arm across the desk and littered the floor with documents. He shook his head, muttered something, and then a big smile appeared on his face, presto, change-o. Hey there friend, it seemed to say.

  “I’ve been good to you, haven’t I? A good wage, a job with a cushy chair and large cubicle. Sure I make a lot of money off of you guys, but I split it up nicely. You might get as much from your work as I do, hey? And you’ve been putting in all of those extra weekends, so maybe it is time we talk about naming a vice president of the company, hey?”