Grum: Barbarian Barista: A litRPG Short Story

by John Rickett

  To you…

  The d20 rollers

  And warriors with controllers

  All who have tested their mettle

  Grinding out just one more level.

  Barbarian Barista

  The manager’s office of a franchise café on the corner of 34th and Broad was no place for a level-99 Barbarian.

  Yet here he was.

  Grum should be lounging on his throne, not the tiny wooden chair that groaned under his massive weight. He should be in his banquet hall, warmed by flame, reveling in the defeat of his nemesis, Albatross, surrounded by berserkers and naked women—not this tiny office with its tiny desk, manned by a tiny NPC who’s tiny health bar wouldn’t withstand a single swipe from Grum’s Demonfire Battle Axe.

  He should be burning a heretic.

  Instead, he listened to the ceiling fan whiiir, whiiir, whiiir, and wiped a booger on his fur kilt.

  …What was that last spell Albatross had cast? It had opened a vortex. There was a sucking sound, the feeling of being pulled apart.

  And then he was here. In the land of tall buildings and small people—none of which had names hovering above them.

  The placard on the office desk named this one Ellison “Eli” Mason.

  World’s Greatest Boss.

  The title did little to impress Grum.

  In fact, none of the titles emblazoned on paper and hung around the office impressed him: Best Tarbean franchise manager; Associate degree in liberal arts; Rollerskate Disco Champion 1981.

  None of those would invoke terror.

  But Grum understood. In his castle, he’d hung his trophies too: Elthasar’s shield; The head of the demon Belzeer; Ramuh’s electric testicles.

  Eli stared down at the quest application Grum had filled out. A confusion status icon pulsed above his head, a disembodied hand scratching a disembodied head. Eli mimicked the motion.

  A job application, the NPC had called it, but it was all the same: a place to get experience points, loot, and most importantly, kill things.

  Eli looked up, his eyes magnified behind large glasses. Though the NPC was old enough to lose most of his gray hair, he still wore the sparse mustache of a boy, not the gruff beard of a warrior, or the long beard of a wizard. “So, Mr…”

  “Grum.” Not a word, but a command. A line in the sand. His banner and reputation. “Defiler of corpses. The Ruthless Carnal. The Fist of Ana—”

  Eli silenced him with a hand, leaving dozens of titles unannounced. He ran his palms down his shirt—a fabric too thin to stop an assassin’s dagger. “Grum. Grum is your first name?

  “It is my only name.”

  “I see.” Eli steepled his hands and leaned forward. “Mr. Grum, before we get to your… application… tell me, Why do you want to work at Tarbean, home of the darkest, strongest, most expensive coffee on planet earth?

  The strongest? If this… coffee… was the strongest, Grum would be a perfect fit. “I saw your quest marker,” he said.

  “My quest marker?”

  Grum tossed the torn HELP WANTED sign on the desk. He slammed his finger down on the sign. “Quest Marker.”

  “But, why here, specifically, at Tarbean. And take your time, it is an important question, one that we ask all potential prospects. We’re not just a fly-by-night employer. We take great pride in ou—“

  “Skip dialog. I would like to pursue this quest.”

  “Mr. Grum, if you could not interrupt—“

  “Skip dialog. How many must I kill?”

  “Pardon?”

  This new town was terrible. All NPCs with useless dialog. Why couldn’t he just ACCEPT QUEST and get on with it? “Where is their encampment? Do you need supplies gathered? Is the artifact in ruins or a cave?” Grum sighed. “Which is it?” He stuck up his index finger. “Kill?” A second finger. “Retrieve?” A third finger. “Escort?”

  “I think you misunderstand, Mr. Grum.”

  “I have not failed any Intelligence checks.”

  “Intelligence checks?” Eli blinked, his eyes large like a beholders behind the glasses, the confusion station still pulsing above him. “Let’s just move on to the application, shall we?” Eli looked back at the application. “You’ve… made some changes.”

  “I found most of the questions meaningless.”

  “Right. I’m all for individuality, but I need some clarifications. For example, you’ve crossed out gender, and written STRENGTH, 99. You’ve also made substitutions to Contact Information, Address, Social Security Number… substituting Dexterity, Willpower and Defense rating. Among others…”

  “Ignore the low intelligence and dexterity scores. I make up for them in Strength and willpower.”

  “And under qualifications… What is this that you’ve drawn?”

  Grum leaned back in the tiny chair. “A tableau of me slaying Ithgar the Unholy.”

  “Right.” Eli raised an eyebrow. “Slaying Ithgar. How does that make you qualified to work…” He spread his arms. “…here?”

  “The Unholy was an end game boss. He dropped legendary gear.” Grum motioned to the Demonfire Battle Axe standing in the corner, its arching, serrated blades split by a ram’s skull, twisted horns reaching to the ceiling. “My gloves of Vice,” he said, displaying them. “Legendary.” He tapped his helmet. “Helm of the Siren Song. Legendary. This is a starter town. Any quest you give me will be far beneath my challenge level.”

  Eli tapped a pencil on his desk, staring the barbarian in the eye. “Well, Mr. Grum,” he said, lifting his chin, his voice stern, “We have ourselves a barista problem.”

  Barista? A name Grum had never heard, but the obvious source of the man’s ire. A minor boss perhaps, terrorizing Eli’s establishment. Yet, Grum had heard no rumors. No townspeople gossiping. No cut-scene. No story-lore books or scrolls. Regardless…

  “I will slay this… Barista.”

  “Slay? That makes you sound very confident in your ability, Mr. Grum. But are you sure you’re cut out for this type of work?”

  Was he being dismissive? Of Grum? Of the Titan Smiter? “Are you saying I’m not high-enough level for this quest? Do you not see my hit-point bar?” Grum pointed above his head.

  Eli looked above the barbarian, adjusting his glasses. He squinted, then pinned his gaze back on Grum. “I don’t see anything.”

  Grum looked up.

  Grum

  HP: 9999/9999

  “It is right there.” He pointed up. “It is set to visible.”

  The confusion icon above Eli was gone. “Nope. Nothing there.”

  “Well… it is very large.”

  “I’m… sure it is. But, what I’m saying is that this work…” Eli looked off, tapping his chin. “Is finesse work. And you seem very capable in other avenues, but even—”

  “Skip dialog. There is no ques—”

  “My dialog is very important to you getting this job.”

  Dialog was important? Maybe the NPC was right. Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe it was why Grum couldn’t accept the quest. Damned dialog choices. He deliberated…

  1) “Grum smash!” [Attack]

  2) Pick nose. Say nothing. [Continue Dialog]

  3) Wander away. Mumble to self. [Abandon Quest]

  4) [Intimidate: Difficulty Unknown]

  Kill or terrify? Was there any harder choice in life? If this NPC didn’t have a quest for him, killing would be the obvious choice. Had Grum even seen another quest, he’d be cleaving the tiny man in half.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t…

  Grum stood. The ceiling fan smacked against his helmet. Blades splintered and broke free, helicoptering across the room a
nd smacking into the walls. Eli didn’t flinch. Grum reached down, plucked the World’s Greatest Boss placard between two fingers and brought it up to his eye. It was made of cheap metal, letters etched on its surface. Though it was nearly a foot long, it rested in Grum’s palm without overhanging the edges of his massive hand.

  The legacy of a man is his victories. His trophies.

  Grum squeezed with his Gloves of Vice, crushing the placard. He rolled it around in his hands, and then placed it, balled-up, back on Eli’s desk.

  “Give me this quest, or I will do this to your face.”

  Intimidation: (Unknown Difficulty)

  Failed!

  The ceiling fan continued its sad whiiir, whiiir, whiiir. Eli stood and pulled the chain, silencing it. Then, he sat and calmly examined the ruined placard while chewing on his pencil. “Impressive strength, Mr. Grum. But still no proof of your potential as a barista.”

  How had Grum failed to intimidate such a weak man… unless…

  Was Eli more powerful? Feigning weakness?

  Eli reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulled out an identical placard and set it next to the ruined one. “There we are. All better.”

  Grum clutched the arms of the chair and lowered himself, his eyes never leaving Eli.

  How?

  “Mr. Grum. You’re passionate about this job. I see that. And persistent. And my father, rest his spirit, always said passion before proficiency. We can train a man to do stuff, but we can’t train him how to love doing it.”

  Where had Albatross sent him? What was this world?

  Eli examined the application again. “Okay… It’s an hour until the morning rush, and it’s always a doozy. A real strain on our family here. And I’d hate for them to stress more than they are. They’ve recently lost a fellow employee to an unfortunate wing-suit accident. Trevor was a good man. Good help, too. And without him, it’ll be difficult to man the morning rush. I’m not willing to hire you on the spot based on that, but I am willing to try you on for size. And let you try us on for size. If it goes smooth as peanut-butter, if you mesh with the family here, I’ll put you on full-time.”

  A trial? Grum, The Discord of EvenGlen was being tested?

  Eli stood and motioned to the door. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  Quest Accepted: Legend of Latte.

  Brave the horde of shambling consumers, bent on devouring caffeinated beverages

  When Grum first arrived with the quest-sign in his hand, pounding on the glass, the café had been dark. Eli had scurried out from the back door, wiping his eyes and peering out into the dawn at the barbarian.

  “We’re closed,” he’d said.

  “Then, open,” Grum replied, leaning into the glass, covering it in steam.

  Eli had adjusted his glasses and stared the large man in the eye, with no fear that Grum might mean to rob him. Or worse, rape him. Eat him.

  Maybe even in that order.

  But Grum would do no such thing, and Eli either sensed it, or was fearless, because he’d opened the door and ushered the hulking mass of muscle and hair into the back office.

  Now, the café was a bustle of activity and Eli wore a confident smile. A thin, dark-skinned young-man hustled about a metal contraption while a young girl with green hair the color of moss mopped the floor. A woman, much older with a graying cloud of hair on her large head hobbled about, removing chairs from atop tables and placing them on the floor.

  When they saw Grum, everyone stopped.

  “Excuse me,” Eli started. “Everyone? Can I have your attention?”

  It was an unnecessary request—Grum already did. He stood tall and commanding, eyeing over this new kingdom. This new battlefield.

  “This…” He placed a hand on Grum’s back. “Is Mr. Grum.”

  “I do not like Mister. Just Grum—or, if preferred, Grum, followed by my many titles, such as Butcher of the Virgin Bride.

  The girl’s eyes widened. The mop fell to the tile floor with a clank. The old woman squinted before offering a friendly smile and a small, shaky, wave. The dark-skinned young man, strode over, extending a hand.

  “Grum, huh?” The young man said. “You’re about the largest mother-fucker I’ve ever seen.”

  Eli put an exasperated hand to his chest. “Gabe. Do I need to bring back the swear jar?”

  Grum smiled, a gnarly gesture—missing teeth hiding behind an overgrown beard.

  “Sorry, E-boss.” Gabe nodded down at his outreached hand.

  Grum looked down at the hand, then sized up Gabe. Five-foot nothing. Average hit points. Possibly high dexterity. Gregarious.

  Bard.

  “I would crush your hand.”

  “Ooooooh kaaaaaaay.” Gabe pulled his hand back. “It's cool. We’ll get there.”

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm with welcoming our new employee, Gabe,” Eli said. “Now, Grum here will be working behind the counter during the rush as needed. After the rush, we can set him up washing dishes. Gabe, you can show him how to work the machines. Candice, afterwards, it’d be great if you can set Grum up at one of the basins and show him how to use those. And that over there…” Eli pointed to the older woman. “…is Helen. She’s been here longer than all of us, assisting with some of the smaller tasks around here.

  Candice was lithe, her motions deliberate—a palid mask hiding a conniving smile. Low Hit points.

  Rogue.

  Helen had no Hit point bar. No mana bar. No challenge rating—only three question marks where her bars should be. She unstacked another chair, smiling.

  Unclassed?

  “Is that some kinda Cosplay?” Candice motioned to Grum’s attire, not much more than a helmet, fur kilt, leather boots and leather gloves.

  Gabe waved her off. “Let the man dress how he want.”

  “Thank you, Gabe.” Eli interjected. “And he’s right, Candice. This is a zero-discrimination workplace.”

  Candice sighed, her lips tightened into a thin line.

  Eli continued. “And the Tarbean apron will cover most of the bare areas.”

  “Apron?” Grum asked.

  “Yes. All employees are required to wear a Tarbean apron while on the clock.” He motioned to Candice, Gabe, and Helen, who were all wearing blue aprons.

  “What level is this gear?”

  “Level? I don’t understand.”

  “If it is inferior to my current gear, it would be unwise to wear it.”

  “Well, it is required attire here at Tarbean.”

  “Required attire? For the quest?”

  “Yes. If you’d like to think of it like that. Required attire for the quest.”

  It wasn’t the first time Grum had to put on novice gear. When he’d infiltrated the Cult of the Blood Worm, he’d been forced to wear their burgundy robes. And that had gone well. Very well. The robes had disguised the blood of dozens of enemies. “Okay. I will wear this gear.”

  “Great. So, I’ll go grab—”

  “E-boss, you might wanna leave off the apron. Get them lonely mommies hot over G’s 10-pack. Hell, slap some stickers on that billboard.”

  “Vile,” Candice said, picking the mop off the floor. “At least it’ll cover up those hideous scars. Look, if he pees on the floor, I am not cleaning it. Hope he's house-trained.”

  “Candice…” Eli wagged a finger.

  Grum’s hand squeezed the shaft of his Demonfire axe. One swipe and he'd separate her—

  Eli put a hand on Grum’s arm. “I'm sure they have toilets from wherever Grum is from. And manners. Perhaps he can even teach you some. Now, Grum is not a replacement for Trevor, and I expect you to treat him as a valued part of the Tarbean family. Trevor would have wanted that. Grum, if they give you any trouble, my office is always open.”

  “It would be wise to secure it.”

  Eli looked at Gabe, who shrugged his shoulders. Candice snorted and mouthed wooooooooow…

  “Sound advice,” Eli said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now,
I’m going to go get you that apron—if I can find one that fits—Gabe and the girls will show you how we do things here at Tarbean’s.”

  A tutorial. It had been so long since his last—almost a hundred levels, tens of thousands dead at his feet. Entire maps explored, dungeons looted, enviable gear tossed away as garbage… yet here he was, partied with low-level NPC companions and nothing to kill to make himself feel better about it.

  He should leave. Find another quest. Surely, there were better ones. Though he hadn’t seen any other exclamation points. He finally loosened his grip on his axe. His body slumped.

  “Hey, G.”

  Grum looked down at Gabe, who’d been staring up at him.

  “Look like you’re about to bail.”

  “Considering quest options.”

  “Oh. Well, look, as far as quests go, this is a pretty sweet one. Just a stepping stone, man. Fun money, y’know? This ain’t no career. Come on, let's get you set up. I'll show you how the magic happens.”

  Magic? Possibly new magic. Magic that could get him back home. Maybe the small bard was right: this quest-line could lead to other quests. Maybe an entire campaign. The experience points would be meager at first, the gold reward small. But, maybe…

  Home…

  “Show me this magic.”

  “Right on, I got you. Let's get a locker for your stuff, and I’ll show you some real magic.”

  Gabe led him into the small side-room. A slop sink sat along one wall, a line of six lockers stood opposite. “Here,” Gabe said after some thought, pointing to the locker marked 3. “This used to be Trevor’s before his face met bridge at 120mph. That’s why I keep my feet on the ground. You can get a lock from E-boss if you need one, but we trust each other here.”

  “Are there bandits in the area, or has someone cleared them?”

  “Well, not the immediate area. And look, I ain’t gonna steal your shit. Wouldn’t fit me, and the pawn shops would ask too many questions if I bring that thing in.” He nodded to the axe. “That even worth anything, or it just a prop?”