Grum: Barbarian Barista: A litRPG Short Story

by John Rickett

  “It is priceless.”

  “Damn... For real?”

  “Yes.” Grum glared. “Would you like to see why?”

  Gabe took a small step back. “As long as that don’t mean cutting me in half, sure.”

  Grum focused on channeling rage into the axe. Like it had done thousands of times, the head burst orange like the metal had gone molten. Small flames licked up the blade, reflecting in Gabe’s wide eyes.

  “God daaaaaaaaamn… That’s some video game shit right there.”

  Grum pulled his rage back. The flames extinguished, the metal regained its dull pewter sheen.

  “What about the other stuff?”

  The bard was clearly interested in the exploits of such a legendary hero. Grum was probably the first he’d met. The last one he’d ever meet.

  “The Helm of the Siren Song pacifies creatures. It has only two charges remaining, then it is useless. These,” he showed Gabe his thick, black, gloves, “are the Gloves of Vice. They crush anything with little effort.”

  “That why you didn’t shake my hand? I was pretty swole.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, could you crush… say… stone?”

  “Stones become dust.”

  “Damn…” Gabe rubbed his hand.

  The locker stood open, but Grum removed no gear. His gear had become an extension of him, each piece enhancing a strength or hiding a weakness.

  It had been a long time since level 1, since vagabond gear and leather bracers, since copper axes and lizardskin helms. He’d gotten his first piece of rare gear at level 8—his ring of strength—nothing special, no added effects. Just a simple +1 strength, but he’d never felt so powerful.

  Now, leaving his gear felt he was like ripping out his lungs and sticking them in the locker.

  He would have preferred that.

  But, the mission called for it, and mission requirements trumped all. Grum opened the locker. The handle was taller than the locker, the head broader. He tried diagonally, head first, handle first. Nothing worked.

  Gabe watched, curiously, but didn’t say anything… for once.

  “Can’t I bring it with me? Stow it under the counter in case we get raided?”

  “Nah, E-boss would never go for that. Rules are rules, man. You’ll be fine without them. Gear don’t make the man.”

  But what if it did?

  “Well, must I place it in here? Are there larger containers? Normally, my items just… fit… in any box, or barrel or pack. Countless potions, suits of armor, furniture—everything fits inside my belt pouch.”

  “This is it, G. It’s why I leave my shit—my lance and armor—at home.”

  Grum smirked at the obvious jab. “You are too small for armor. Your flute would fit nicely though.”

  “Flute?”

  “I am capable of jokes too, bard.”

  “Right.” Gabe scratched his eye-brow. “I see that.”

  If Gabe could survive without his gear, so could Grum. Axe wouldn’t fit? He’d make it fit. He drove the handle into the bottom of the locker, punching a hole through the metal.

  Locker base takes 220 damage!

  HP: 0/100

  Locker base has been defeated.

  But, it was still too tall. He uppercut the ceiling of the locker with his meaty fist…

  Locker top takes 114 damage!

  HP: 0/100

  Locker top has been defeated

  …driving it through the lid. He gripped the jagged edges and peeled them back.

  Then, he crumbled the top support with his Gloves of Vice and ripped it off.

  During the commotion, Gabe leaned on the slop sink. “G, where you from anyway?”

  “Algothia,” Grum said, placing his axe handle through the hole, standing it upright in the locker carcass.

  “Algothia… sounds like one of them Norwegian cities where everyone just LARPs full time. Explains the outfit.”

  “I have never heard of Norwegia. Algothia rests on the foothills of the Vile Mesa, in the shadow of the Mountains of the Goddess.“ Grum took off his Helm of the Siren Song and wedged it in the locker. “What of you? From where do you hail?”

  “Georgia. Stupid town called Bertha,” Gabe said. “Bertha. Even the damn name is stupid.

  Georgia. Bertha. More names Grum had never heard in his expansive explorations. First, Barista, Norwegia. Now Bertha and Georgia.

  He removed his Gloves of Vice slowly, replaying the last few hours. The battle with Albatross. How was he going to get home?

  Grum placed his gloves on top of his helm and closed the locker door. “Gabe,” he said. “Show me this magic.”

  “Here she is,” Gabe said, rubbing the side of a machine. “The magic.”

  “I sense no magical aura. The item is tagged high-quality, but there is no magic here.”

  “Oh, Mr. Wizard here don’t think she’s magic? Lexi… The LX-76 Bean Grinder. 98mm burrs powered by a two-horse-power motor. Hopper holds two pounds of fresh beans. Bag clamp. She can grind three pounds a minute, or if you wanna be real specific, twenty-two grams per second.” He fondled a dial. “Ten size settings for perfect particulate grind distribution.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Probably best if I show you. Unlike some guys, we grind our shit fresh, on-site, every day. Now look, I’m going to entrust her to you.” Gabe paused. “Best be a perfect gentleman, or we’re gonna have words. Grab one of them bags down there.”

  Had the bard just threatened him? Candice stopped mopping and watched the duo. Helen continued to unstack chairs.

  Grum reached under the counter and pulled a large burlap bag off the top of a stack of them—all stamped with the blue Tarbean logo. He slapped it down on the counter. “Words? Is that a threat? I sense no real enmity draw.”

  “You really want to mess with this?” Gabe flexed. “Lift them bags all day, get you some nice biceps. Might do you some good.”

  “My strength score is naturally capped unless raised higher by magical items.”

  Candice called over, “Out of you two, guess we know who the pitcher is.”

  “Man…” Gabe waved her off. “You just mad your man Trevor lost his fake wings and grew new ones.” He took a small knife and cut open the sack. “Ignore her. Just dump these in the hopper until it’s full.”

  Grum hoisted the bag up with one hand, the smell of the coffee, bitter and strong, thick in the air. It smelled of sweet, oiled, leather. Grum closed his eyes to drown out the other senses and absorb it all.

  “Do we make magical potions,” he asked, dumping the grounds in the hopper.

  “Some people think so, yeah.”

  Grum placed the lid on the hopper. “What effects does this potion have?”

  “Depends on the person. Depends on the brew. Some people get excited, others get the jitters.” Gabe pantomimed a seizure. “Others get calm. We can make it strong, weak, white, dark—and the flavors matter too. Someone comes in and orders an Albino Cream-Dream, they’ll be taking a nap in their car on the way to work. Now, a LaBrea Hazelbean and they’ll see the future.

  “Foresight? Anything to help teleport to alternate worlds?”

  “Man, there’s other stuff for that.”

  “Where would I find this other stuff?”

  “Trust me… You don’t want that other stuff. Besides, can’t have you all doped up or tripping balls while working Lexi. She demands your full attention.” He caressed Lexi’s side. “Now, take that portafilter—that silver cup with the handle—off the cappuccino machine, put it under this hopper here.”

  Doped up? Tripping balls? Status effects he’d never encountered?

  Candice had stopped mopping. She leaned on the handle. “Gabe, can you imagine him all meth’d out, hulking around town?”

  Grum grabbed the portafilter. “Meth’d out?”

  “Yeah,” Gabe said. “All crazy and violent and shit.”

  Ah. A berserk status. Whatever alchemical item would help him telep
ort back had status effects tied to it. Tripping balls, Doped up, Berserk. Perhaps such an item was at the end of this quest line.

  Grum placed the portafilter under the hopper. “May I try one of these magical potions?”

  “Hell yeah,” Gabe said. “After the rush, me and Candice usually down one to get us through the ass-end of the day.”

  “Loot the corpses. The spoils of war.”

  “Sure. Whatever. Now, gently push and hold this button here,” Gabe said, pointing to a single black button. “That’ll get Lexi grinding. Release it to stop. Then you just pull this slider to dump the crushed grinds into the portafilter, level off the top and we’re good to go.”

  Grum jammed his giant finger into the button. With lightning speed, Gabe grabbed his wrist with a thin hand, his eyes fierce.

  “I’m serious. She ain’t no whore you can just prod. Be gentle with my girl.” His eyes softened. “Or I’ll climb up your big ass and do a bunch a stuff I’ll regret from my hospital bed.”

  Grum let go. Lexi stopped her Chug Chug Chug. He pulled the trap door, filling the portafilter.

  If the smell of the beans were a drizzle, the crushed grounds were a hurricane of odor, slamming into him. His mouth watered. It took all of his will to not stick his nose and mouth in the cup and just chew the grounds.

  “This contraption, it takes the…”

  “Beans.”

  “It takes the beans and grinds them up like this?”

  “Yup.”

  “Perhaps…” Grum wanted to take the grounds, smear them on his body like war paint. “…it is magical.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.” Gabe reached way up to put a hand on Grum’s shoulder. “Let me show you the other stuff. This here,” he started, stepping over to another silver machine with various wands and tubs, “is the cappuccino machine. This one’s more a challenge.”

  “Nothing is a challenge for me. I out-level all challenge ratings.”

  “Alright then, big man.” Gabe put his hands on his hips and puffed his chest out, looking like a threatening chicken. “How do you make an espresso shot?”

  Grum could figure this out. Shot was easy. Some type of projectile. Espresso though? Es-press-oh.

  Intelligence Check: (Moderate)

  Failed!

  “It is a trap. You press this button. It fires an arrow into threats standing beyond the counter.”

  “You were…” Gabe spread his thumb and index finger and peered through them. “…this close.” He straightened. “It’s concentrated caffeine, created by forcing hot water through grinds at high pressure. You stick to smashing things and being all big and shit. Let me and Candice do the finesse work.”

  “I can handle any challe—”

  “We all have our strengths. Ain’t no way you’re gonna be able to hold yourself back from strangling some annoying customer demanding stupid shit, or toast the perfect Pommes Purée Burrito, or froth with the steam wand and whip up some latte art.” Gabe laughed. “Get it?”

  Grum didn’t. He only knew Gabe was underestimating him.

  “Look, not saying you won’t be good one day. Me and Candice, we’re experts. You… you’re like… a level 1 Barista.”

  Was Grum able to jump to the third story of the Alcove tower at lower levels? Was he able to AoE Grand Cleave groups of enemies? Was he able to invoke terror with Hellish Cry? Would he have been able to land a single hit on Ithgar the Unholy had he not skilled up his axe?

  No… The bard was right.

  In order to succeed in this quest, he’d need to put levels into Barista and associated skill-tree, like he’d done with Barbarian, Crusader and Totem Warrior.

  And when he pursued those jobs, he’d always sought the best mentors.

  Gabe had already turned away and was flattening the grounds in the cup, with a tappy, stampy thing. He scraped the cup with a flat thing Grum didn’t have a name for either, held it up and whispered, “The perfect flush.”

  The bard would continue to be a valuable mentor. Patient, but stern.

  “Gabe.” Grum stood tall.

  “Sup?” Gabe placed the cup under the cappuccino machine.

  “Continue with the lesson, master Barista.”

  Eli brought Grum the biggest apron he could find. Grum struggled to fit his giant head in the neck-hole. Gabe had to pull as tight as he could, screaming at Grum “Suck in that stomach!” as he tied a bow around the back.

  Helen flipped a switch illuminating the OPEN sign, before unlocking the front door. A woman who had been waiting at the door wandered in as Gabe gave Grum a final examination, a slightly pitiful look on his face.

  “It’ll do, I guess.”

  Candice wiped down the cappuccino machine with a damp rag.

  “Remember,” Gabe said. “I’ll take the orders. Candice will tell you the grind number. You just grind up a bit and place it next to the machine. Might have three or four lined up when it’s busy, so just put them in a line. Don’t get them mixed, customers take their brew seriously.”

  A terrible thought chilled Grum. Serving customers? Was he an NPC? It seemed impossible, but maybe, in this realm, he was an NPC. Stuck in a game of Albatross’s design. But, Grum had accepted a quest. He’d passed skill checks. Perhaps Gabe and the others were his NPC companions, but there was no way Grum, The God Stomper, Butcher of Balor, was an NPC.

  He cast aside the thought, stationed himself at the grinder… at Lexi… and waited, eyeing the small woman who approached the counter. Her eyes were covered in dark glasses, her motive unclear. Grum dug his heels in, bent his knees, ready to defend Gabe if needed.

  Gabe smiled warmly as she strutted up to counter. “Good morning. Welcome to Tarbean.”

  “Hi,” she said, adjusting her purse. “Petite Mocca-Coco, slightly Gossamer.”

  The hair on Grum’s arms rose.

  A spell!

  Gabe seemed transfixed, but Candice didn’t seem concerned. Helen walked towards the side room, slinging a towel over her shoulder.

  “Sure thing.” Gabe grabbed a cup and popped the lid of a marker. “Name?”

  “Laura.”

  “Laaaaaauuuuuuura,” Gabe purred, writing her name on the cup.

  Candice took the cup from Gabe and slid past Grum. “Grind me one at seven,” she said before moving over to the syrups and pumping brown liquid into the cup.

  Grum turned Lexi’s dial to seven. He hovered his large finger over the button. Slow. Easy. Finesse. Slow… easy… finesse…

  Dexterity Check: (Easy)

  Failed!

  And jabbed the button in hard enough to rock the machine. Lexi began grinding.

  Chug chug chug.

  Had Gabe seen the assault? Grum spun.

  Gabe was leaning against the counter—almost leaning into the woman. He was whispering something and making exaggerated movements. She, in turn, was smiling.

  Potential enchantress.

  “You only need to grind a few seconds,” Candice called.

  “I am aware…” Grum released the button and fumbled with the trap door. Grounds fell into the portafilter. He handed it to Candice and slammed the trap door shut on the grinder. Why was it so damned hard to do something lightly? Then again, when did he ever have to? Grum never met a challenge he couldn’t crush or beat or terrify into juicy XP. Just the way he loved it.

  Candice finished making the beverage. She handed it to the woman while Gabe rang her up. He was chewing on his bottom lip, and his eyes were aglow. “Thank you. Have yourself a fine day.” Gabe cocked his head, eyeing the woman like a poised snake.

  “Did the witch entrance you?” Grum asked, moving aside Gabe.

  “Could say so,” he replied.

  She wasn’t far. Grum could chase her down. Crush her skull.

  “But damn… G, would you smash?”

  “On your command. A threat to my party must be destroyed.“

  Gabe laughed. “No, G. Smash. Like… would you… you know…” He began humping t
he air slowly, waving his hand down in a striking maneuver.

  “Bed her?”

  Gabe stopped. “Bed? Yeah… Bed her.”

  “No.”

  Gabe eyed him curiously. “No?”

  “For conquest, maybe. But, her hips would never bear my massive child. It would tear her apart. Then, she would be only good for wolf food. Perhaps if she is a witch, that would be a fitting punishment.”

  “Damn… that’s some dark shit.” Gabe absently checked the empty tip jar. “Well, for what it’s worth, I would.”

  “Your offspring would be much smaller.”

  Candice threw her head back in laughter, a boisterous, terrible cackle.

  “Hey, I ain't trying to make any offspring. Just practice.” Gabe nudged Grum and looked at Lexi “Popped your cherry. First one’s the hardest. Good that you get to mess around with a few people here and there. Once the rush hits, it’s chaos, man.”

  “Good,” Grum said. “I thrive in chaos.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, ten more people came in. Each ordered something incomprehensible. Each had their names written on a cup, like trapped glyphs on a dungeon floor. Each was made with deft precision by Candice, who sometimes worked the machines without a sound, sliding between them in a blur of movement. Each customer exchanged currency with Gabe, who presented their drink with amicable words and a large smile.

  Everything was going smoothly.

  Except Grum kept smashing his finger into Lexi with such force the counter shook.

  Twice, Gabe caught him, and twice the smile he gave every customer vanished. His eyes glowered. Grum swallowed down the odd lump in his throat and swore an oath to himself.

  I will not fail.

  But, every time, he failed. And each time, his teeth dug more deeply into the meat inside his cheek.

  “Triple Double-Dripped, heavy.”