HC: Handyman | Ch. 186 - Trash Talk
Added 2025-04-24 15:49:15 +0000 UTCJack was furious. It wasn’t bad enough that his cousin was going through hell because of this guild of bullies, but now they wanted to rub his face in it?
It was always part of the plan to draw attention to myself and make them camp here. I’m going to make sure that every time this guy closes his eyes, he sees my face.
“What did the hen say to the other hen?” Jack asked.
The player blinked. “Huh? What?”
“I said—what did the hen say to the other hen?”
The man tilted his head, caught off guard. “I don’t—”
“It said, ‘I’m less of a cowardly chicken than that eyepatch bozo from IronIre.’”
The man’s nostrils flared. “E-excuse me?”
“You heard me, Eye Patch Pete. Seriously, why do you even have an eyepatch? Is it a style choice? Did you lose a bet? You look like someone who got kicked out of pirate school for not showering enough.”
“You brat. Do you have any idea who you’re messing with?”
Jack pulled his shoulders back, squatted, and waddled in a circle with his arms swinging like a gorilla.
“‘You brat! Do you have any idea who you’re messing with? Oooh! Oooh!’”
He straightened with a grin. “That’s what you look like. A stupid gorilla.”
Jack caught a vein pulsing on the guy’s forehead.
Good. I’m going to make sure you start seeing a doctor for high blood pressure.
The player stepped forward and unsheathed his rapier. “Just you wait for me to—”
Jack didn’t let him finish. He burst out laughing—loud, sharp, and right in the guy’s face.
“That toothpick doesn’t scare me. I’ve seen scarier things in salad bars. You could bring your whole clown car of a guild, toss in their cousins, and their cousins’ mothers—I still wouldn’t care.”
The guy’s face was turning a beautiful shade of crimson. “You brat!”
Jack stuck out his tongue and mimicked his voice, extra nasally:
“‘You brat! Wahhh, I’m a sad pirate with bad breath!’”
“You’re gonna regret this,” the player growled. “I should thank you, actually. It'll be real fun watching the GMs ignore your tickets while I camp your sorry respawns.”
“You? Camp me? You and how many thousand, Cyclops? I eat guys like you for breakfast and defecate them by dinner. You think I’m scared of you? Or that Slayer? Tell that idiotic wolf-Tarzan knockoff I’m coming over to give him a spanking too.”
“You really don’t want me to say that,” the guy muttered.
“Oh, I do. Tell him to get some powder for that butt of his, because he’s about to get it whooped. Tell him I’ll knit him a lovely pair of diapers for his next tantrum. He thinks he's some kind of game boss? Buddy, he’s not even qualified to be the tutorial bunny. You know, those ugly things we smack around with sticks? They’re worth ten Slayers.”
A potter coming out of the communal shop had been making his way to the counter and now stood frozen a few paces away. He let out a sudden snort of laughter, then cleared his throat and kept walking.
The swashbuckler’s mouth flapped open, failed to find a comeback, and then he stormed off with a dramatic turn. “Just you wait!”
Jack stood there, riding the high. “Whoa,” he whispered to himself, eyes wide. “Where did that come from?”
Maybe it was the pressure. Maybe it was the part where the guy had dragged Rob into it. He didn’t know where those burns had come from.
Maybe I’m just a natural-born trash talker.
Either way, the plan was working. The guy was incensed, and he hated Jack’s guts right now. He’d probably spend hours—maybe days—waiting outside just to get payback.
Too bad I can’t install a camera and watch him stew out there day after day.
Jack turned back to the counter, heart still hammering from the rush, and opened the recipe list. Despite nearly half a million Pottery XP, he was still short of affording everything he wanted. In the end, he settled for just two.
You’ve purchased the recipe for [Clay Earrings] and [Clay Ring].
And just like that, his carefully hoarded XP vanished in one glorious poof.
Totally worth it.
He finally had a way to craft jewelry—and maybe fill those stubbornly empty equipment slots.
The Association’s front doors creaked open again.
Jack glanced back and saw the pirate striding in once more, this time with a second player at his side. Jack blinked.
Why’d he even leave? It’s not like they can beat me up in here. Maybe he had to walk it off before he lost it and hit me. Would’ve loved to see the guards drag him out. Or maybe he realized he sucks at comebacks and needed backup with a sharper tongue.
Didn’t matter.
Jack made sure to hit them both before they could open their mouths.
“What’s up, Eye Patch Pete? Did you have to go call whoever’s been training you at the circus?” He squinted at the hooded ranger. “No wonder he picked you as a pet. You two are just about the same amount of ugly.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned back to the counter and spoke loudly.
“I’d like to rent a private workshop, please.”
The NPC looked up and smiled. “Of course, sir. One silver per hour.”
Jack nodded. “No problem at all.”
“Follow me, then.”
Jack was accustomed to heading straight to the communal workshop. The NPC, however, turned left, guiding him toward a door in the opposite direction.
“Right this way, sir.”
The players were just a few steps away, but their eyes darted from Jack to the NPC, unsure what to do next. Jack spoke up, loud enough for them to hear.
“Can’t these two gentlemen come with us?”
The NPC stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. These workshops are individual. Moreover, they’re not even potters. They can not.”
“Oh right, right. And animals aren’t allowed either. That makes sense.”
“You little—”
“Easy, Og!”
“Hog? Is that your name? Oink? Oink?”
The player was clenching his teeth so hard that Jack could swear he heard a tooth crack. He laughed as he followed the NPC through the door, then glanced back for one last jab.
“Friend!” the ranger called out. “We can’t wait to spend quality time with you!”
“Yes!” the pirate added, grinning like a cartoon villain. “We’ll give you the best massage you’ve ever had!”
“Oh yes, pal,” the ranger chimed in, not missing a beat. “We’re going to throw you a lovely farewell dinner. Just like we did with our good friend Rob.”
Jack frowned. What’s with these passive-aggressive threats…? Ah. I get it now.
Soft language, twisted into threats only a real player would pick up on. Just enough deniability to dodge GM scrutiny. If Jack reported them, their logs would look squeaky clean, while his, full of insults, would make him look like the problem.
They weren’t going to camp him—not here, not today. This was his last stop at the Pottery Association of Embersgate, and he already had the perfect backdoor exit lined up.
He turned, stuck out his tongue, and flashed a double peace sign.
“Bye, losers. Hope you brought snacks for the wait. I hear knitting’s great for stress.”
The door shut behind him with a satisfying thunk.
A long corridor stretched ahead, lined with numbered doors on both sides. The NPC led him to one labeled 3 and pulled a key from his pocket. “This one is free,” he said, opening it with a soft click.
The workshop was surprisingly cozy. Unlike the industrial sprawl of the communal area, everything here was tightly packed but thoughtfully arranged—kiln, claybox, workbenches—all within arm’s reach. Glass cases lined the walls, displaying elegant ceramic pieces from other artisans. Whether they were there to impart inspiration or just for show, Jack couldn’t tell.
“You’re free to use everything in here,” the NPC said. “Just note that supplies come with a restocking fee on top of the base rental. We also offer a courier service—if you'd like anything delivered to the local market, just let us know. We’ll handle the transport for a small fee.”
“Thank you.”
The NPC gestured to a bulky brass-and-wood contraption in the corner. It looked like a gramophone. “That’s a communication tube. Call if you need anything.”
Jack wandered over out of curiosity—and a system window immediately popped open.
It was the XP store.
“Sweet!” he said aloud. He wouldn’t even need to leave the workshop. He could craft, shop, and send finished items off for sale—all without setting foot outside.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll leave you to your work,” the NPC said, already turning to go.
Jack took a moment to soak it all in. Felix had made a strong case for crafting in public. But there was something special about this privacy. There was space to think. Craft. Breathe.
If only he had time to enjoy it.
Retreat!
Warning! You’ll be transported to your home in one minute.
A faint glow began to surround him. He pictured the IronIre duo outside—so sure they’d cornered him.
Man, I wish I had a camera feed of their faces when they realize I’m long gone. I just hope they call more people here. The more IronIre players waste their time here, the better.
The glow intensified.
And then—snap.
The light swallowed him whole.
Then—darkness.
A moment later, Jack found himself in a cramped space. The thatched roof filtered the sunlight above him. He stepped forward and crunched something underfoot—vase shards, etched with the carvings of One-Eyes and Bears.
“Hut sweet hut,” he muttered, kicking a shard out of the way.
Then he stepped out into the mountain air. Wind bit at his cheeks. Clouds drifted below the cliffs like ghosts.
Jack took a deep breath, the cold burning just right in his lungs. “Ha! It’s good to be back in the Breach.”
Let them wait. I’ve got crafting to do—and a cousin to save.
*
The Slayer ducked under the swinging tail of the achilosaurus, just barely avoiding the bone-shattering impact. He kept up the assault, blades flashing.
IronIreOg is calling you.
He picked up without pausing. “One second.”
The dinosaur lashed out again, but this time he was ready. He vaulted over the sweeping tail and activated his finisher.
Feel My Pain!
His wounds pulsed with a crimson glow. His health bar was at less than 5%, so the bonus to his next attack would be devastating. He brought both swords down in a savage cross-slash, and the beast collapsed, its body dissolving into motes of light.
Only then did he turn his attention back to the call. Og’s face filled the screen—a guild swashbuckler he recognized.
“Slayer,” Og said. “I was staking out the Pottery Association of Embersgate, like you asked. We spotted Amari’s friend.”
A thrill ran down his spine. “Really? That’s excellent news. Did you get him to talk? Tell you where Amari is?”
“He, uh... refused to cooperate, Slayer.”
“Were you persuasive?” the Slayer asked.
“I tried my best, but he…”
“He what?”
“He’s a jerk.”
The Slayer narrowed his eyes. “A jerk? What did he say, exactly?”
“I—I…” Og hesitated.
“Spill it.”
A video feed dropped into his interface. The Slayer played it. Then replayed it. And again.
By the third time, his jaw was clenched tight enough to hurt. Diapers? Whoop? His blood pressure surged.
Og’s voice was hesitant. “He’s hiding in a private workshop. What do we do?”
The Slayer’s tone dropped to a dangerous calm. “Stake him out. He can’t stay in there forever. Just make sure you’re discreet. If he thinks you’ve left, he might lead us straight to Amari. And when that happens…”
He trailed off, breathing steadily, eyes hard.
“I’ll deal with him personally.”
“Yes, Slayer.”
The Slayer ended the call, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.
“Jack,” he muttered. “I’ll see you soon.”
Then he turned and began moving toward the next achilosaur.
