1 A Half-Baked Nuke-Potato Stole My Isekai: Story of My Life.
Cormac McCarthy once wrote, "You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from."
That's bullshit.
In 5th grade, I confessed to my crush Catalina Bell on Valentine's Day. It wasn't a simple confession; I decided to announce my love to the entire school.
So I bought some poster board, folded it in half, and hit the hallways of Grammway Elementary without a hall pass.
Young me went hard.
My destination? Everyone. I went from class to class telling students that my sister was sick with Black Lung, and I was making her a mega get-well-soon card and wanted them to sign it.
Worked like magic. That card was tatted-up like a prison inmate by the time the school's clock struck three, and I hopped on my wheels to blow that popsicle stand.
That night I pulled out a 50-pack of markers and unscrewed a bottle of rubber cement for ambiance. Things were about to go down.
In a passion-fueled bender, I drew a picture of Spiky Vegetable and Fried Rice Man, two characters from her favorite TV show, Food War Z, on the cover.
Then I hit it with some cute stickers—girls love cute stickers.
Showcase my talent: check.
Draw something wall-hang-worthy: check.
Be charming to the point of being a douche: killed it.
Valentine's Day came around, and I showed up with an oversized chocolate bar, two packs of rock fizzles, and a death's door sympathy card.
What'd I do with all of it? I gave it to Bell in front of the students I hustled, of course.
Naturally, everyone went ballistic after learning I didn't have a sister, let alone a 1970s coal miner, and tried to protest. However, they didn't account for something—charm armor.
I immediately counter-struck with a cool: "What? You wouldn't tell a small white lie to make your crush feel like the happiest girl in the world?"
Silence one second, chaos the next.
Salty men. Swooning women. One blushing Bell. Nailed it.
A mixture of charm, clout chasing, and acute jealousy from other females hit the sweet spot with her. So when I asked if she'd meet me under the Oakey—the school's poorly named tree—after school, she gave me a hard yes.
3:37 PM. Me. Tree. Bell. Ooohs and ahhhs from two dozen girls. Perfect.
"Bell, you're the only girl I ever want in my life. Will you—"
Before I could say [be my girlfriend], a rabid squirrel jumped down from a tree and bit my neck like a half-starved vampire. No, seriously. Rabid.
That cockblocking rodent legit had rabies when it took a bite out of my jugular and sent blood squirting all over my crush.
Nice.
To add insult to injury, the ungrateful woman didn't dodge. She used my wall-hang-worthy Food War Z charm card as a damn shield.
Bear in mind that I'm seizing on the ground by that point, so her efforts were offensively unnecessary and only served to shoot blood in my face.
I fail to see how that event saved me from worse luck, Mr. McCarthy. Preventing me from getting cooties? Hah. What a joke.
Did it save me from a future event? Hah. Nothing positive can come from getting rabies. It's an incurable virus with a 99% human mortality rate.
If you get so much as a headache from rabies, you're a double-toasted pop tart without frosting.
Luckily, the virus moves at a snail's pace, so you have two to ten days to vaccinate yourself before it hits your brain, and it's game over. Therefore, it's very preventable—
—assuming an anti-vaxxer doesn't steal the rabies vaccines from your hospital to save you from autism. Then you're boned.
Yeah, so that happened. Now I'm in an ambulance, living out a bomb-defusing movie, and racking up zeros on my medical bill to travel to the nearest hospitals. Hospitals. Plural.
It took seven ambulance rides, a $176,000 hospital bill, and thirty-six hours to find a hospital this children-murdering Karen Houdini didn't get to first.
Thankfully, we found one in the next state, and they snipped the green wire with 12 hours to spare. It was finally over. I even got a surprise visit from someone special: Catalina Bell.
She was also getting the vaccine because… cough… she got drenched in rabies blood and dropped by before the appointment.
Either way, it worked out for me. Bell came in, saw my neck bandages, cried, and asked me for a hug. Pity card, let's goooooooooo!
Lulz. I don't know if you've had a tetanus-rabies combo shot before, but your arms are limp-dick-Lenny for twelve hours, and the doctors hit both arms. So hug? No-go.
I said that I couldn't, and Bell thought I wouldn't hug her because I believed she was Bloody Marie or whatever that creepy prom queen's name was. I tried to clarify, but she burst into tears and left.
My rejection damaged her feelings, so she never spoke to me again. Classic.
Do you know what these three stories have in common? They occurred in the same two days. Stories like this are so frequent that I don't even consider these anecdotes distinguished.
However, they are significant because they triggered a catalytic chain reaction that pulled someone down with me—Catalina Bell.
My ex-crush ended up in [all] of my classes in middle school. 100%. Even electives.
It'd be okay if it were just awkward, but my bad luck destroyed her social life. Let me explain.
Every woman I made smile befell a paranormal accident or showed up to school half-traumatized the next day. As a result, women avoided me like the plague.
Due to her freaky connection with me, Bloody Marie from Grammway Elementry also got ostracized. It was brutal.
Was I dense enough not to consider she was attacking women and spreading the curse rumor to exact revenge on me for ruining her social life? Of course not!
It just wasn't true. Bell went through twenty-seven investigations with me over the years, and even the police turned up nothing. It was honestly my bad luck dragging her down.
So I engineered a reason to switch schools after eighth grade to save her from myself. Success? Yes! I was finally free from her—until she transferred to the school the following semester.
Apparently, a carbon monoxide leak forced her family to relocate, and she ended up in the school's district. Classic.
Haaaaaaah. See, this is what I'm talking about! Even now, as I'm trying to express my guilt for ruining Bell's school years, I'm making her out to be a misfortune magnet! That's not true.
The students filled an entire senior yearbook page with forty-three chunni [myth names] I earned during school, and eighty percent had nothing to do with Bell or my curse.
Some did, like... The Rabid, Blood-Squirting Squirrel Whisperer from Grammway Elementry, and Timmy the Trauma Magnet, Bearer of Broken Bones. (My name's not Tim!)
However, The Hunch-Back Glitter Fairy of Markwood High, Salem's Linchpin, and Small Pox Sam (my name's not Sam!) had nothing to do with her.
This is just my life. I have bad luck, and it's been that way since the day I was born. That's all.
Let me ask you a question, Mr. McCarthy. Have you ever heard of Isekai?
It's a genre where hopeless, anti-social loser virgins get run over by a truck and transmigrate into fantasy worlds. Then they get a second chance at life. A real one.
That was my dream until I walked home last month. I was standing at a traffic light, waiting for the walk signal when—
Thud! EeeerrrRrCH CruUNCH!
—a skater crashed into my back, throwing me into the road in front of a speeding refrigerated truck. Sweet magic and cat women, here I come!
Nope! Some half-baked nuke-potato jumped out in front of me and got hit instead.
You heard me right. Nuke-potato. I'd call the 40-year-old neckbeard [my savior] if he didn't yell, "Truck-Kun, oh mighty god of death! Hear my plea and take me instead!" before he got hit.
I'm being dead fucking serious. Instead of trying to pull me out of the street, this double-stacked cuck platter purposely let himself get hit! Worse, he might have gotten away with it!
Surviving Truck-Kun? Blasphemy! No one survives the god of death!
That means that luck put me in the crossfire of someone's Isekai, or the almighty claims any loser virgin who saves someone, purposely or otherwise. That last part bugs me.
Now, as I lay here with 45 broken bones after getting run over by Truck-Kun with nothing but a half-baked nuke-potato as cushioning, I can't be grateful for his [sacrifice].
All I can do is wonder if that motherfucker's loli-hunting in some fantasy world.
If I find out he is—I swear to Truck-Kun—he'll be balls-deep in that fantasy world's version of the FBI by the end of the week. I don't play.
Heh. I probably sound delusional right now, but you don't understand. My luck is so bad that I always experience the exact opposite of fortune.
Since it's fortunate to leave a truck crash with 45 bones and lifelong handicaps, something special about that experience made it unfortunate. Do you get it now?
With my luck, there's a 95% chance that a half-baked nuke-potato stole my Isekai. Story of my life.
Oh… hah. I suppose I should mention why I'm venting my life's story to a good author, shouldn't I? My apologies. Let me start over.
My name is Kline Forest Noble, and this is my will.
If you're curious why an 18-year-old virgin would write a will when they're confined to a hospital bed, let me tell you.
It's because my luck is legendarily bad, and there's something in the corner of my eye that screams [yeah, it can get much worse].
It's an IRL video game interface called a [system] that claims it will provide advice and resources to help me overcome my luck and achieve success.
In other words, I have schizophrenia, or someone's scamming me. Either way, I'm a hopeless virgin on the cusp of despair, so sweet insanity, here I come.
Normally, getting a system would be a dream. Any loser could become a god in less than a year after getting one. Personality, intelligence, and skill are profoundly unnecessary.
However, with my luck, there is a good chance a system will lead me to a mountainside where I'll get trampled by a landslide of angry goats when I can walk again. Then the system AI will scream, "Here you go! Sweet freedom from your wretched life! Compared to your future, this is hitting the jackpot!"
I expect that outcome; that's why I'm writing a will outlining my reason for accepting. That way, when I meet Cormac McCarthy in the great beyond one day, his first words won't be, "See! Your bad luck saved you from that system, ha ha!"
Well, maybe it's also a confession since I never had the guts to speak to Bell again, let alone say sorry. But hey, saying sorry after I'm dead in a way that guarantees she won't hear it is better than not doing it at all, ammirite?
Anyway, thanks for reading, dear reader. I pray your life is full of llamas and hot women.
Wait! I forgot to write my will!
Give all my stuff to my mom.
Sincerely yours, Bad Luck Kline
—
Kline looked at the aggressively written document with a melancholy sigh. "Well, it's as good as it'll get."
A videogame screen in the corner of his eye moved over, blocking the paper in his hand, and words began typing in real time.
-
[Lithco: Bravo! The beginning was incredible. A Noir classic starring a giga-chad? That's art. I genuinely felt that you deserved every bit of bad luck you got. I still have goosebumps.]
-
The corner of the blonde-haired teen's mouth twitched when he read the note.
"Just give me the damn prompt." Kline sighed in indignation.
A second later, a dialogue window popped up.
—
Subaru, the god of misfortune, has sympathized with your plight. So he created this system to help you overcome your luck without dying.
It will provide advice and resources to help you reach your desired path without mandatory requirements or costs. Do you accept? [Yes/No]
—
"Why do I need to consent to use something that's free and optional?" Kline asked discerningly.
-
[Lithco: We don't want to hear you cry like a baby when you get what you wish for.]
-
"Haaaaaaah. Fair." Kline chuckled, "Well, here goes nothing."
—
Consent established. Analyzing user's life…
…
Current Luck Balance: -100%
Tragedy Prevention Counterbalance: 50%
User Status: Hopeless virgin on the cusp of despair.
Life path options confirmed. Would you like to choose? [Yes/No]
—
Kline's eyes glazed over when he saw his bad luck stats, and the gatekeepers beckoned him into the beyond. However, he fought back against them and chose [Yes].
—
Life Path [Permanent Until Completion]
1. Multi-billionaire with Excessive Free Time
2. World Leader
3. Nobel Prize Winner of Choice Field
4. Ultimate Villain
5. Symbol of Peace
—
Kline's eyes widened, and he made his choice without hesitation.
