Busy days are in some ways the worst for me, because while they're generally pretty profitable, I'm inclined to do boneheaded things, or just get the folk that think I estimated "forty-five minutes to an hour/an hour to an hour fifteen" for arrival and was just playing around with their cranky selves for giggles (to be fair, sometimes the former is tied into the latter, but here I was making pretty good time). Now and then, some unspoken and vague house rule of the cosmos is broken or bent, and the cosmic Dungeon Master singles me out for a surreal reprisal.
Things start off unassumingly enough. I pull up to the house, and though it's colder than a frost giant's butt, I park a ways from the short road to the garage. It wasn't far to walk to the front door from, and I try to make a habit of not blocking entrances/exits when I deliver to residences.
: A young boy with unkempt blond hair approaches you from yon open garage, hands in jacket pockets. He asks you to come around back.
: Le sigh. Somehow I doubt all the warm air is kept in by that huge, gaping entrance. Yeah, okay, I'll play along. Can't take that long to make the exchange.
: The garage is surprisingly tidy. A few tools are on display on racks, and a lone, worn skateboard lays idle on the ground. The otherwise friendly young companion next to you says that the money is next door, though you can leave your parcel of nourishing foodstuffs here, in the chamber for horseless carriages. Several more striplings look in and on from the nearby portal that leads into the dwelling proper.
: ...Can you pick a style of speech, man? Are you just going to have me move from place to place because you want to get this thing back on rails? C'mon. Throw me a bone, here.
: Fine, fine. One of the other boys volunteers to run next door and get the cash.
: Okay. Guess I'll be trusting and hand over the pies. I can beat the food out of them if they try to short me, I suppose.
: Yeah, none of them look beyond fifteen or sixteen wint-
: Stop that.
: They're young teens.
: Ahem. "So, why not grab a slice, dude? It should still be warm."
: Ahem.
: "Oh, it's not for me."
: ...Yeah, dead end there. I guess I'll clam up until Wally West gets back with the gold. Erm. Money.
: A female teenager who's standing in the door jamb pipes up unprompted. She-
: Wait. What? You said they were all boys.
: She
looked like a boy, see? Short hair. Tomboy digs. It's the South, and remember Jen next door from your work? She's quite dude-ish, so it happens. She's speaking now, so you can guess pretty reasonably that she's female.
: ...Whatever. Why do I even put points into Perception if neither of us roll for it?
: "Hey, do you like to skateboard?"
: "No."
: "Do you like to dance?"
: "Well, I dance a little."
: "Would you like to dance with me?"
: ...Where is this going?
: Okay, rolling for Diplomacy.
: ...What? What is this? What are we doing here?
: The girl approaches you, snapping her fingers and swinging her hips.
: I'm making a Perception check. I want to see the others' reaction. Maybe it's a joke or something.
: There's a -5 penalty due to how awkward this is.
: Aaaaand you blow the roll. You don't even notice if anyone else is lingering, though the kid from before has returned with the money. He's hard to miss because he's standing between you and the girl now.
: All right, if you're making details up as we go along, then I still have the delivery bag and ticket, so I quote the price to the kid as though nothing is happening. So there.
: "Bow-chicka... Bow-bow-chicka..."
: ...Ugh. Well, do I get a tip from the guy?
Yeah... How do you respond?
: Standard canned responses about having a good day and enjoying the food. Do I... Do I need to roll something to get back to my car?
: No...
:
Freedom.: "'Bye! I love you."
: ...Okay, I linger a bit once I'm presumably out of sight to listen for laughter.
: Perception check, then.
: Beat the DC. You hear nothing.
: Your random encounter tables need serious work.
