Grogmass
There we were, on the day the Great Lord grog clawed his way into existence, in the snow-smothered dystopia of Lasaji, on the fateful Day of Noteworthy's Speech – an event so critical, pigeons paused mid-air in reverence.
The snow fell like sand in an ancient, broken hourglass – futile, sluggish, and vaguely depressing. The streets buzzed under the glow of socialist neon lights, which somehow managed to scream "equality" while enforcing a hierarchy that only a drunk philosopher could admire.
"You realise my services are going to cost your dearly, yes?" Sneky hissed, his smirk sharper than the icy wind that whipped through the alleys. he extended a pale hand as Noteworthy, in his usual fashion of trading the devil himself, handed over 20,000 gold coins. For a podium. A podium.
"Your services are most appreciated, old friend," Noteworthy said, his face twisting into a grin that suggested he was either pleased or digesting poorly cooked cabbage. Sneky, without so much as a think you, ticked the gold into his coat – a coat so black it likely housed its own gravitational pull.
"The gold's looking appealing," Sneky mattered, eyeing a gaudy golden coat of arms decorating one of the regime's taller monuments. A symbol of state-sponsored theft, conveniently out of reach for the likes of him.
"Yeah, yeah, just finish it before my spea-" Noteworthy began, only to whirl around and find Sneky gone, leaving behind a perfectly constructed podium. It was as if Sneky's true craft was disappearing like hope at a bureaucratic council meeting.
Meanwhile, Zaaki, the head of the ZSB (Zilatran State Bootlickers), was already onto Sneky. Armed with paranoia and a pair of sunglasses that would make any mall cop envious, he dispatched two agents to tail the elusive craftsman. Sneky, being Sneky, had the audacity to paint a few streets while eluding capture.
When Zaaki finally cornered him in an alley, flanked by Evan, who gleamed in Netherite armour like capitalism personified, the scene could've been mistaken for a tragic comedy.
"Return what you stole from the-uh, hard-working citizens of Lasaji!" Zeeki barked, poking Sneky in the chest with the confidence of a man who had clearly never been poked back.
"But officer, I stole noth-" Sneky began, delivering his excuse with the conviction of a con artist caught mid-act. Before he could finish, a blast of green energy tore through the sky.
Enter grog. Oh, Grog. Dressed in crimson, teeth a shade of nicotine yellow, he descended like Santa Claus from an acid trip.
"Merrry Grogmass! Come, children, and grovel for your wishes! Ahahaha!" he declared, spreading his arms wide as the citizens scurried forth like rates to a spilled sack of grain.
"And remember," Zaaki bellowed from below, "all wishes become property of the state! Failure to comply will result in an immediate increase to your bread tax!" Sneky, not one to miss a spectacle, stepped forward with an expression so malevolent it could curdle milk. "Oh mighty Grog, please grant me the honour of wishing upon your divi-" Zaaki cut him off, frothing with righteous indignation. "Your Grogness, you cannot! This man has stolen, lied, and desecrated the more fabric of lasaji!"
"Silence!" Sneky roared back, his voice drenched in hypocrisy. "I may have stolen, but you, ZZaaki, have slaughtered-"
Before the pissing contest could escalate further, a thunderstorm exploded overhead. Grog's laughter boomed like an unhinged god binge-watching a soap opera.
"Stole?! HE STOLE?!" Grog bellowed, his voice shaking the earth. Sneky's bravado evaporated like cheap perfume on a hot day.
"What are y-" Sneky stammered, only to be launched into the cosmos by a flick of Grog's wrist, leaving nothing but a faint trail of sparkles and regret.
"Sooo... uh, where'd you send him?" Evan ventured, his voice shaky with the type of curiosity that gets you killed.
Grog turned to him, eyes gleaming with the promise of nightmares. "Do you wish to join him?"
Evan, wisely abandoning the scene, threw an Ender pearl and vanished.
The snow continued to fall, burying Lasaji in its cold indifference. Grog chuckled softly, basking in the chaos like a god whose job was only to watch it burn.