Vape Shop Isekai: A Retail Manager’s Guide to a Stolen World

“All you have to do is script-kiddie this shit,” Mark said, pointing a finger at the glowing, magical tablet hovering in the air between them. “I can get the erratic portals under control, you can go back to Earth and get out of your Rabbitfolk body, and we reestablish your Earth supply lines. Easy.”

Craig leaned close, watching over Mark's shoulder. The proximity made Mark's skin crawl. “What’s that you’re doing with that specific string? It looks like you’re just brute-forcing the hex code.”

“Essentially, yeah.” Mark shrugged, trying to project a casual, 22-Charisma confidence he absolutely did not feel. His armpits were sweating through his robes. He needed to live by the rule he drilled into his players for decades. Trust the DM. “It's just like hacking gold and levels in BG3 using a third-party engine.”

“Then why can’t we just edit our stats and levels directly?” Craig wondered, his long white ears twitching. “If you can actively hack the portal mechanics, then you can hack the core game mechanics, right?”

“First of all,” Mark made a dismissive meh face, waving his hand, “I wouldn’t really call this actual hacking. I’m just manipulating open directories. Next, I’m not hacking the portal mechanics directly; I’m tapping into the Taser root file and modifying the residual electrical output from the real-world strike.”

“How?” Craig scratched his furry chin, his eyes darting across the cascading green code. “They're still portals. It’s still part of the game's architecture.”

“I’m collecting energy that was violently displaced into the world.” Mark swiped back and tapped confidently on the main file directory. “You see how we don’t have access to most of this stuff? That's because those are DM-only encrypted files. But see all those extraneous, unassigned folders with the random string names? Those were created by variables the game engine simply doesn’t understand. The system has no official designation for 50,000 volts of Earth electricity, so I can just drag and drop that raw energy wherever I want.”

Craig nodded slowly, seemingly following the logic. “Okay. So, what are you trying to do with that specific tab? The one you keep frantically tabbing away from whenever I look closely?”

Buuuwuuuut? Mark’s adrenaline spiked so hard his vision narrowed into a tunnel. His heart hammered violently against his ribs. He thought he had been so slick. Play it cool.

“Oh, that one?” Mark forced a weak chuckle. “It’s got a really weird time signature in the code loop.”

“Uh-huh,” Craig raised a skeptical eyebrow, leaning in closer. “Can I see it?”

Mark held his hands steady by sheer force of will and reluctantly tabbed over to the hidden page. The glowing blue blip of the portal anchor he had been silently building outside the city limits pulsed on the screen. “Yep. Here it is.”

“It looks exactly the same as the others,” Craig noted, his voice flat. “Is this time signature in 4/4 or 2/4?”

“Uhh,” Mark stalled. He was caught. He desperately needed to buy five more seconds for the casting bar to finish compiling in the background.

“Got yourself a complex Meshuggah or a Tool track hiding in there, Mark?” Craig pushed, a dark, knowing amusement coloring his tone.

Mark sighed, leaning into the metal banter to cover his final keystrokes. “I was thinking more along the lines of a fellow Mark.”

“Oh?” Craig leaned back against the locked heavy oak door and chuckled. “Wahlberg?”

Mark shrugged and smirked, his finger hovering a millimeter above the glowing EXECUTE rune. “Hunter.”

Craig's brow furrowed for a fraction of a second as his brain connected the heavy metal trivia. Mark Hunter. The vocalist of Chimaira.

It slowly dawned on him. “Oh, you didn’t…”

Mark slammed his finger down on the screen.

A tiny, violently swirling purple portal ripped open in the air directly between the two men. It held its shape for a tense, silent microsecond before the entire room exploded.

The heavy oak door shattered into a thousand splinters. The reinforced drywall completely collapsed as a massive, horrifying mass of flesh forced its way through the tiny rift, instantly expanding to its true size and violently pushing Mark and Craig out into the pristine, marble-floored lobby of the Ritz Carlton.

Mark scrambled to his feet, ignoring the bruising on his four-Strength body, and looked up in absolute awe at his creation.

Bukkakelyn the Dryad and Geoffrey the bouncer shrieked, diving for cover behind the mahogany front desk as the beast roared, shaking the crystal chandeliers.

It was the Thighmaira.

It stood at least twenty feet tall, a towering monument to pure, unadulterated homebrew fuckery. The main body consisted of an abnormally ghostly-pale, cellulite-laden upper human leg. Dozens of chunky, fat toes poked out randomly from the cottage-cheese fat dips. The leg was cut off cleanly at the knee, where the gravy-like flesh seamlessly blended into a massive, long white goose neck. Atop the neck sat a thickly muscled horse head, baring row after row of oddly placed, shark-like buck teeth.

Its front legs were thick, dripping, KFC-style gravy thighs down to the knees, transitioning into scaly, razor-clawed chicken feet. Sprouting grotesquely from its back was the severed head of Gary Gygax, sporting glowing, ancient goat-eyes that radiated raw, chaotic energy.

But its most devastating weapon was the tail. A thick, muscled, ropey cock whipped out from under its hindquarters, arching high over its back to guard its sensitive asshole. The appendage ended not with a standard glans, but with the entire top half of Captain Hammer, smoldering with heroic intensity, his gloved hands folded confidently over his rippling chest.

“You brought a fucking Thighmaira into my lobby?” Craig sighed.

He didn't look scared. He looked annoyed. Craig smoothly spun on his heel and casually flicked his wrist. A concussive, rippling kinetic pulse erupted from his palm, slamming into the twenty-ton beast and effortlessly knocking it backward through a grand piano.

Fuck, he’s gotta be incredibly strong if he’s able to do that, Mark's 22-Intelligence brain screamed. The Thighmaira was a CR 18 boss monster.

Time for the next part of the plan. Mark threw his hands up, readying his Fly spell to escape through the shattered ceiling while the monster kept Craig busy.

He didn't get the chance.

A blinding flash of deep indigo light illuminated the lobby. Mark froze, the arcane words dying on his lips.

Craig stood casually on the manicured, snowy street just beyond the shattered hotel entrance. He extended his left hand toward Mark, his fingers slightly curled. Mark felt an invisible, crushing vice grip his entire body, entirely paralyzing his vocal cords and limbs. Hold Person. Cast instantly, without verbal components.

With his right hand, Craig casually gestured to the Alwayswinter night sky.

The clouds parted violently. A jagged, impossibly dense shard of black ice the size of an eighteen-wheeler plummeted from the heavens. It moved faster than the eye could track.

CRUNCH.

The black ice skewered the Thighmaira perfectly, entering through the glowing Gary Gygax head and exiting violently through its sensitive, unguarded asshole, pinning the twitching, grotesque monstrosity deep into the marble floor.

The lobby fell dead silent. Captain Hammer gave one final, smoldering flex on the end of the tail before the beast dissolved into gray ash.

For a long moment, Craig stood in his tight-fitting, navy-blue manager's suit, his head bowed. He raised his head slowly, a chaotic lock of blonde hair blowing across his face in the light snow, and leveled a chillingly calm gaze at Mark.

“Oh, Mark,” Craig sighed, his voice echoing in the ruined lobby. He casually dropped his magical hold on Mark, letting the frail Wizard collapse gasping onto the cold marble. “I knew you would do this. I sincerely hoped I was wrong this time, but giving me a full year head start… in the very world you designed to be mathematically exploited…”

Before Craig had a chance to trail off, Mark’s genius-level intellect finally, horrifyingly put the pieces together. There was a distinct, mechanical reason Craig had let the spell hold drop. He didn't need it.

Craig took three calm, measured steps back into the lobby and was immediately flanked by Bukkakelyn and Geoffrey, who emerged from behind the desk, completely unharmed.

“Go ahead, Mark,” Craig mocked softly. He leaned forward, offering his impeccably tailored, navy-blue shoulder. “Look.”

Mark’s adrenaline spiked to nausea-inducing levels. He swallowed broken glass. His hand trembled violently as he reached up and tapped Craig’s shoulder. His vision instantly narrowed to a single, glowing prick of light.

“Sheet!”

Character Name: Craig

Class: Wizard (10) / Master Specialist (10) / Initiate of the Sevenfold Veil (9)

Race: Rabbitfolk

Stats:

Strength: 12

Dexterity: 20

Constitution: 26

Intelligence: 42

Wisdom: 12

Charisma: 12

Mark’s hand fell limply from the rabbit's shoulder. He stumbled backward, his legs giving out completely as he hit the floor. He finally got it.

Craig wasn't a squishy hotel manager. He was a Level 29 optimized god. Forty-two Intelligence. He had the Initiate of the Sevenfold Veil prestige class—the most impenetrable, game-breaking defensive build in the entire SRD.

Craig hadn't just been running sweatshops. He had been power-leveling.

Craig snapped his fingers cleanly. A dozen heavily armored Owlbears swarmed instantly from the snowy tree line, pouring into the lobby and hauling Mark roughly to his feet, binding his frail arms behind his back.

Craig straightened his tie, looking down at his captured Creator. “I think I’ve let your little girlfriend play around in my world long enough.”

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