Glitch Slapped

Sam Walker sat in the dimly lit Misfits base, glaring at the grotesque tattoo now forever branded on his hand. The phrase "I LOVE HAIRY TAINTS" stared back at him, bold and unapologetic, alongside an offensive depiction of a hairy taint that looked like it had been sketched by someone with a grudge against human decency. Sam still couldn’t wrap his mind around how the hell he’d ended up here—stuck in this glitchy hellhole, with an ass-backward class, and now, this. A fucking taint tattoo. On his hand. Forever.

It wasn’t just any tattoo either. The detail on this thing was absurd. The hairs practically curled, shaded with excruciating precision, making the whole scene look less like a bad joke and more like a personal attack. If anyone saw this—when people saw this—he would never live it down. Every fiber of his being wanted to peel the skin off his hand and chuck it into the nearest glitch.

"What the actual fuck," Sam muttered, rubbing his temples with his free hand, as though that could somehow erase the mess of his life. His fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at it in frustration. He wished, deeply, that he could punch his own face into another dimension. Somewhere far away, where this entire shitstorm wasn’t happening, where reality wasn’t breaking around him, and he wasn’t sitting there with a tattoo that screamed, “Hey, look at this guy, he’s a loser.”

In this world, sarcasm had been his superpower. Back in the real world, he was untouchable—his sharp wit and quick comebacks were enough to make most people back down or, at the very least, shut up. But here? Here, it didn’t matter. He might as well have been hurling toothpicks at a dragon. His snark meant nothing against the random-ass chaos and glitches that plagued every corner of this world.

Nothing made sense. Nothing was fair.

And now, he was stuck with a glitchy-ass Ass-Ass-In class, an absurd tattoo, and a sentient pouch that spent most of its time vomiting up garbage and making everything worse. Wasn’t it supposed to be a magic pouch? A helpful companion? Instead, it was like carrying around a malfunctioning waste disposal unit with an attitude.

Sam’s mood was spiraling fast, and he could feel it. The walls of the Misfits base—stone bricks that occasionally flickered out of sync with the rest of reality—felt like they were closing in on him. The dim, glitchy torchlight that crackled against the walls only added to the suffocating sense of impending doom. This place wasn’t just broken; it was a cage.

He let out a long sigh, staring down at his tattoo again. “Hairy fucking taints... this is my life now.”

His thoughts were interrupted by the door to the base suddenly flying open with a thunderous crash, the wooden planks shuddering in their frames as if reality itself was debating whether or not to keep them solid. The flickering torches on the walls nearly winked out from the force. Sam barely had time to register the motion before a massive figure stomped through the door, filling the entire doorway like some oversized gym rat who’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in medieval cosplay hell.

Sam looked up, half-dazed, as this new arrival strutted in with all the grace of a charging bull. He was at least seven feet tall, with biceps that looked like they could crush a watermelon, wearing neon gym shorts and a tank top that screamed “Rage Hard, Lift Harder” in obnoxious, glowing letters. The half-ogre—Brogre, his mind supplied—was grinning from ear to ear like a frat boy who’d just found an unsupervised keg.

"Oh, fuck me," Sam groaned. Of course, this was happening.

"Yo, bro!" the Brogre bellowed, his voice booming loud enough to rattle the stone walls. He swaggered in like he owned the place, his movements exaggerated and full of frat boy energy. "You look like you've been hit with some gnarly shit, dude. What the fuck’s up with you?"

Sam blinked, half-expecting this mountain of dumb to glitch out of existence at any moment. He took a deep breath, contemplating if today was the day he should start drinking before noon. "I could ask the same question," Sam said dryly, "but I'm too tired for the answer."

The Brogre—who was now uncomfortably close—puffed out his chest, which was already massive, and beamed like a kid who just aced his first keg stand. "Name's Eli," he declared, his voice full of pride. "I'm a Brogre—half-bro, half-ogre, all fucking epic. And you, my dude," he added, pointing at Sam's chest like he was about to hand him a free gym membership, "you look like you need a rage break."

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Please," he muttered, not even looking up, "tell me you're here to kill me and end this shit."

Eli laughed—a booming, echoing sound that made the glitchy torchlight flicker dangerously, like the very fabric of the room couldn’t handle this much dumb in one place. "Nah, bro! I'm not here to kill you—though, that'd be sick." He slapped Sam on the back, and the impact sent Sam stumbling forward, nearly face-planting into the stone floor. "I'm here to invite you, man. To the Support Group for Glitchy Classes!"

Sam turned, slowly, glaring up at Eli like he was considering which part of him to punch first. "A support group?" Sam asked, his voice thick with disbelief. "You want me to join a support group?"

“Hell yeah!” Eli grinned like this was the best news Sam had ever heard. “It’s a good time, man! We all get together, bitch about how fucked up our classes are, and laugh our asses off. You’re gonna love it!”

Sam let out a long, exhausted sigh, rolling his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck. "Right. Because sitting in a circle, crying about how my life is glitched into oblivion, is exactly how I want to spend my day."

Eli wasn’t fazed in the slightest. "Bro, you're coming," he said with a chuckle, as though Sam's participation was inevitable. He grabbed Sam’s arm in a meaty, iron grip and yanked him to his feet with such ease that it was almost insulting.

Sam groaned, defeated. "I doubt that."

But, of course, Eli didn’t hear him. He was too busy dragging Sam out the door, already hyping up the meeting like it was the world’s greatest kegger.

And Sam, helpless in the face of Brogre energy, had no choice but to follow.

-------

Eli led Sam into the back room, and the smell hit him like a punch to the gut. Stale beer, sweat, and something even worse lingered in the air—like someone had left a pile of moldy gym socks to rot in the corner. The walls flickered between stone and glitching streaks of neon green code that blinked in and out, as if reality was having a nervous breakdown. Sam wrinkled his nose and shot a glance at Pixel, his glitchy companion, who was nervously buzzing beside him, flickering between a toaster, a rubber duck, and a cat.

The mismatched chairs in the room looked like they had been pulled from various bargain bins across the multiverse—some were broken, others flickered out of existence every few seconds. One unlucky NPC sat in a glitching chair that vanished just as he was about to sit down, sending him crashing to the floor over and over again, muttering “Son of a bitch,” each time he fell.

“Welcome to the crew, bro!” Eli said, slapping Sam on the back so hard he nearly went flying. Sam stumbled forward, barely managing to catch himself on a chair that flickered between solid and translucent. This was the support group Eli had dragged him into? It felt more like he was walking into a fever dream cooked up by a drunk game designer.

“What the fuck is this place?” Sam muttered under his breath, scanning the room.

Glitch, the sentient pouch at Sam’s hip, snickered. “Oh, you’re gonna love this. Welcome to the worst support group you’ll ever attend. It’s like they scraped the bottom of the glitch barrel and put all the broken code in one room.”

Sam sighed, already feeling the headache building. “Shut up, Glitch.”

“No way,” Glitch continued, cackling. “This is too good. Look at these idiots. You’re about to get introduced to a walking nightmare—one glitch at a time.”

Sam groaned inwardly as Eli stepped forward, grinning like a proud tour guide. “Alright, bro! Let me introduce you to the gang!”

The first person Eli pointed to was a tall woman sitting in a flickering chair. She had a scowl so deep it looked like it had been carved into her face, and her robe—once fancy—now looked like it had been dragged through a glitch-filled wasteland. Her arms were crossed, and she glared at Sam like he was the source of all her life’s problems.

“This is Karen,” Eli said, oblivious to the tension radiating from her. “She’s a Complainomancer. Used to be a Necromancer, but her class glitched. Now, instead of raising the dead, she just raises hell.”

Karen threw her hands up in exasperation. “Yeah, that’s right. I could be raising fucking zombies, but no. Instead, I’m arguing with a broken-ass system that thinks it’s funny to glitch me every time I cast a spell.” She turned her glare toward Sam. “Last week, I tried casting Nitpick Needles on some goblins, and the spell glitches—of course it glitches—and stabs my own tank. And the needle? Oh, it says, ‘Nice dodge,’ while stabbing him. Can you believe that shit?”

Sam blinked, trying to find the right words, but she didn’t give him a chance.

“I’m stuck dealing with refund policies from hell, arguing with a goddamn game system that thinks cooldowns are a fucking joke. I didn’t sign up to be the Karen of the underworld, but here I am, stuck in this bullshit.”

Pixel, buzzing nervously beside Sam, glitched into a blender, then a coffee mug, then a pink flamingo. Sam felt a bead of sweat trickle down his neck. This was too much.

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” Glitch whispered gleefully. “She’s gonna eat you alive.”

Before Sam could even process Karen’s tirade, an awful stench hit him. He gagged and looked around for the source, and his eyes landed on a scruffy figure slouched in the corner, scratching his armpit with an absent-minded smirk. His clothes were in tatters, and his entire demeanor screamed unwashed disaster.

Eli pointed to him next. “And that’s S. He’s a Smelf—Smelly Elf—and a Swearwolf. Yeah, he smells, and yeah, he swears. A lot.”

S grinned, revealing teeth that had seen better days. “Sup, dipshit. Don’t bother mentioning the smell. It’s part of the package.” He cracked his knuckles and leaned back. “I can transform anytime I want. No need for the moon. But when one glitches in? Oh, shit gets real.”

Before Sam could ask what he meant, S let out a Howl of Expletives. The air trembled from the sheer force of the verbal onslaught, as he hurled every curse imaginable at the walls. The walls flickered in response, struggling to hold themselves together.

“For fuck's sake!” Karen snapped, throwing her hands over her ears. “Do you have to do that every goddamn time?! You’re making everything worse!”

S grinned wider. “Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize this was a quiet session. What, should I throw in some Stank Cloud too? Spice things up?”

Karen glared daggers at him. “If you let out that Stank Cloud, I swear to god, I’ll bury you.”

Without missing a beat, S let out a long, deliberate belch that reverberated through the room, followed by a wave of stench so foul Sam nearly gagged.

Pixel transformed again, this time into a floating disco ball, then a cactus, before settling back into a cat. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep it together.

Next up was a figure with perfectly tailored clothes, sitting across from S. His nose was wrinkled in disgust, and he snapped shut the compact mirror he had been inspecting. His whole posture screamed self-importance.

“And that’s Lance,” Eli said, his grin widening. “He’s a Snobbit—that’s a Snobbish Hobbit—and a Critic-Tactician. He’s, uh, real good at telling you what you did wrong.”

Lance sniffed, adjusting his coat before addressing Sam with a sneer. “I prefer the term Master of Strategic Insight, thank you very much. And you? I suppose you’re another one of these… low-class adventurers, stumbling through life?”

Sam groaned. “I’m an Ass-Ass-In.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, his lips curling in disgust. “Charming. Another fool with no grace, no sense of style, and absolutely no strategy. I imagine your specialty is falling on your face?”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Oh, give it a rest, Lance. Your Pompous Analysis hasn’t been useful in months.”

Before Sam could respond to Lance’s critique, a robotic voice cut through the chaos.

"Do… you… quest?" Loop, the glitched NPC, wandered into the room, his eyes blank, repeating his eternal question. "Do… you… quest?"

Sam groaned, rubbing his temples. “Not now, Loop.”

"Do… you… quest?"

“For fuck’s sake…” Sam muttered as Loop drifted off, asking the same question to anyone who would listen.

Glitch cackled from Sam’s hip, his zipper mouth curling into a wide grin. “Oh man, this is gold. You’re in it now. Trapped in a room full of dysfunctional weirdos. And guess what? You’re one of them, buddy.”

Despite himself, Sam felt a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth. As chaotic and utterly broken as this place was, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of camaraderie. These people were just as messed up as he was, maybe worse. And that… made things a little easier to handle.

Pixel, now a tiny, floating blimp, circled his head before transforming back into a cat. Sam chuckled softly.

Eli clapped him on the back again, beaming. “Told you, bro! You’re gonna fit right in. We’re all fucked, but hey, at least we’re fucked together.”

Sam shook his head, but the smile remained. “Yeah,” he said, finally relaxing. “I guess I am.”

--------------

As the group started talking, Sam realized something important: he wasn’t the most fucked person in the room. Not by a long shot. But that didn’t mean things weren’t about to go sideways—hard.

Sam perched awkwardly on the edge of his glitchy chair, which flickered between solid wood and pixelated code. The legs shifted every few seconds, threatening to disappear entirely, leaving him awkwardly hovering just inches above the ground. The chair’s instability mirrored his own growing sense of unease. The air in the room was thick—not just with the lingering stench of S’s Stank Cloud, but with the type of tension that came from trying to hold together a support group made of broken misfits. The torches flickered in and out, casting shadows that seemed to warp and shift like they too were unsure whether they were real or just another glitch in the system.

Then came the sound—a low, guttural growl that made Sam glance up just in time to see Ted—the massive, half-glitching orc with wild, spiked hair and a massive guitar strapped across his back—grin maniacally. His fingers twitched over the strings of his guitar, and for a moment, it was like watching a rock god ready to unleash hell. Sam had half a second to register the oh shit expression on Ted’s face before he strummed a bone-rattling, ear-shattering chord.

Power Chord Slam.

The shockwave exploded through the room, sending chairs—and everyone in them—flying like ragdolls in a windstorm. The walls shimmered with the impact, distorting into jagged, pixelated waves that rippled outward, bending reality as if it were made of glitching water.

Sam hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of him as he sprawled flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, which wasn’t sure if it wanted to be stone or a mass of flickering code. It blinked in and out of existence as Sam blinked his own eyes back into focus. The world felt like it was crumbling around him.

To his right, Lance yelped as his own chair vanished beneath him, sending him sprawling into a heap of tailored clothes and smug pretension. He landed face-first on the floor with a loud grunt. Karen, flailing in the aftermath of the shockwave, shrieked as she tumbled backward, her robe catching on one of the glitching chairs as she hit the floor in an unceremonious heap. Dust and bits of glitching code puffed into the air around her, like she’d kicked up digital confetti.

“For fuck’s sake, Ted!” Karen bellowed as she scrambled to her feet, brushing off her robes as if her dignity could be restored by a few angry swipes. “Can’t you control your damn glitch for five seconds?!”

Ted, still clutching his guitar like a weapon of mass destruction, grinned sheepishly. His wild eyes darted around the room, taking in the destruction with a mix of guilt and amusement. “Fucking technical difficulties!” he shouted, lifting the guitar again like he was about to strum another chord.

Before Ted could even attempt to defend himself, Karen’s Petition Storm triggered—whether by her own rage or the glitchy nature of the room, Sam couldn’t tell. But it happened.

“I WANT A GODDAMN REFUND!” Karen shrieked, her voice echoing through the room like a wrathful goddess demanding justice. “This entire world is a glitch-ridden, broken piece of shit, and I DEMAND COMPENSATION!”

Invisible complaint forms began raining down from nowhere—glitchy streams of text and symbols that looked like corrupted data. Despite their intangibility, the forms hurt. Sam flinched as one hit him, buzzing with negative energy, and he felt a wave of frustration and helplessness wash over him, like he was being wrapped in a bureaucratic net of red tape.

His limbs felt heavier, as if weighed down by Karen’s absurd demands. His thoughts grew foggy and sluggish, and when he glanced around the room, he saw the others were just as affected—Karen’s glitchy complaints had hit everyone. Ted’s usual carefree grin slipped as he looked down at his guitar, which had started glitching in and out, refusing to stay solid. Lance, still sprawled on the floor, groaned loudly as he tried to get up, only to wobble and collapse back onto his ass.

Lance, ever the snob, managed to sit up with as much dignity as he could muster and adjusted his jacket. “This entire support group is a disaster. I expected chaos, but this is just… tasteless.”

Sam couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah, Lance, because taste is the biggest issue here.”

S, still invisible and lurking somewhere near the ceiling, let out a low, disembodied chuckle. “Told you. Welcome to the shitshow.”

Sam sat up, rubbing the back of his head as he tried to shake off the aftereffects of Ted’s Power Chord Slam and Karen’s glitch-fueled complaint storm. Pixel, who had been knocked off Sam’s shoulder during the chaos, flickered in the air beside him, morphing rapidly between a frying pan, a tiny airplane, and a slightly concerned-looking octopus before finally settling back into its usual cat form, curling protectively around Sam’s leg.

Glitch, always eager to comment, burst into hysterical laughter. “Oh man, this is fucking beautiful! You’re all a bunch of glitched-out morons! Seriously? Power chords and refund rants? This is gold!”

Sam groaned, feeling the weight of the absurdity pressing down on him. “Not now, Glitch.”

“Not now?” Glitch cackled even louder. “Oh no, you don’t get to shut me up during this. This is peak disaster! Karen’s about to file a lawsuit against reality, Ted’s turning the room into a mosh pit, and Lance is sitting in a pile of his own failure. This is my Super Bowl, buddy!”

Despite himself, Sam felt a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth. As much as this was a complete disaster—and it was—there was something undeniably hilarious about the way it all unraveled. Maybe it was the sheer ridiculousness of it all, or maybe he was just losing his mind, but Sam couldn’t stop the bubble of laughter rising in his chest.

He glanced over at Lance, who had finally managed to stand, though his legs wobbled beneath him like he was trying to stay upright on a sinking ship. “Really, Lance? Tasteful chaos? Is that even a thing?”

Lance, still wobbly, shot Sam a disdainful look, his nose wrinkling in that haughty way that only someone as pretentious as Lance could pull off. “When I cause chaos, it’s elegant.”

Sam snorted, shaking his head. “Right. Elegant chaos. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Karen, still glaring at Ted, waved her arms in frustration. “I’m done with this bullshit! I didn’t sign up for a mosh pit! I want order and fucking results!”

Ted shrugged, tuning his guitar like the chaos was no big deal. “Order? In this place?” He grinned, his tusks gleaming. “I don’t think that’s in the cards, babe.”

The walls flickered again, shimmering as they debated whether to stay stone or dissolve into pure, unfiltered glitch. Sam smirked at the absurdity of it all. For the first time since he’d arrived in this fucked-up reality, he felt a strange sense of belonging. These people were all glitched-out disasters—just like him.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, this is definitely the weirdest support group ever.”

_______

By the time the chaos finally died down, Sam was left bruised, exhausted, and somehow, against all logic, strangely... amused. Sure, his life was still an absolute shitstorm, and yeah, he was surrounded by the kind of misfits who made his glitchy Ass-Ass-In class look like a real job, but for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel so alone. Maybe that was the real magic here—not the powers or the ridiculous quests, but the sheer, raw camaraderie of mutual suffering.

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the bruise already forming from where his chair had gone flying—again—thanks to Ted’s Power Chord Slam. He glanced around the room at the others as they slowly picked themselves up off the floor. Karen was still grumbling about refunds, Lance was inspecting his coat like it had personally offended him, and S... well, S was probably swearing in some invisible corner, casting his Stank Cloud just to be a dick.

"Support group, my ass," Sam muttered under his breath. “This place offers less support than a broken chair.”

Glitch chimed in from his hip, laughing wickedly. “Oh, you were expecting support? In a support group? That’s rich! The only thing this place supports is total, fucking, glitch-fueled chaos. And guess what, assface—you’re stuck in it.”

Sam let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, no shit.”

Eli, ever the optimistic Brogre, grinned ear to ear as he clapped Sam on the back again, sending him stumbling forward. “Told you, bro! We’re all fucked, but at least we’re fucked together!” His enthusiasm was almost infectious, and for a split second, Sam couldn’t help but wonder if Eli’s entire existence was just one big glitch of positivity.

“Yeah, I guess I fit right in,” Sam said, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten just a bit. It was a bitter, sarcastic laugh that followed, but it was still something. And right now? That was enough.

Just as Sam was settling into this strange acceptance of his new normal, the door to the Misfits base creaked open. A figure stumbled inside, panting and out of breath, looking like they’d just run a marathon through a glitchy dungeon. Trinket, the group’s diminutive goblin-like messenger and eternal bearer of bad news, clutched at his chest, his eyes wide and frantic.

“Guys!” Trinket wheezed, waving his tiny arms as if that would make him more noticeable. “We’ve got a problem!”

“Oh great, more problems,” Karen grumbled, throwing her hands up in the air. “Can I get a refund on this one too?”

Lance scoffed, fixing his collar with a disdainful sniff. “If it’s anything like the last so-called ‘problem,’ I’m sure it’s just another minor inconvenience blown out of proportion. Honestly, these interruptions are getting tiresome.”

Trinket’s eyes bulged as he flailed his arms more desperately. “No, seriously! There’s a small invasion happening outside! Monsters everywhere! Like, right now!”

At that moment, as if the universe couldn’t resist turning everything into a running joke, Loop strolled into the room, his eyes vacant and glitching slightly as usual. His voice, robotic and emotionless, echoed through the now-quiet room:

"Do... you... quest?"

Sam groaned, rubbing his temples. "Not now, Loop. For the love of fuck, not now."

But Loop just stood there, unmoving, repeating his line like a broken NPC. "Do... you... quest?"

Before anyone could respond—or smack Loop in the face—a sudden ping rang out, followed by a familiar, glitchy interface popping up in front of Sam’s eyes.

[Quest Notification: Small Invasion Outside Drunken Misfit] Objective: Defeat the monsters invading the area. Reward: 500 XP, a bag of glitched loot, and possibly your dignity (though no promises). Accept Quest? [Yes/No]

Sam blinked at the floating, jittering quest box, the text flickering and half-rendering as though reality itself wasn’t entirely sure what it wanted to say. “Seriously?” Sam said aloud, staring at the pop-up. “A small invasion?”

Glitch chuckled from his pouch. “Yeah, because small invasions are totally no big deal. Just, you know, a casual monster swarm on a Tuesday.”

Eli, still oblivious to the concept of danger, pumped his fists in the air. “Hell yeah! Time to smash some monsters, bro! Let’s rage!”

Trinket, still catching his breath, nodded furiously. “Yeah, smash them, or they’re gonna smash us!”

Sam sighed, looking around the room at the band of misfits. He knew what was coming next, and part of him—the part that was still clinging to a semblance of sanity—wondered if he should just hit No and call it a day. But then again, what the hell else was he going to do? Sit around with a group of broken characters and complain about glitches all day?

“Alright,” Sam muttered, swiping the Yes button on the quest window. “Let’s go save the fucking day. Again.”

The quest window blinked away, replaced by a new pop-up:

[New Objective: Survive.]

Sam grinned darkly. Story of my fucking life.