Arlo hadn't planned to die that day.
In fact.
His grand plan for the afternoon was simple:
Look cool.
Impress the girl the with iced coffee, maybe exchange a smile, and if the stars aligned get her number.
He puffed out his chest, straightened his back and strutted across the plaza like he owned the place.
He even threw in a casual hair-flip, despite not having enough hair to justify one.
It was going well.
She looked up from her coffee.
Their eyes almost met.
Victory was within reach.
And then came the scooter.
Some kid had abandoned it smack in the middle of walkway.
Arlo's foot found it with surgical precision, like fate itself had guided his clumsy step.
He tripped. Arms flailed.
Mouth opened in a strangled war cry that could only be described as half-sneeze, half dying-goose.
In his desperate bid to stay upright.
Arlo lunged for the nearest object to steady himself.
Fate, ever the comedian, decided that object would be a hotdog vendor's cart.
The moment his fingers gripped the edge, the world descended into chaos.
The cart toppled with spectacular force, launching hotdogs like javelins into the crowd.
Ketchup and mustard erupted in twin geysers, showering innocent bystanders.
One guy screamed like he'd been stabbed when in reality, a sausage had only bounced off his forehead.
Arlo hit the pavement with a crash and for a second he thought "Okay. That's bad, but survivable."
Then the clown arrived. A uni-cyclist fully dressed as a clown had been wobbling by.
Startled by the hotdog shrapnel, the clown swerved, lost control and rolled straight over Arlo's ribs.
"Why is there always a clown?", Arlo wheezed.
The worst part?
The clown kept pedaling, shrieking apologies in a squeaky voice and vanished into the chaos.
But the chain reaction wasn't over.
Oh no. A small ice cream truck tried to avoid the clown. It swerved, tired screeching, and a crate of waffle cones flew into the street.
The driver panicked. Slammed on the brakes and sent a perfect arc of ice cream scoops soaring majestically into the sky.
The crowd gasped.
Children cheered.
Somewhere, an old man muttered "This is better than cable."
One scoop a mountainous extra-large triple chocolate chunk descended like a meteor. It plopped directly into Arlo's open mouth and he choked.
His last thought before the darkness claimed him was "Well, at least it's premium dairy."
When Arlo opened his eyes again, he wasn't in the plaza.
He was lying on polished marble surrounded by towering pillars carved with unfamiliar symbols.
Floating candles drifted lazily overhead casting warm light.
Before him stood a man or something trying very hard to look like a man.
A cracked wooden sign hung crookedly on a pedestal, reading in messy handwriting (DEOS-GOD OF THIS WORLD, Do Not Disturb).
The man's robe was wrinkled like it had been slept in for a week.
His beard patchy and uneven like he'd given up halfway through shaving.
He held a chipped goblet that screamed thrift store clearance.
The aura he radiated wasn't divine. It was unemployed.
Deos gave Arlo a flat look, "Welcome."
Arlo blinked, "Wait, where am I?"
"You're dead," Deos said taking a sip from his cup. He swished the liquid around, frowned, then muttered, "Ugh, watered-down again."
Arlo sat up, "Dead? No... No way. I just... choked a little. Maybe passed out. People don't die from ice cream."
Deos raised a finger, "Correction, you did. And let me just say, your death report? Chef's kiss. Truly magnificent!"
Arlo groaned, "Oh come one!"
"No, no," Deos cut him off, grinning like a wolf
"Let's recap, shall we? You tripped over a scooter, toppled a hotdog cart, caused what witnesses are now calling 'The Condiment Apocalypse', got flattened by a clown on a unicycle, and finally choked to death on an airborne scoop of ice cream. If being stupid were an Olympic sport, you wouldn't just win gold, you'd sweep the podium and force the judges to invent new medals."
Arlo jabbed a finger at him, "For the record that was an extra-large cone! Anyone would've choked!"
Deos barked a laugh, nearly spilling his wine, "Oh, this is rich! A man dies by dessert and still insists on defending his honor. Pathetic."
Arlo's eye twitched, "Why am I here then? Shouldn't I be in Heaven? With angels singing, harps playing, my life flashing before my eyes?"
"Oh, please," Deos groaned, rolling his eyes so hard they might've dislodged. "This isn't Heaven. Earth's deity scammed me in a bet and now I'm stuck recycling idiots like you into my world. Do you know how humiliating that is? I wanted to build a noble realm of purpose and order. Instead...," He waved his goblet dramatically, "I'm running a daycare for Darwin Award winners."
Arlo crossed his arms, "That sounds like a you problem."
Deos snapped his fingers.
Thunder cracked.
"It's our problem now. You're going to my world."
Arlo swallowed hard, "To do what? Fight dragons? Slay demons? Go on some epic destiny-filled quest?"
"No prophecy," Deos said flatly.
"No Demon King."
"No Epic quest."
"Just...," he waved his hand dismissively, "try not to die immediately. Though, frankly. I'm not optimistic."
Arlo groaned, "So, what? I just wander around until I choke on a loaf of bread this time?"
"Not necessarily," Deos leaned back in his chair with a sly grin. "Like all my world's residents, you'll get a skill."
Golden light flared searing into Arlo's vision.
A system message hovered in glowing letters.
[Skill Acquired: Herald of Disaster and Fortune]
Activating the skill, the choices you make alters fate. Small choices, small outcomes. Great choices, great fortune, or great ruin.
Arlo squinted, "So, basically my life is a coin flip now?"
"Better odds than you had before," Deos quipped.
Arlo buried his face in his hands, "This is insane! What if I don't want to go?"
"You don't get a say," Deos replied, knocking back the rest of his wine. "You're Earth's trash my problem, and now my entertainment."
Arlo glared, "What the hell? Can I at least get a reroll? Something less coin-flip death roulette and more like... I don't know, fireball?"
"No."
"Super strength?"
"Nope."
"Charm? Seduction? At least let me get a date out of this nightmare!"
Deos snorted, "With that face? Even I'm not a miracle worker."
Arlo threw his hands up, "You're the worst God in the world!"
"Correct!," Deos said cheerfully, "And now you're stuck with me."
He snapped his fingers.
Divine force blasted through the shrine hurling Arlo backward into the swirling void.
Arlo screamed as he spun helplessly through the darkness.
"Try not to die in the first five minutes!" Deos called after him voice echoing with amusement, "Or, do. Honestly, it's all the same to me."
And with that Arlo's second life began kicking, screaming, and very likely doomed.