I honestly started writing this on a whim, after seeing how badly they masscared my boy Charlie in the other fanfics. As a fan of the shows in this fic and half decent author, I'll hopefully do some Justice to the characters.
It would be mix of old sitcoms like Two and a Half Men, Friends, Breaking Bad and some other stuff with real world merged into it.
Mc isn't a saint, but he's not a evil guy either. It's a different type of Character from my other works.
Now buckle up and get your tissues ready kids. It's gonna be a wild ride.
****
If someone asked me, "What's the greatest advice you would give to others?" I wouldn't talk about living with purpose, or chasing your dreams, or investing wisely. No.
I'd probably say, "Look both ways before crossing the street."
And I know, it sounds dumb. The kind of thing your grandma would tell you before handing you a cookie. But right now? Lying broken on the road after a face-to-face makeout session with Truck-kun, I'd call it solid wisdom.
I'm not exaggerating. One second I was alive, cocky as hell, sprinting down the street buck ass naked with a grin on my face.
The next moment, a goddamn truck came flying at me like it was auditioning for Final Destination. There wasn't even a driver. Just headlights, steel, and inevitability.
We collided, and my body turned into modern art.
That's how I learned the value of checking both sides of the street before crossing.
The funny part? I deserved it.
I wasn't a good person by any means. I drank too much. Gambled like I had infinite credit. And tried to bang any chick that caught my eye. If she smiled at me twice, I was already imagining how the sheets would look tangled around us.
It didn't help that I had the cheat codes of life: good genetics and free money. I was jacked—muscles sharp enough to make tank tops look like they owed me rent.
And when Dad croaked, he left me a few million to play with. Not enough to be on Forbes, but enough to ruin myself in style.
And when you've got looks, money, and absolute freedom, you almost always make poor life choices. I made them enthusiastically.
The people I hung around with? Shady as hell. They had shadier habits too, but I didn't care. They showed me thrills, and I craved those like oxygen. The introduced to the wonderful world of Konosuba.... Sorry, degeneracy.
Drinking, smoking, snorting, gambling, it didn't matter. If it burned, I lit it. If it wrecked me, I tried it twice.
But it was hard to keep a steady train of thought, especially now, lying here splattered on the road, with my balls literally on the side of the street.
I wish I was joking. My torso had landed one way, my legs another, and my crown jewels were just sitting off to the side, like they'd decided to go sightseeing. Hard to philosophize about life when your own genitals are out sightseeing.
Still, I figured I might as well finish my story before bleeding out.
I never had a steady girlfriend. Not once in all thirty years of my life. Not that I ever tried. I didn't want love; I wanted numbers. Notches on the bedpost. Records to break. And by the time I turned thirty, I had humped my way through half the country.
Today had been my milestone: my 1,000th woman.
You'd think after that many, the story would've been boring. But no, my luck demanded flair.
This one was married. Not shocking—I'd been down that road plenty. But she wasn't married to some weak, oblivious husband. No. She was married to a Navy SEAL. A man with training, muscles, and most importantly—a licensed firearm.
So imagine the look on his face when he walked into his bedroom and found me balls deep in his wife.
Hilarious. Terrifying. But mostly hilarious.
By the time he grabbed his gun and fumbled with the magazine, I was already finishing the job and pulling my pants back up. What can I say? I wanted the round number for my scoreboard. And judging by the sultry smile she gave me, it was glorious.
He shouted something, maybe her name, maybe a curse, but I didn't wait around to check. I bolted out the back, my bare feet smacking against the floorboards, adrenaline surging like a tidal wave.
I hit the street and ran. He chased me with murder in his eyes and a gun in his hand.
"Get back here, motherfucker!" he roared.
I fired back without stopping, leaping over a trash bin as a bullet whizzed past me. "That's defamation, asshole! I only fucked your wife! But send me your mama's address, and I'll make your accusations a reality!"
He cursed, raised his gun, and fired again.
I just laughed, my legs working harder than they ever had before. "Hehe, I'm fast as fuck, boi!" I shouted into the night, the cocaine doing its job.
For a few glorious seconds, I felt untouchable. Invincible. Like I was sprinting through life itself, flipping the bird to every consequence.
And then I made the fatal mistake. I looked back to gloat.
That's when I saw it.
The truck. Big, rusted, no driver. Rushing at me with the energy of Nicolas Cage sprinting toward another terrible role.
I had half a second to process it.
Bam.
The world turned into a smear of blood, bones, and impact. The truck sent me flying like a ragdoll. When I landed, I was more debris than man. Half of me on one side of the road, the rest on the other.
I lay there, gasping, my lungs struggling to cling to life. "Yeah… I don't think this can be stitched back together," I chuckled weakly.
As my life bled out onto the asphalt, an emptiness heavier than blood filled me.
I thought about my life. All the noise. All the chaos. All the adventures. And how none of it meant anything.
I'd lived a shitty life, plain and simple.
My parents didn't care. They'd been too busy with their upper-class bullshit—cocktail parties, vacations, business deals. I grew up in a mansion that was always empty, with more staff than family.
Nobody saw the bruises I got from bullying, nor did they care when I finally snapped and broke a couple noses while getting the shit beaten out of me.
When Mom left with one of Dad's friends, it didn't surprise me. When Dad drank himself to death not long after, that didn't surprise me either. What surprised me was how little I felt.
Just numbness. Always numbness.
The drugs, the women, the parties—they never filled the hole inside me. They distracted me, sure. Gave me noise so I didn't have to hear the silence. But the emptiness was always there, waiting for me when the music stopped.
Something was broken in me. Maybe always had been. Maybe that's why I chose the path of self destruction , to end things with a bang.
And now, with my body in pieces and my blood cooling, I knew it was too late to fix it.
I laughed again, bitterly this time, my voice cracking as the edges of my vision turned black. "If this is the start of an isekai adventure… Imma lose my shit."
The words scraped out of my throat, weak but honest.
And then the darkness took me.
I thought that was it. The end.
But unknown to me, fate had something more chaotic in store than the afterlife.
*****
Waking up face-first in the asphalt wasn't what I expected heaven or hell to look like.
My cheek felt gritty and raw, little pieces of gravel biting into the skin, and a faint taste of metal clung to my tongue. Everything hurt. My neck, my ribs, my head — especially my head.
"This looks bad. The one thing I didn't need, a fuckin' time travel or isekai bullshit!" I groaned, my voice rough, pushing myself upright on shaking arms.
My vision swam, and for a second I thought I was going to hurl. The pounding inside my skull made it feel like someone was hammering from the inside out.
I tried to take in my surroundings. I shouldn't have.
I was in the parking lot of a shady-looking motel. The kind you only see in movies about bad choices or on news reports about missing people. Overflowing garbage bins lined one side of the lot, lids cracked open like broken jaws. A few trash pandas rummaged lazily through the mess, pausing only to look at me as if to say I didn't belong here.
A drugged-out homeless guy lay slumped against the bins. His face was slack, his eyes shut, and a thin stream of urine escaped him, inching its way across the cracked asphalt toward me. Another minute and it would have been at my face.
I scrambled back, gagging slightly. "Where the hell am I?"
The universe responded the way it always does in these situations: with pain. A sharp spike of headache tore through me and then, like a busted dam, memories poured in. Not my memories. His memories. David's memories.
They came broken, jumbled, twisted — flashes of faces, moments, smells, sounds — none of it clear, all of it wrong. But at least one thing emerged from the mess.
My name.
David Lucius Harper.
I had a family. And apparently I'd run away from them.
I couldn't even be mad at that. With a mother like Evelyn Harper, who wouldn't? Toxic didn't even cover it. The memories painted her as someone who went through husbands like a diarrhea patient went through toilet paper. No stability, no warmth. Just chaos.
Two older brothers. Charlie and Alan.
Charlie was older than me by about ten years, Alan by five. Charlie had been the cool brother. Alan the dorky, awkward one. And me — David — had been closest to Charlie. We had the same style, the same attitude, the same anger for our mother. It was him who gave me money when I went off on my own.
This was the year 2000. I was twenty years old. Transmigration with a side of time travel.
The names nagged at me though. Charlie Harper. Alan Harper. Evelyn Harper.
Something about them felt weirdly familiar from another life, like they were some characters I'd watched on TV while bored, not people I'd known. But that was a problem for another time.
Right now, I had enough problems.
I dug deeper into the memories, bracing myself for what I'd find. And what I found made my stomach twist.
This guy was a scum.
He had run away from home five years ago and gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. Dropped out of high school. Started doing drugs. All the usual clichés, but somehow uglier.
He'd pretended to be a musician. Played the bad-boy card. Lied like breathing. Didn't care about anyone but himself.
And the worst? He'd seduced a 17-year-old girl. A kid. Used his face, his lies, his "bad boy" routine to drag her into his mess.
Even that, awful as it was, wasn't the full story.
He'd taken money from her, money she gave to help him, but he used it to buy drugs. Told her he cared for her while sneaking off to screw a married neighborhood MILF. And then came today.
Today, he convinced that same 17-year-old that if she really loved him, she should steal her parents' secret retirement fund from the safe. All the valuables she could get. And then run away with him. Her parents were well off, which made her the perfect target.
He'd actually pulled it off. She'd done it. She'd brought the money.
And then this bastard took the cash, got a room at this sleazy motel, and tried to run away. Leaving her here. Alone. Vulnerable. In a place like this.
Even with everything I'd done in my past life, even at my lowest, I wouldn't have done that. You don't leave someone in a dump like this after robbing her blind. Not someone who literally destroyed her own life for you. Not someone you encouraged to do it and pretended to love.
Poor girl. My heart tightened thinking about what might have happened if she'd been left here all alone. This wasn't just a mistake; this was pure evil.
And then karma hit. Literally. The dude tried to run with the money, slipped, fell, cracked his head, and logged off from life.
I shook my head, half in disbelief, half in grim amusement. "Ain't karma a bitch," I muttered under my breath.
But even as I said it, the weight of it all landed on me.
I wasn't David. But now I was. And that left me with one question, the question hammering at the back of my skull even harder than the headache.
What the hell am I going to do now!