🃟
Mike's basement was lit the way only a twelve-year-old boy's lair could be—half-working Christmas lights, old lamps buzzing, and shadows stretching across the walls like they had their own secret lives. The air carried the faint scent of pizza, dust, and that unmistakable plastic smell of freshly unboxed action figures.
At the head of the table sat Chandler Bing: Dungeon Master, King of Sarcasm, and a thirty-six-year-old man who had, for reasons unknown to science, decided this campaign was his life's greatest mission. He pushed up his glasses and looked at the kids with the severity of a general announcing the end of the world.
"Well, gentlemen, I hope you all did your homework," he declared.
"We had homework in this?" Mike frowned.
"Yes, Michael. It's called reading your character sheet. You know—the thing you keep using as a napkin," Chandler said, pointing at the smudged paper.
Beside him, Evan sat with his arms crossed, expression hovering between entertained and embarrassed. He was a perfect combination of Chandler's sarcasm and Monica's laser-sharp judgment.
"Dad, can we just start the game before Lucas eats all the snacks again?" Evan sighed.
"I don't eat all the snacks!" Lucas protested, pretzel crumbs glittering on his lips like evidence at a crime scene.
"Dude, you totally do," Dustin chimed in.
"Every time," Will added quietly.
Lucas opened his mouth to argue, then slowly—defeatedly—shoved another pretzel in.
Chandler slapped his notes onto the table with dramatic flair. "Alright! Episode one of our totally normal campaign, in which no one screams, cries, or accuses me of favouritism—looking at you, Dustin."
"That was ONE time," Dustin said.
"I still have nightmares," Chandler deadpanned. He cleared his throat and leaned forward theatrically. "The dungeon is dark. Unearthly dark. A fog rolls over your boots—"
"We don't have boots, we're wearing—" Mike began.
"You're wearing boots. I'm the Dungeon Master. I control your footwear," Chandler cut in.
Evan snorted. "Just let him have this, Mike."
Chandler lifted his hands like a wizard conjuring a spell. "And then… You hear it. The thundering footsteps of the Demogorgon!"
The boys leaned in.
"Correction," Chandler said. "It is the baby brother of the Demogorgon. Half as tall, ten times as angry, and extremely insecure about his family's expectations."
Lucas blinked. Dustin cackled. Will fought a smile. Mike groaned.
"Are you serious right now?" Mike asked.
"Do I look like a man who jokes?"
"Yes," everyone replied together.
Chandler gave a small nod. Fair point. "Anyway… the monster roars! Its fangs drip with something that looks suspiciously like melted cheese—"
"Why cheese?" Dustin asked.
"Because I'm hungry."
Evan picked up his dice. "I cast Fire Bolt."
"Fine. Roll for it," Chandler sighed.
Evan rolled—a clean, perfect seventeen.
"No way!" Lucas exclaimed.
"Dude!" Mike shouted.
"Nice!" Will chimed in.
Chandler exhaled dramatically. "Your fire spell shoots out in the most epic, cinematic moment ever. The baby Demogorgon screams—" He flung his hands upward. "—and explodes like a piñata at the world's worst birthday party. Bits everywhere. Congrats. You've successfully traumatised the local wildlife."
The boys erupted into laughter, Evan grinning proudly. He picked up a deck of cards from beside him, flipped a single card to the top, and did a clean back-drop flourish. A subtle crackle of energy rippled through the card, almost invisible.
🂡
Upstairs, hearing the cheers, Monica—helping Karen finish the food—smiled softly. Terry Wheeler paused mid-step, then promptly decided whatever was happening downstairs was not worth investigating. Holly simply giggled at the noise, delighted by the excitement beneath her feet.
🂢
Back in the basement, the boys packed their bags while Chandler watched them with a fond, almost fatherly look—though he would deny it if asked. A glance at the clock made his face drain of colour.
"Alright, troops," he said. "It is officially the hour at which, if I'm not upstairs, I will be sleeping on the couch. And let me tell you, the couch and I are not on speaking terms."
The boys snickered. Evan stretched and nodded toward the stairs.
"I second that."
"Of course you do," Chandler said. "You always take your mom's side."
"Who wouldn't? And you're scared of her, too," Evan shot back as they started climbing the steps.
Chandler raised a finger. "I am not scared of your mother. I am… respectfully cautious of her. Big difference."
"Sure, sure," Evan said with a shrug, like, whatever helps you sleep at night.
Suddenly, Dustin called out, "Hey, guys, does anyone want the last slice of pizza?"
Everyone looked at him, like, who would fill their stomach before dinner? Chandler, meanwhile, looked dazed, lost in his memories for a second. Then he said no, and the others echoed him.
Seeing this, Dustin closed the box and headed upstairs with it.
🂣
Chandler emerged from the basement with his "troops," entering the kitchen where Monica and Karen were finishing up. Monica glanced over and gave Chandler a tired smile—the kind she only gave him when she'd been working all day and still didn't trust the universe not to rearrange her kitchen.
Chandler walked straight toward her, kissed her cheek, and asked, "Can I help with anything? Or would that create… panic?"
"No, it's almost done," Monica rushed out. And he knew that meant: Don't touch my kitchen.
He playfully shook his head. "Noted. My hands will remain several feet away from anything edible."
In the corner, Karen watched the easy affection between them with subtle envy—then turned toward her husband, who was wrestling with the TV antenna like it owed him money.
🂤
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To the readers, I know some of you may not like that I included Chandler in this, and to you I apologise. I added him because I want to pay tribute to him—nothing more.
PS: HAPPY NEW YEAR 🥳
I hope you kids will have a great year ahead.
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Number of Chapters in P@treon: 4
[email protected]/Micheal210
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