A Handyman, a Prankster, and a Pizza

I sat on an unforgiving slab of stone, my gaze fixed on the world beyond the solid iron bars of a dungeon cell. The air was thick and steamy, each breath a humid weight in my lungs.

How had this become my reality? How had I been cast into this squalid hole? I was the one who had been abducted, the one held captive, yet here I was, treated as though I were the criminal. A heavy sigh broke from my lips, a sound immediately devoured by the oppressive dampness of the room. My eyes fell to the triple-locked manacles that bit into the flesh of my ankles and wrists. The cold, unyielding metal served as a constant, chilling reminder of my captivity. My thoughts began to spool backward, desperately seeking the first wrong turn, the single miscalculation that had culminated in this moment.

It had all begun a mere three hours ago, during what had been a deceptively pleasant afternoon in the heart of downtown Brookland. The sky was a canvas of brilliant, cloudless blue. I had been at the pizzeria.

"Hey, Ryan! Shake a leg! We’ve got a delivery."

The deep, familiar voice of Boss Ren resonated through the shop, yanking me from the precipice of sleep. An order at this hour, well after the lunchtime surge had subsided, was a rarity. I’d been dozing on the threadbare couch in the back room, surrendering to a profound exhaustion that had settled deep in my bones and plagued me for weeks. It was a disquieting kind of fatigue, punctuated by sporadic dreams that whispered cryptic messages, phrases like it’s almost time or soon. What in the hell was that even supposed to mean? For once, I just wanted a normal, meaningless dream.

I glimpsed my reflection in the grimy glass of a framed poster on the wall. The face of a man who had just crested his thirtieth year stared back at me. I wasn’t overweight, but I certainly wasn’t slender; standing at around 190 centimeters, my medium-to-large clothes always seemed to drape a bit too loosely on my frame. My dark blond hair, which fell nearly to my shoulders, possessed a subtle wave that ensured it looked perpetually messy, even when hastily pulled back into a small ponytail. No one had ever described me as hot, but the man in the reflection looked respectable enough, or so I told myself.

By profession, I was the neighborhood handyman, a jack-of-all-trades sought after for everything from fixing leaky roofs to clearing stubbornly clogged pipes. Today, however, I was masquerading as a pizza delivery guy. A truly fantastic occupation. There were precious few rungs left to descend on the social ladder.

This was not the life I had envisioned for myself, a truth born not of laziness but of ‘circumstances’—a conveniently vague term I used to summarize a life that had been thoroughly derailed. I had no proper education, no discernible career path, and no significant other. An exciting future indeed. I made an effort not to complain, but there were moments when a bitter envy for those who lived ordinary lives with jobs and families would quietly poison my thoughts.

But my focus returned to the pizza. I glanced at the order slip. The address was for the Indian prankster yet again. Considering the late hour and the paltry size of the order, he was undoubtedly filming another one of his elaborate hoaxes for his popular online channel.

"It's that prankster again, boss," I announced, my voice devoid of enthusiasm. "I’m not sure we should be encouraging him."

"Don't you be complaining about any order, son!" he retorted, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "An order is an order, and every order means money. Hell, we might even get a little free publicity for the shop if we pop up in one of his videos. Now get going, and make sure you wear the full uniform—hat, store jacket, the whole nine yards."

My boss was a large Black man in his late fifties. He was a downtown institution, but what truly distinguished him were the dark sunglasses he never, ever removed and the walking stick that was a permanent extension of his hand. Boss Ren was blind. I’d heard the story whispered around the neighborhood, a piece of local lore about how he’d lost his sight in the maelstrom of 9/11. It was a tragedy that would have shattered a lesser man, but not Ren. He simply carried on living, even when he had nothing left. I knew the story was true; I had been around all those years ago when he was forced to start his life over from scratch.

A stroke of fortune, or perhaps some form of cosmic compensation, had arrived when he won a modest sum in the state lottery. It was just enough to open this pizzeria, which also served as his home. He was a frugal man who pinched every penny, but his heart was good. Every single night, without fail, he gave the day’s leftover pizzas to the homeless who congregated nearby. The locals affectionately called him Papa Ren or Big Ren, which was also the name of his establishment: Big Ren’s Pizzeria. I just called him Boss Ren. The title suited his commanding presence, his unyielding character.

"But it's for a prank video, boss," I argued, my protest already feeling feeble. "I don't know if that's the kind of publicity we really want."

"I don't care if it's a cooking show or a damn prank video," he grunted dismissively. "I heard the kid gets a hundred thousand views on every single thing he posts."

His logic was fundamentally flawed, but for a place like ours, it probably made no difference. We barely had a reputation to tarnish in the first place. Compared to the chic bistros and gleaming chain restaurants, our little shop—which didn't even appear on Google Maps—was already at the bottom of the culinary food chain.

Another sigh escaped me.

I accepted the assignment and began to prepare for the delivery. And when I say "prepare," I don't mean that I hopped into a car or mounted a noisy, polluting scooter. Our establishment’s delivery vehicle was a 'green-centric' masterpiece. It produced zero emissions and generated zero noise pollution. It was even equipped with environmentally friendly plastic pedals for self-propulsion. It was a bicycle.

As I wheeled the bike outside, Gerry, the old stray Labrador who considered our block his territory, let out a friendly bark. A worn tag still dangled from his collar, a lonely relic from a previous owner who had long since disappeared. Now, the entire neighborhood collectively looked after him, especially Boss Ren, who always saved the best scraps for the old dog. Gerry’s tail wagged as he barked again. He was a good boy. I wished I had a moment to play, but there was a delivery to be made.

With the insulated pizza bag strapped to my back, I pedaled that magnificent, eco-friendly machine through the city streets. The destination was a six-story office building that housed various small businesses. It wasn't entirely rundown; it was a well-maintained and decently designed structure. The customer’s office was located on the seventh floor—the rooftop penthouse. He had constructed a custom glass house up there, a clear testament to his eccentricity. Rumor had it that he was once a lecherous yoga instructor who had taken advantage of his position. A real class act.

I walked into the building’s lobby. The receptionist glanced up from her desk and offered me a look that was dripping with pity. She remembered my previous deliveries to this address. I will spare you the details of those particular encounters.

I rode the elevator to the sixth floor and then ascended the final flight of stairs leading to the roof. I paused before the rooftop entrance, taking a moment to brace myself for whatever juvenile stunt he had concocted for me on the other side. A giant styrofoam pendulum? A clown brandishing a chainsaw? With this guy, any absurdity was possible.

"Phew." I exhaled a long, slow breath and pushed the door open.

…

"Huh?"

The rooftop was empty. Utterly and completely deserted.

This was strange. I moved cautiously toward the small glass house, which was the only structure on the roof aside from the standard array of antennas and HVAC units. This was the Indian man's studio. The glass panels were tinted in a variety of garish colors and were partially obscured by a chaotic jungle of real and plastic plants, including a tangle of fake vines that had been draped across the ceiling. The loud, droning buzz of an air conditioner’s exhaust fan filled the air, a flagrant waste of energy.

I arrived at the glass door, which bore a ridiculous sign: [Chillin and Rollin]. Whatever, man. I knocked.

A silhouette shifted within. Through the tinted glass, I could just discern a figure moving toward the door. It was the prankster, Kazir. He looked exactly the same as always: his hair in Caribbean-style dreadlocks, an enormous, fake gold ring shaped like a dollar sign on one finger, and an oversized basketball jersey that hung on him like a one-piece dress. I was surprised he hadn’t gotten gold teeth to complete the look.

"Yo, my bro!" he exclaimed, his Indian accent straining to mimic that of a Black man from the inner city. Remember your roots, man, I thought to myself.

"Your pizza's here," I stated flatly, ignoring his greeting. "One promotional pepperoni, no meat, extra cheese. That'll be $9.49." My skepticism remained high; this guy reeked of impending trouble.

"Whoa, playin' the aloof guy, eh? I like it."

I maintained a blank, impassive expression.

"Aight, aight, hehe. Don't make that pouty face. Here's your money. Keep the change."

He handed me a ten-dollar bill. Keep the change. Fifty-one cents. If it had been a twenty, that might have been something.

I pocketed the money and turned to depart, but he swiftly stopped me. Oh, here we go.

"You gonna leave me all alone with this huge pizza, bro? Why don't you come inside and chill for a bit?"

Come inside? A warning bell clanged loudly in the back of my mind.

"Nah, man. I'm good. I have to get back," I said, attempting a polite refusal. "More deliveries to make."

"No, no, I insist. Man, I need someone to check out my latest work. You're the only one I can ask right now. Help a nigga out, right? All you gotta do is watch a few vids and give me some feedback. It won't take long. Five minutes, tops!"

Why me? Why not one of the security guards stationed downstairs? And who, exactly, was he calling his "nigga"? I certainly wasn't one, and neither was he.

My mounting frustration must have been visible, because my brow furrowed.

"Aight, you got me, man. I get it, hehe. Nothin's for free. Okay, how 'bout I pay you? Ten dollars? How's that sound?"

Ten bucks. I wasn't that cheap.

"$50."

The word escaped my mouth before I could catch it. I knew it was still a pitifully low price for whatever humiliation he had in store for me, but it was better than nothing.

"What? You robbin' your bro? Fifteen!"

"$50," I repeated, holding my ground. We both understood that this was about far more than just watching a few videos.

"Twenty, dude! C'mon, give me a break!"

The desperate edge in his tone confirmed it. This was something more.

"$50."

"Thirty! And I'll even share the pizza! That's my final offer."

He had just claimed he needed help finishing the pizza. This guy. I turned on my heel and began walking toward the stairs.

"Aight! Okay! You're a greedy punk, hehe. Fifty bucks it is. You got it. Now come on in."

He laughed, but there was a coldness in his eyes that silently conveyed the true message: I'm paying you, so you better give me a good reaction.

I pocketed the fifty dollars and stepped inside the glass house. It was larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside, and surprisingly warm despite the air conditioner humming away. My eyes immediately scanned the room and found them: several small cameras, all aimed directly at the spot where I was standing. I made a mental note to charge him extra for dry cleaning if this prank involved any kind of projectile mess.

He led me over to a bank of monitors that served as his editing station. He began playing some of his videos, and I feigned a convincing level of interest. They were mediocre at best. I found myself wondering if the poor saps featured in these clips got paid for their trouble, too. He offered me a slice of pizza. I was wary, but to maintain the pretense, I accepted it and began to eat.

Halfway through one of the videos, a sudden movement outside caught my eye. Through the clear sections of the glass wall, I saw a figure standing near the safety fence at the extreme edge of the rooftop.

He was taking off his shoes.

I stopped chewing. My entire body went rigid as I slowly rose to my feet, my eyes locked on the man.

Now he was climbing over the safety fence. In that same instant, Kazir noticed him too.

My head snapped toward Kazir. He gazed back at me, and in that split second, a silent, sickening understanding passed between us. The cameras, the ridiculous payment, his insistence that I come inside—it all clicked into a horrifyingly clear picture.

This was the prank. I was supposed to be the hero. The suicide negotiator.