When the Prank Isn't a Prank

After Kazir snatched up a nearby camera, we burst from the glass-walled office onto the open rooftop. The man was already there, perched with terrifying instability on the curved top rail of a fence that stood easily over three meters high. He clung to his position with hands and knees, maintaining a balance so shaky it seemed a single breath could upset it. He was playing the part of a terrified, desperate man on the brink of suicide, which, I surmised, was my cue to begin the negotiation.

We approached, halting a few meters away. From behind me, I could hear the soft, electronic whir of Kazir’s camera capturing the scene.

"Hey, man! It's too beautiful a day to die, isn't it?" Kazir offered, leading with a line so horribly clichéd it was almost painful. "Look, not a cloud in the sky."

The man’s head snapped toward us. His face, which I guessed belonged to a man in his late forties, was a mask of contorted rage.

"Beautiful day? You think this is a beautiful day?" he roared. "I just got fired over a bogus sexual harassment claim! Who the hell are you? You looking for a fight?"

He exploded with a ferocity that was startling. One hand clung to the fence for dear life while the other jabbed an accusatory finger in our direction. His acting, I had to concede, was impressively, unnervingly realistic.

"Whoa, whoa, chill out, man," I interrupted, venturing my own uncertain approach. "Things get better. Look at me—not too long ago, I was jobless and about to be homeless. Now I've got a steady delivery gig. See? You lose one job, you can always find another." I was never meant for this suicide hotline routine; the words felt clumsy and hollow in my mouth.

"It ain't so easy when you're over fifty, you fucktard!"

So, he was over fifty. The raw anger, the venom in his curse… it was all incredibly convincing.

"They're using the accusation to deny me my pension!" he screamed, his face flushing a deep, mottled crimson. "I gave twenty fucking years to those assholes!" His disheveled hair and rumpled clothes perfectly completed the image of a man who had reached his absolute breaking point.

So that was the narrative they’d constructed: framed and fired, cheated out of his retirement. I'd heard similar stories in the real world; some corporations were precisely that callous when it came to saving a buck. It was a solid, believable backstory. Well done, Kazir.

"But you wouldn't leave a wife and kids behind, would you?" I tried, falling back on another tired trope. "Think about how they'd feel if you were gone."

My words only seemed to make him sob harder, his shoulders shaking with grief. Did that work? I wondered. Is this almost over?

"I'm fucking sterile, you asshole! And my wife left me for some rich bastard! That bitch… she…" He choked on the words, unable to finish the sentence through his ragged breaths.

Wow. They were really making this difficult. This felt a bit excessive, didn't it? Could a life story this relentlessly tragic truly have been concocted just for a prank video?

"Alright, man, just relax," I said, deciding it was time to play my trump card. "You know, life could be a lot worse."

I pulled my shirt off over my head, revealing the chaotic roadmap of scars that crisscrossed my torso. This ought to be enough of a spectacle for one day, I thought. Please, don't ask for more.

Both Kazir and the suicidal man stared, their jaws hanging slack. The man’s tears even ceased their flow. Maybe this had worked a little too well.

"Whoa, man, your abs are insane!" Kazir exclaimed. "What the hell, dude?"

A body covered from chest to waist in scar tissue, and he asks about the abs? What a strange set of priorities, I thought.

"Quiet," I commanded. "You see now, don't you? Losing a job isn't the same as losing everything. They framed you? Then you fight back. Get a lawyer and sue the company for millions."

It was a good line. The advice was, on some level, fundamentally sound.

"I—I could get millions?"

That was it. The hook. The signal that this performance was drawing to its close.

"Yeah, if not millions, then hundreds of thousands for sure," I exaggerated, feeding him the bait. "See? Just come down from there, and we can talk it all through. Look, this guy here has a popular YouTube channel. He can champion your cause. You'll have that money in no time." Calling Kazir’s prank channel 'popular' was a stretch, and the man would be lucky to see a few thousand dollars from any fabricated campaign, but it was a necessary white lie to close the deal.

The man’s eyes flickered between my face and the distant, unforgiving asphalt below.

"I… I don't want to die. Not yet. I want revenge on the bastards who ruined me."

Finally. An easy fifty bucks.

"Alright. Now, come down slowly. We'll figure out the next steps. Hell, this weird Indian dude will buy you any dinner you want."

"I can't. My body… it won't move. I'm too scared. I'm completely frozen."

Are you kidding me? They want me to get him down, too? Oh, come on. This was asking far too much.

"Just throw yourself to this side! We'll catch you!"

At that exact moment, a powerful gust of wind swirled up from behind me, carrying with it a blinding cloud of dust and grit. It blasted the suicidal man directly in the face. He cried out, instinctively letting go of the railing to wipe at his stinging eyes.

His balance wavered. This is not good.

He started to teeter, lurching precariously toward the wrong side of the fence—toward the long, fatal drop to the street below. Without a second thought, I leaped forward. My left hand clamped onto the wire mesh of the fence as I hauled myself upward. My right hand shot out, grasping for the falling man.

I lunged.

His body was already angled past the point of no return. My fingers barely managed to snag the fabric of his necktie.

I gave a desperate, powerful yank, trying to wrench him back from the brink before he tilted any further.

He was heavy. In my lunge, my left hand had released its grip on the fence to give me more reach, leaving me without an anchor. His greater weight became a pivot point; I succeeded in pulling him back toward the safety of the roof, but in doing so, I became the one who went over the edge, tumbling into the open air.

The predicament was terrible. Truly, profoundly terrible. I clawed at the empty space around me, my feet scrabbling uselessly against the building's sheer face. The asphalt below rushed up to meet me.

I glanced back, watching the rooftop fence shrink with terrifying speed. I thought I heard a distant, muffled shout.

I turned my face to the brilliant, cloudless sky, which seemed to drift past in an impossible slow motion. Adrenaline, I assumed, was flooding my system, distorting my perception of time.

Am I going to die? Me? Like this? The irony was so thick I could taste it. "Those guys" would probably roar with laughter when they heard how I had met my end.

Had anyone ever survived a fall from a six-story building? If so, what were the odds? Even if I lived, I didn't want to imagine the state I’d be in. Just let it be quick and painless.

That Kazir… I couldn't really blame him. I should have realized. The suicidal man probably didn't have a safety line. This was likely real. A real man, who had really been fired, who was really about to jump. If I had only known, I could have prepared for the unexpected.

…

Ugh, why haven't I hit the ground yet? This slow-motion perception was agonizing.

Ziiiiing!

What was that? A blinding flash of light erupted, filling my vision. Was this it? The "life flashing before your eyes" moment?

The light intensified, consuming everything in a searing, burning white. It was too much. I squeezed my eyes shut and braced for the final impact.

My consciousness began to slip away. Had I hit the ground already? There was no pain.

So, this is what dying felt like. It wasn't so bad. I'd fulfilled my purpose, at least, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could have kept up the charade of a normal life. A few minor regrets aside, I should be content. Yes, I should be.

As I convinced myself of this, my awareness faded into nothingness. I truly couldn't feel a thing. This, I thought, was my final moment.

…

What was that? A voice, a mere trickle of sound in the absolute silence.

…

Ugh. My head was swimming and my entire body ached. It was the kind of deep, cellular pain that follows sleeping too long after a bad hangover—the kind where you feel a desperate need to vomit, but nothing will come up. Wait. I could feel.

I felt as though I was forgetting something critically important, yet at the same time, it seemed I had been asleep for ages. Was it all a nightmare? Everything in my mind was a confusing, hazy mess. A violent cough wracked my body.

I opened my eyes to darkness. Silence pressed in on me, and I felt utterly disoriented.

…

After a few moments, strength slowly began to seep back into my limbs. My vision started to clear. The blinding light was gone. I could feel a hard, cool surface beneath me; I was lying on a floor.

My eyes struggled to scan my surroundings. I could make out the shapes of many people around me, their forms still blurry as my sight gradually adjusted. They were gathered in a wide circle, wearing ornate robes, elegant gowns, and in some cases, gleaming suits of metal armor. There were dozens of them.

My hearing began to return, and with it came the low murmur of voices. They were talking amongst themselves, their words indistinct, but their collective focus was clearly on me.

In less than a minute, my senses had almost fully returned. I took another look around. I appeared to be in a vast, circular hall, exquisitely engraved and constructed from massive slabs of marble and sculpted stone. It possessed the solemn grandeur of an ancient cathedral.

Pushing myself up with my hands, I managed to sit. My gaze swept across the crowd and locked onto the most lavishly dressed person in the room. He had a familiar face.

"O, wondrous hero! We have been awaiting your arrival!" the old man in the elegant robes exclaimed the instant our eyes met. The entire room fell silent, every person hanging on his words.

A great hero? What on earth was he talking about? A wave of profound unease washed over me as I remained the focal point of every stare in the room, my confusion mounting with every passing second.

When I remained silent, he continued, his voice resonating with theatrical importance through the hall. "It took a great deal of effort to summon you here. By the will of the goddess, you, oh noble hero, will embark on a quest to defeat the Demon Lord!"

Goddess, Demon Lord, summoning… The old man was spouting pure, unadulterated fantasy nonsense. None of it registered. All around me, the faces of the crowd were etched with a strange, strained eagerness. What are they expecting? I wondered.

"We shall aid you with all our power in preparation for your—"

"AHA!" I roared, my finger shooting out to point directly at the old man. In that instant, the fog in my mind completely cleared, and everything clicked into place.

Now I understood.

I had a clear view of him now. That face… even with the fancy robes and a ridiculously long beard, he couldn't hide his Indian features. It was him. Kazir. The prankster. The asshole.

The entire assembly was stunned into silence by my outburst. Eyebrows shot up all across the hall.

I sprang to my feet and lunged for the bearded Kazir, but men in half-armor, brandishing spears, moved swiftly to block my path.

This prank must have a serious budget, I mused. Did he finally get a sponsor? Who on earth funds this stuff? Some bored, rich kid? In any case, he had completely suckered me this time. It had caught me totally off guard. Excellent work, Kazir.

This, however, went far beyond the bounds of my patience and the promise of a mere fifty bucks. My body still ached. How long had I been unconscious? He must have drugged me somehow. The thought left a bitter, metallic taste in my mouth.

"You've really outdone yourself this time!" I announced, spreading my hands in a grand, theatrical gesture. A wide, ‘amiable’ smile was plastered across my face.

Seeing this, Kazir seemed to think everything was back on track. He gestured for the men who looked like guards to stand down, clearing a path for me.

"Everyone, stand down! The hero merely wishes to offer a greeting! This must be a custom of his people."

A murmur rippled through the crowd as Kazir spoke. I had to give him credit; he was fully dedicated to his role.

I strode forward until I was standing directly before him. I could feel every eye in the vast room fixed on us. I placed my right hand on his shoulder, as if he were a long-lost comrade. We were both grinning from ear to ear.

"Great work today!"

With my right hand still clamped firmly on his shoulder, I swung my free left hand with all my might.

SLAP!

The sharp, stinging crack of my palm against his cheek echoed in the cavernous hall.

"""Wooooooaah!"""

A collective gasp of astonishment swept through the crowd. The startled soldiers rushed toward us again. Kazir clutched his stinging cheek, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face.

"Hold! Hold! I believe this is merely the hero's way of greeting! Do not be alarmed, all is well!"

At Kazir's command, the guards skidded to a halt. The crowd exchanged knowing glances. These guys were real pros, able to improvise on the spot.

Kazir turned back to me, forcing a pained smile. I offered a 'sincere' one in return.

He placed his right hand on my shoulder in a perfect mirror of my own gesture. I saw his left hand tense, preparing to swing.

I shot my right hand up, catching his wrist mid-swing. His eyes widened in surprise. He clearly hadn't anticipated the block. And he definitely wouldn't anticipate what came next.

SLAP!

While he was distracted by my countermove, I slapped him again across the exact same cheek. What was he thinking? That we were going to play a game of 'exchange bizarre and painful greetings'?

"" "" "Woooooah!" "" ""

His eyes bulged with shock and disbelief. It wasn't just him anymore; every single eyebrow in the room was now arched to its absolute limit. Every mouth hung open, forming a perfect, silent 'O'.

He glanced around as if asking the room to explain what had just happened. Had he still not realized what a spectacular failure this prank had become?

"Kudos for making me think I was about to die back there. I really, truly fell for it."

SLAP!

""" "" "WOOOAAH!" "" """

Once more, a tidal wave of shock rippled through the peanut gallery.

"You've had your fun, Kazir, you punk! You think I'm going to put up with all your pranks? I'm demanding a bigger cut! You'd better add a few more zeroes to my payment!"

I grabbed his long, bushy beard with both hands and yanked, trying to rip it off his face.

"Aaah! Oww! Stop him! Stop this madness! GUARDS!"

He began to struggle violently against my grip. What the—? This was a high-quality fake beard. What kind of industrial adhesive did he use? It wouldn't budge.

The guards seized my arms instantly, throwing me roughly to the floor. They pulled me away from Kazir, pinning my face and body hard against the cold stone.

What? Something was wrong. These guys were being far too rough. The tackle had genuinely hurt. Even if I was ruining the show, this level of brutality from 'security guards' was completely out of line.

"Such impudence!" one of the robed dignitaries shouted down at me. "You dare lay a hand on His Majesty, the King!"

I was held down by several men, lying face-first on the unforgiving floor. I could only turn my head enough to see Kazir, whose expression had morphed from shock to one of utter disbelief and cold contempt.

My internal alarm bells were no longer ringing; they were screaming. This all felt far too real, far too solid to be a prank.

"Arrest this man!" the important-looking man commanded the guards. "Throw him in the dungeon!"

"What? What did he just say?" Now it was my turn to be completely and utterly baffled. Before I could utter a single word in my own defense, I was hauled away and unceremoniously thrown into the cold, oppressive darkness of a dungeon cell.