Hello! This is Diesel!

Trucks. When did the bright glare of headlights and the screeching of tires signal the beginning of a whole new experience in another world? It seemed like a silly way to embark on a brand-new adventure, but just how did such a thing come to be?

One would say that the gods were playing a joke on us. That the best way to treat death and resurrection was to turn it all into one big meme for onlookers to laugh about. Maybe, that was the best way to look at it.

Even as I saw the reflection of my own mechanical body, wondering just what the hell I got myself into, I never thought about it before. I was yet another one of those bystanders laughing. In my mind, this very concept felt as glossed over as the standard isekai and its ‘details’.

But then, reality came crashing back as Kami-sama called for me to join him.

And I was still in denial… until I claimed my first victim.

v

A chorus of scribbling pervaded the area of a humble workshop, the environment silent but for this sole endeavor. They were all writers, paid to churn out words. Sweat poured from their heads as they fought to generate line after line of fictional content.

It was a seemingly innocuous setting of a black company that felt hardly worth mentioning. But chaos had decided to come for it today.

Not knowing what was about to happen, they hurried to finish, take their pay for the day, and head out the door. They could return to their warm homes in the rural doldrums of Poland, away from the chill seeping through the workshop walls to keep them awake. Some would admit that it was tedious work, but jobs in the area had dried up, packed up and moved to the big cities. Those left behind could only accept what crumbs were given to them.

The scraping of a fountain pen cut through the tedium. A man paused to look at his inkwell, dried up. His tired eyes looked back down to his manuscript. It was a typical fantasy. One of those thriving genres called isekai that those foreigners seemed to love, enough to outsource all the way out here.

Just five hundred more words…

He sighed as he got up to fetch some more supplies. A weariness was evident in how he cradled his body while standing. He had been at it for nearly ten hours now, fighting to hit that magic number of ten thousand words a day.

It had been a dream at first, writing for profit. When some giant company named NovelWorks rolled into the area, offering guaranteed sums of money for manuscripts, excitement flooded this dinky town. Everyone believed that they had a story to tell, a pride in their imagination, and hope in making a good living.

It took barely a month to shatter that glory. And NovelWorks was fully to blame.

Many withdrew, unable to fathom writing such quantities consistently or face breaking contract and getting no pay.

Those with self-worth balked and left when they realized that the quality of writing hardly mattered.

But still, a number persisted. A few found it easy to regurgitate words filled with neat lingo and cheap thrills designed to appease the masses. Some left their pride at the door and became literal word processors, robotic in their narration.

As for the man named Mark refilling his inkwell, he simply had to feed his family and had no other option. The word count conversion to a set wage was all he could count on. And soon, he realized that no one actually checked over the content of his stories. They were accepted as is, thrown out into the wild reaches of the world, where he would wait and pray for success.

If there was only another way, Mark asked the skies above.

Only a select few would ever find popularity. They were the lucky ones that NovelWorks would proudly support as ‘authors’, given shiny bounded editions rather than cheap stacks of paper glued together. For the rest, they simply took their daily pay and were constantly drowned out by the evergrowing body of content pumped out. Their little workshop was only one of the thousands of satellite locations in NovelWorks’ possession. Their workstations were supplied with the bare minimum to function.

But no matter what happened, Mark refused to give in. He studied the latest trends. He learned how to be funny. He even got his family involved in planning his next stories. That was how he ended up with battle chefs, magical jellyfish, and dream fairies all in one isekai story. It hardly made sense, but nothing else seemed to either. He was competing with living swords, vending machines, and slime overlords after all.

A look around the room told him that everyone was doing the same, minds fighting each other to one up in creative silliness. No one had time to care, not when something random could catch fire at any moment. The idiom of monkeys on typewriters creating masterpieces never felt so true as it did in this room.

After a while, Mark settled – lowered his expectations and simply wrote for the sake of it. Honestly, others probably did the same too. That was the only way to keep sane in this business. And over time, his fellow writers even developed a sense of camaraderie, poking fun at each other’s ‘trash stories’.

A low hum sounded from outside, and instantly, the clamor of pens died down. The vibe in the air shifted to a somber one, because they knew who was coming. Someone they all despised.

Someone he wanted to drop dead even.

Eyes darted to the door where the humming grew louder, and suddenly, it burst open with a bang. From the doorway, a man sported a condescending grin as he pranced down the aisle, dancing through the workshop like imaginary fanfare followed him. A small troupe trailed behind, waving their arms up and down in silent praise.

“It is I, Dio! The workshop’s greatest author!”

Dio ignored the eyes that rolled, the face palms, and the blatant stench of jealousy. He reveled in lording over this small patch of mankind like the fictional villain that he shared a first name with. NovelWorks had designated him as the sole ‘author’ of this workshop.

That had given Dio Kowalcyzk an overflowing aura of sheer confidence and self-acclaim. Favors by the hand that fed him and advertisements drawing new readers to his writing – how did such a man achieve such status?

Pure dumb luck.

His works were no different than any others. A little bit more humor, a pinch of sexual crudeness, and catch phrases to differentiate his dialogue from others. But it had been enough to catch attention early on, to capitalize some measure of popularity. NovelWorks noticed a spike in traffic and decided to dish out rewards to serve as motivation for others.

Instead, all the workshop got was a pompous jerk that greedily soaked up attention using cheesy openers, yet failed to deliver much of a cohesive story after a while. Not like it mattered when all of Dio’s works became recommended by NovelWorks itself. The publicity boost sent endless people at the doorstep of his writing, so it hardly mattered that most simply cycled through like a revolving door. Those that stuck around were still vastly more than anyone else could hope to replicate. And seeing that popularity, a few prostrated themselves before Dio with undying loyalty.

Another bang ripped through the area as the door to a fancy back office slammed. The walls that separated Dio from the others made him seem ever that more important. And if that wasn’t enough, a gaudy sign that read ‘The Super Dio’ stared them in the face.

And to think, we all were once proud of him!

Mark sighed as he continued filling his inkwell. He noticed the icy glares that still lingered, the clenched fists that snapped fountain pens, the grinding teeth.

If it was simply a matter of ego, Dio wouldn’t have invoked such hatred from everyone. But nearly every member of the workshop had received a personal encounter with the self-proclaimed ‘great one’ or his lackeys.

"What the hell is this? It's sooo boring compared to Dio!"

"You're not going to get popular by simply imitating the famous Dio!"

"Dio does this much better. Yours is garbage. A mere peasant in the laurels of the mighty Dio!"

Jeers and deprecating comments, all to put down others and hoist Dio onto pedestals. And even worse, any piece of writing that found a mild source of popularity was abruptly put down. It was no secret that Dio used his new connections to publicly haze others while drawing attention only to his inner circle.

Not to mention, Dio often belittled others for being unable to write like him.

Truthfully, hardly anyone wished to. There was only so much Mark and the others could read involving protagonists who confidently steamrolled through their villains, bedded numerous droves of women, and gave little shit about how much of a douche he was to everyone who wasn't on his side.

Dio’s writing followed the same formula time and time again, a reflection of his personal nastiness and showboating in reality. For whatever reason, Dio’s fans stuck with him, rejecting anything that dared to differ from their so-called ‘refined’ tastes. And thus, Dio had built up a horde of fervent reviewers that would pounce on any negativity towards him, ganging up to fix the scores across the board.

Mark had been the very target of that once.

"Give me some freaking variety and someone who actually behaves like a normal human being!" Mark commented out loud by accident. Unfortunately, Dio had been standing right within earshot, several strands of hair perking up like antennae.

"Oh? And what kind of story are you writing?" Dio walked over and ripped the pages from Mark’s table.

After skimming the first page, he mockingly sneered and crumpled the sheets in his hand. With a demeaning laugh, he threw it down like it was filthy.

"Such pointless drivel! Who cares about issues of the heart?! People read to fantasize. Not to dwell on realistic issues from no-name peasants! If you're going to gain even a fraction of the fame I hold, then you'd better heed my advice. Target their libidos, not their minds."

Mark couldn't disagree anymore, but given his no-name standing, he didn't have the footing to argue. Not that Dio would listen to peasants anyways. Mark woke up the next day to find his latest work review bombed.

And so, Mark just continued to write silently. It was all he could do to simply not stir the pot. Maybe if he kept silent, then he wouldn't have to face such slander again. But to his surprise, he started receiving letters.

Since they came through his work mailbox, he had initial hopes that they were words of support for his writing. However, all that greeted him were threats and insults that his novels were ‘absolute garbage’ and that ‘he should quit’.

It got to the point that Mark literally had to give up on his current novel and start fresh. Fortunately, Dio simply forgot all about him after he switched titles. Mark didn’t know whether to be glad or sore that Dio never bothered to learn his name.

But for quite some time, Mark had given up on checking his mail because of it. If it weren't for the guaranteed wage, he would've quit long ago. Still, he managed to pull through with gritted teeth and stifled tears. Silent bitterness was the only allowance given to them.

“Hey Mark, take your damn mail. I can’t fit anymore,” a worker passed by.

With a sigh, Mark marched up to the stuffed cubby that was bursting with mail and begrudgingly grabbed the whole bundle. Even if most of it was an eyesore, he still felt responsible.

An awkward trot back to his desk saw him plopping the letters into a pile before it spilled across his desk. A cursory glance told him that most of it was flame mail by the same members of the inner circle posing as fake readers.

However, a single postcard stood out among the pile. Mark reached in and pulled it out, seeing a picture of a delivery truck with headlights shining towards him. It looked nothing more like a spam advertisement, but a flick of the wrist and a measure of curiosity revealed a single line written on the back.

Got someone to isekai? Please call this number at GOD-TRUCK-ME.

Mark cocked his head back. It had to be a joke. He immediately scanned the room, looking for coworkers hiding chuckles at his expense. Studious writing drowned out that guess. Not a single person gave him so much as a look that inferred that he had been pranked.

Looking back at the postcard, a moment of weakness urged him to just give it a try, to humor himself for all the dumb isekai ideas that he had written down anyways. He needed a good laugh for a change.

Reaching for an archaic flip phone provided by the company, his carefully punched in the numbers and hoped that he wouldn’t incur international fees. It rang a few times before someone answered, cheery but unsure.

"Hello? Oh, Hi! Otherworld Isekai Service. Diesel speaking. You got a target? I'll roll on over." The sound of an engine roared in the background, making it somewhat unclear if Mark had heard right.

"A target?"

"Yeah, a target. Someone you want to send to another world. Preferably, someone that deserves their just desserts. We offer that kind of service."

"You've got to be kidding me. I write isekai, so you can’t pull a fast one on me with your truck trope."

"No joke, buddy. Just tell me your story, and I'll decide if it's worth doing." The roar of the engine in the background got even louder, like it was revved up in excitement.

By now, Mark could only grin at the effort being put into this stupid farce. But he paused, lost in thought for a moment. There was no harm in just letting off steam. If nothing else, he would maybe feel a bit better getting it off his chest. And so, he told the mysterious person on the other end about Dio.

"Hmm… if what you've told me is correct, then he really deserves a trip. Lemme run this by the Great Kami-sama in the sky. Please hold."

Mark was met with about a minute of elevator music. During that, he wondered which one of his coworkers had devised such a scheme to cheer him up. He would have to ask around later.

"Points for creativity, I guess. I should probably hang up now."

Just as he reached to disconnect the call, Diesel's voice spoke through the receiver.

"Your request has been approved! From what Kami-sama has told me, Dio should be sitting in his office right about now, correct?"

"Err… he is… but how did you-?"

"Be right there!" The phone clicked as the buzz of a disconnected tone drowned out his confusion.

Mark stared dumbly at it. He never said anything about where Dio was currently. How did the person on the other end know?

He stood up from his chair and nervously looked around the room, eyeing for the culprit. He had to be nearby. Again, no one gave so much as a glance in his direction.

It has to be a joke, right?

Mark slowly sat down and rubbed his face, mumbling to himself. "I better get back to work. I still need to finish this chapter."

Minutes after he started penning his story again, a sudden boom shook the building as the wall that separated Dio's office exploded. Shrapnel showered the room as a body was tossed down the middle of the workshop. A quick glance revealed Dio in a bloody, distorted mess.

"What the hell?!" many cried out from behind the safety of their desks.

A semi-truck stood in the hole where the wall had been, prompting many to wonder, How in blazes did that get there? Mark simply looked down at his postcard, the truck matching the picture on the front.

Slowly, the truck backed up, leaving behind a scene of ruins that had once been someone's office. A look of utter shock was on Dio’s lackeys, who had their backs pressed against the wall, narrowly missing the fate of their ringleader. The people in the workshop were in a similar state of disbelief, but slowly, lips curled as if karma had been restored in their lives.

The phone in Mark’s hand rang once again. It took several moments for him to break out of his stupor and hit ‘accept’. It was a struggle to keep it from jittering against his ear.

"H-Hello?"

"This is Diesel again. The service has been completed. Although… I wish you could've told me that there were file cabinets in the direct path. I have a dented grill now. Wasted karma to have Kami-sama fix it, but oh well, gotta keep up the aesthetics- Ack! Don’t tell me that’s radiator fluid leaking out?! Anyway, thank you for using our service!"

"How- what-?"

"Hey buddy, you sound dissatisfied. There are no takebacks when you call up a truck to isekai someone. The karma has already been transferred. Now, I hope you have a good rest of your day."

The call ended with hardly anything answered. As much as Mark wanted to deny the reality of it, a very dead Dio lay only meters before him. He could connect the dots as to what happened.

The phone dropped out of his hand as the realization set in. Plopping heavily back into his chair, he picked up his pen. Rather than concerned, it seemed like something had struck him. The first few lines flowed flawlessly while his coworkers fled the building in dismay.

A new idea had taken hold of him. A truck story in a sea of isekai didn’t seem all that promising to many, but he had a feeling that this would make for an interesting story.