I'm three days old and I can already talk.
You'd think that's wild, right?
But not in this house. In this house, intelligence checks get rolled with disadvantage.
I turned to my mother, expecting her to scream, faint, or at least call the Vatican. After all, I just told her to bring that boobie here.
Instead, she smiled like I'd just asked for more cereal.
"Coming right up."
See?
She didn't even blink. Not a gasp. No existential crisis. She just accepted.
"I was afraid you were angry at me since you didn't talk to me for two whole days."
Two whole days?
Woman, I was fresh out of the womb. I was still booting up my nervous system!
"Sofia told me a baby begins talking after ten hours of their birth."
Yeah okay. Now it makes sense. Sofia, the Goblin PhD in Advanced Dumbfuckery.
Mother, please—distance yourself from that green-skinned war crime of a woman. She's turning your brain into bananas used by lesbians.
Anyway, she fed me for five minutes—as per grandma's command—then went outside for adulting.
She only cooks inside the hut. And all the other things, like washing clothes or bathing, she does them outside the house.
Though bless that goblin grandma. She's the only NPC with actual RAM in this family.
Anyway, I have some more skills that I can use but most of them are only efficiently usable after I grow up.
There are only a few skills that I can use in this newborn state of mine.
Anyhow, after the meal, I dozed off, probably dreaming about tax fraud and boobs.
But then…
I woke up.
Not to the smell of food.
Not to the stench of my father's "only one pair of clothes" shirt.
But to… strange sounds in the hut.
There's only one bed in this shack. A bed that hosts both my IQ-deprived parents and me—the sentient GTA cheat code.
At first, I thought they were doing "parent things" again.
And I wanted NONE of it.
So I kept my eyes shut like a soldier in a trench.
But the sound didn't stop.
It didn't moan. It didn't gasp.
It creaked. It shuffled.
In the end, I couldn't help but peek.
And there it was.
A silhouette. Darker than my thoughts. Standing near the hut's door.
A thief.
Oh you poor bastard. You came here to rob a hut? A literal budget shack built like a fruit stand during a hurricane? My guy, you came to the tutorial level to commit crime.
He was looking under the bed. Inside the dusty cupboard.
Bro, even we don't know what's inside that cupboard.
I swear, if I had legs, I would've helped him search just to speed things up.
Nevertheless, we are already poor enough. I can't let anyone steal whatever less we have. So I decided to fight back. Like any newborn baby would…
With divine piss.
But first, he had to come closer. I couldn't just shoot across the room like a hydrant with vengeance.
So… it was time to use a skill.
[ Aphrodisiac Breath: The breath you exhale will make anyone come closer to you. ]
Yes. I had that.
Why do I have that?
Don't ask questions. I'm a three-day-old biological baby running on Bollywood logic.
So I exhaled. A baby breath. Soft, innocent… and absolutely cursed.
The thief paused. He stopped digging in the cupboard.
He turned to me, like I was a scented candle named Regre T.
He stepped closer. Hypnotized.
I waited till he stood right over me.
Like a piñata ready to explode.
Then…
[ Acid Rain ]
I peeled back my grandma-certified diaper, aimed my vengeance sprinkler, and let it rip.
Not just a golden shower.
This was the wrath of Zeus in baby form.
My piss sizzled. It hissed. It melted that man's skin like cheese on a summer sidewalk.
That thief died in front of me.
Death by acid piss.
Write that on his gravestone.
My first kill. A true MC moment.
Baby's First Blood. Hallmark doesn't make a card for that one.
I wiped, re-diapered, and drifted off like nothing happened. No one would feel bad for the thief as he was just here to give me a chance to show my skill.
The next day. I woke up as usual.
My mother first noticed the pile of ashes near the bed and she panicked.
I was afraid she would get worried seeing death in her house. And she did get worried.
"Who brought so much dust in my house? I get tired of cleaning and you add more to my work."
Worried for some other reason, that is. She mistook ashes as just some other type of dirt and scolded my dad.
Mother, someone was liquefied close to your child. That ain't "dust," that's CSI: Moral Edition[1].
But my dad, bless his soul, did what any deluded father would do.
"I did nothing, dear. But I'll clean it for you."
And with that, the thief was broomed into oblivion.
No justice. No questions. Just another Tuesday.
But I think my parents haven't seen too much of the world. Otherwise, no one is that stupid. I have to know their history and other things. But I can't do that right now. I am just a baby. As a baby, the only thing I can do right now is…
"I have decided a name for myself." I spoke.
Yes. It was time to claim my identity.
"Oh. What is it?" My mother and father both asked. They don't consider me talking like this abnormal.
Anyway, I have to make the name clear first.
"I will be Racis T. Like it or not. I will only have this name."
"As you wish, my son. What does Racis mean though?" Father asked.
"I don't know. I'm just a baby."
The fact that they nodded at this response tells you everything.
Anyway, Racis T it is.
No deep meaning. No prophecy. Just a weird little name stitched together by my previous grandma.
Anyway, that's enough childhood. I'm done being a milk-guzzling acid-fountain.
Even I am tired of this era.
Let's skip the filler arc, jump the power scale, and yeet ourselves eighteen years into the future—straight to the age where all MCs start making questionable life choices and collecting women like a pimp.
Eighteen years later.
Now I know what you're thinking.
"Where's the cliffhanger, Racis?"
And to that I say: The real cliffhangers… were the friends we met along the way.
No? That didn't land?
Okay fine. Take this then:
I'm eighteen now.
And right now…
I'm standing on stage.
My first ever stand-up show in this world.
The lights are blinding.
The crowd? Silent. Waiting.
And I know what I could say.
I could drop the classic.
The ancient relic.
The dinosaur of comedy…
"Your mom" jokes.
But nah.
I am better than that.
I've evolved. I am rebranded.
I won't use the same overdone, beat-to-death your mom joke that every uncle, gamer, and incel on Earth has used—
Because that joke…
That joke has been used so many times… and by so many people…
Just like…
Your Mom.
[1] CSI = Crime Scene Investigation.
It’s a famous American TV series (and franchise) where forensic experts investigate murder scenes, analyze blood stains, body parts, crime residue, etc.
So basically: when someone dies in a messy way? CSI shows up to solve the case.
Now apply this logic to this house…