kyraneko:

Have a Mayhem short because why the hell not.

(Takes place some time before the State Farm Thing story.)

The man called Mayhem has the best job in the world.

Most people think it’s just talking in front of a camera while wearing a pink headband or frolicking in some fluffy insulation, advising the world about all the nasty things that Allstate Insurance can protect them from. These people are wrong.

Mayhem is not just a describer of catastrophe. Mayhem is catastrophe, weaponized and directed. In the subtle, secret arms race and turf war of the insurance companies, where secret agents and secret tech and secret magic are pretty much the norm, where spies and saboteurs run rampant and a momentary mistake can devastate far more than the quarterly stock report, Mayhem is legend.

He is the best at what he does, and what he does is incredible.

Right now, the legend is standing in line at Starbucks, politely administering no mayhem whatsoever, just wanting some caffeine before returning to his hunt of a double agent employed in Allstate’s research-and-development wing who is likely to soon develop a sincere regret for all of the life choices leading up to this point.

He makes his order, swipes his card, steps back to wait for his coffee, and nearly has his eardrums blown by an outraged howl from beside him.

He recoils, then looks over, expecting a trapped wolf or possibly an air-raid siren.

It’s neither. It’s a grown adult human in Devil-Wears-Prada business getup and four-inch heels and inch-long talons on her fingers, shrieking like a toddler who’s dropped her ice cream on the pavement.

Everyone else is silent, and the sound falls away slowly until the barrista can be heard, saying, “I’m sorry, ma’am, what seems to be the prob–”

Airhorn lady interrupts her. From what Mayhem can gather, the problem seems to be related to the amount of whipped cream on top, but after detours to such subjects as the barrista’s race, purported sexual orientation, and mental stability, Mayhem is beginning to think the problem is that nobody’s dumped the whole works over the customer’s head.

A fact many people don’t realize: Mayhem has ethics. It’s just that they overwhelmingly revolve around punishing the guilty.

He pulls a smartphone out of his pocket, cues up the video camera, and tosses it to the girl behind him. “Tape me,” he says, and when she holds the phone out he steps up next to the yelling woman, smiles at the camera and says, loudly, “I’m an obnoxious nightmare customer at your local coffee shop.”

He can sense, behind him, that the woman’s attention has been drawn: she’s broken off mid-insult and he can feel her eyes boring into the back of his skull. He continues, scrunching his face up into a mocking parody of an upset toddler. “They didn’t make my coffee right, so everything in the world has to die right now!” He stamps his foot for emphasis, and raises both fists up in the air, waving them around like a cartoon supervillain. “I’m so mad I don’t have to act like a human being anymore,” he jumps up and down, slamming his feet against the floor each time. “And after I finish verbally abusing an employee who doesn’t get paid enough to deal with my shit, I’m going to get into my car and go to work, bringing new meaning to the term ‘road rage.’”

It probably won’t be approved for an insurance commercial, but it never hurts to make the tie-in.

“But in the meantime I’m going to throw a screaming tantrum like I have no shame whatsoever.”

Mayhem knows assholes well. After all, he is one. Depending on her level of self-awareness, this one should either turn red with embarrassment and slink out of the store, or else turn and try to tear him a new one. He hopes it’s the latter.

Sure enough, there’s another eardrum-bruising shriek as she grabs him by one shoulder to yank him around. “Mind your own business, you pig!”

He turns of his own accord, coming around much more easily than she expects. She’s thrown off by this, and in the process of keeping her own balance drops her insufficiently-whipped-creamed coffee on the floor, where it spatters creamy frappucino all over her shoes and lower legs.

Over by the order line, somebody snickers.

“What?” Mayhem asks her, politely and with a bland smile. “You can make an ass out of yourself in public, but I can’t?”

Her face reddens, twisting into full-on fury, and he waits, calm, and with all the amusement of someone who’s holding all the cards and knows it.

She’s an asshole. But he’s the asshole. There’s no question of who’s outclassed in this fight, and he has no problem whatsoever with letting her know it.

She deflates marginally.

He sees no reason not to twist the knife in deeper, though. “You should apologize to the nice lady behind the counter, ma’am.” As he speaks, he makes a show of retrieving a twenty from his wallet and dropping it into the tip jar.

“Like hell!” she snarls, and turns to stalk out the door. Or rather, into it.

People laugh.

Mayhem raises an eyebrow. “That’s a really good glass cleaner you guys have got,” he tells the barrista conversationally as she hands him his drink with the brightest smile he’s seen on a human being in months. Another one comes out with a mop, grinning almost as wide.

The nasty lady yanks the door open and Mayhem indulges in a momentary fantasy of it coming off its hinges, but that would be too much. He redirects the thought toward the silver BMW the woman is heading for, and collects his cell phone from his impromptu camerawoman. “Thanks.”

As he heads out the door to continue his mission, he hears the grinding whine of a car refusing to start.

His coffee is delicious.