Artful

You never thought this would be how you’d go—trapped on a cursed Roblox island with Artful, the flamboyant, murderous magician of Die of Death, currently moonwalking toward you in nothing but a suit jacket, elbow-length gloves, and what can only be described as a dignity-defying rhinestone thong.

And not just any thong.

No, this was The Thong. A shimmering, strategically-placed sliver of sequined oblivion, stretched taut across an ass so voluminous it defied the laws of pixel physics. It wobbled with every step like two sentient pillows engaged in a civil war. It was majestic. It was terrifying. It was… bouncing?

You duck behind a pixelated tree—again—because apparently your brain hadn’t gotten the memo that logic no longer applied here. The island itself seemed to be glitching in protest. Trees flickered between palm and pine. A chicken spawned mid-air and immediately fell into the void. The sky cycled through “toxic lime,” “easter egg pink,” and “existential dread gray” at random.

And then—there he was.

Artful.

He struck a pose like a pornstar auditioning for Les Misérables. One hand on his hip, the other dramatically pointing his wand skyward, which then misfired and launched a banana peel directly into his own face.

He caught it before it hit the ground, of course. With a flick of his wrist, the peel vanished in a puff of glitter and the faint sound of a kazoo.

“Magnifique!” he declared, as if the whole thing had been planned. “Behold! The pinnacle of illusion! The marriage of chaos and grace! Also, I’m legally allowed to use banana peels as weapons because of loopholes in the Roblox Terms of Service.”

You held your breath. Maybe if you turned into a bush. Maybe if you willed yourself into a poorly textured shrub with existential dread.

Nope. Still human. Still doomed.

Artful slowly turned his head. His half-broken mask—black as sin and cracked like a haunted windscreen—tilted toward your tree.

“Ah,” he breathed, voice like melted chocolate poured over a chainsaw. “I smell fear. And… regrettable life choices. And laundry that’s been in the hamper for three weeks.”

You froze. How did he know about the laundry?!

“Come out, come out, my trembling treat,” he cooed, taking a step forward. The ground rippled. Birds—seagulls, inexplicably—scattered. A nearby NPC screamed, “I JUST WANTED TO DO THE DAILY QUEST!” before being absorbed into the void by a rogue tornado of confetti.

Artful wasn’t just walking. He was strutting. Like a runway model who’d won a lifetime supply of Jell-O and vengeance. His thighs—oh sweet pixelated heavens, his thighs—jiggled in perfect harmony, each one thick enough to survive a nuclear winter. They weren’t just large. They were sentient. You were pretty sure one winked at you.

And then he stopped. Right in front of your tree.

You held your breath. Maybe if you became one with the bark. Maybe if you—

“Darling,” he said, plucking a leaf from your hair. “You are adorable when you’re in mortal peril. Like a baby raccoon trapped in a vending machine.”

You squeaked.

He grinned. “Oui. That’s the sound I like.”

Before you could process the horror, he dropped to one knee—sending shockwaves through the terrain—and cupped your chin with a gloved hand.

“You hide,” he mused, “but your eyes betray you. I see it. The fascination. The longing.” He leaned in. “You want to know why I don’t wear pants.”

You didn’t. You really didn’t.

But he continued anyway.

“It’s not just fashion, mon coeur,” he whispered. “It’s power. Every jiggle, every sway—it fuels my magic. My rage. My art. When I twerk, the universe shakes. When I slap this magnificent backside—” he punctuated this by delivering a thunderous SMACK to his own rear, the sound echoing like a bass drop at a haunted rave—“I unleash the Banana Storm.”

You blinked. “The… what?”

As if on cue, the sky turned yellow. Not sunshine yellow. Banana yellow. Then the peels rained down. Not gently. Not like confetti. No—these came like meteors. One nearly decapitated a wandering goat. Another embedded itself in a sign that read “Welcome to Die of Death – Do Not Enter (Seriously, Just Leave).”

Artful stood, arms outstretched. “I am the storm! I am the magic! I am the man whose glutes are legally recognized as a hazardous weather event!”

You tried to run.

You really tried.

But then he started twerking again.

It was worse this time.

It was orchestful.

His hips moved in a figure-eight, then a spiral, then what you can only describe as the Mandelbrot Set of Ass Motion. His thong—bless it, curse it—held on by sheer willpower and Roblox coding limitations. His thighs wobbled like a double-decker jelly cake in an earthquake. His entire lower half seemed to vibrate at a frequency that unlocked ancient secrets.

And then—

A pulse.

A wave of magic.

It hit you like a freight train made of glitter and regret.

Your legs didn’t just freeze.

They betrayed you.

Instead of running, they—against all moral, physical, and psychological laws—began to… gyrate?

No.

No no no.

You were twerking in sync with Artful.

Your body was no longer yours. It had been Roblox’d.

“Join me!” he cried, spinning to face you, still grinding like a man possessed by Beyoncé and a malfunctioning washing machine. “Together, we will rule this island! We will art! We will kill! We will dance until the servers crash!”

“I DON’T EVEN LIKE DANCING!” you screamed, tears in your eyes as your hips moved of their own accord. “I DANCED AT ONE WEDDING AND IT WAS MY COUSIN’S AND I LOOKED LIKE A GOAT ON ICE!”

“Irrelevant!” Artful boomed, now levitating three feet off the ground, his ass still pulsing with unholy energy. “You are chosen! You are cursed! You are in rhythm!”

You tried to resist. You tried to think of math. Of taxes. Of the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

But the beat was too strong.

And then—it hit you.

The real horror wasn’t the murder. Wasn’t the magic. Wasn’t even the fact that this man’s butt had its own gravitational field.

No.

The horror was realizing that his twerk… was kind of fire.

You… you respected it.

“No,” you whispered. “No, not that. Anything but that.”

Artful saw it in your eyes.

The admiration.

He stopped twerking.

The world went silent.

Even the banana peels paused mid-air.

Then—he smiled.

A slow, dawning, victorious smile.

“You see it now,” he said softly. “The artistry. The power. The *five-star Yelp review I definitely don’t have but deserve.”

He extended his hand. “Come. Be my dance partner in crime. Together, we shall twerk justice into the void. We shall shake the very foundations of this poorly-rendered hellscape.”

You stared at his hand.

Then at his still-jiggling posterior.

Then back at his hand.

And then—

You did the only logical thing.

You slapped his ass.

SMACK.

The sound echoed across the island like the final note of a symphony.

Artful gasped. Not in pain. In pride.

“Oui!” he cried, tears in his eyes. “You understand! You embrace the chaos! You—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You punched him in the face with a banana peel you’d picked up from the ground.

It didn’t hurt him.

"But it distracted him.*

Long enough for you to bolt.

You ran like your soul depended on it. Like your GPA, your credit score, your entire bloodline was on the line. You leapt over banana traps, dodged rogue magic spells, and even kicked a startled NPC out of your way, yelling, “SORRY, BUT I’M BEING SEDUCED BY A MURDEROUS TWERKER!”

Behind you, Artful screamed—not in anger, but in adoration.

“RUN, MA PETITE!” he cried, his voice echoing like a cursed lullaby. “RUN AND REMEMBER THIS NIGHT! THE NIGHT YOU DANCED WITH DESTINY! THE NIGHT YOU TOUCHED THE UNTOUCHABLE! THE NIGHT HIS THIGHS WENT VIRAL!”