My Dungeon Daddy System: Raising Monsters and Waifus Underground-Chapter 102 – THE GREASE TRAP GAUNTLET
The most surprising thing about running a legitimate business wasn’t the paperwork or the threat of impending holy war. It was the inventory management.
Reed stood behind a sleek, black wooden counter in the corner of the Twilight Spire’s lobby. He held up a t-shirt. It was black, made of cheap cotton, and featured a crude, magic-printed image of his own face with glowing purple eyes.
Below the face, in bright red comic sans font, it read: I GOT BONED AT THE TWILIGHT SPIRE.
"Maira," Reed said, staring at the shirt. "Explain this."
The Admin didn’t look up from her ledger. She was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, organizing a stack of waivers. "It is a double entendre, Master. The skeletons have bones. The difficulty is high. And the ’Spicy’ reputation of the establishment implies... other meanings. It tested very well with the eighteen-to-twenty-four demographic."
Reed folded the shirt and placed it on the stack next to the plush dolls of Grika that exploded into glitter if you squeezed them too hard.
"It makes me look like a villain from a saturday morning cartoon," Reed muttered.
"You are a villain," Maira corrected, adjusting her glasses. "You are simply a villain with a gift shop. That is called ’branding.’"
It had been a few days since the spire was formed. Surprisingly of relative, terrifying peace.
The High Bishop hadn’t arrived yet. The Inquisition hadn’t kicked down the door. Instead, the only thing kicking down the door had been capitalism.
The town of Stonebridge had gotten over its fear remarkably fast. Once the Mayor, a stout, nervous man named Bumble, had survived his first meeting with Reed without being eaten, the floodgates opened. Curiosity was a powerful motivator, especially when combined with the promise of a tax-free casino and a spa that could cure back pain.
Now, the lobby was bustling.
Luma floated past, shaped into a maid outfit with a translucent blue apron. She was restocking the shelf with Amara’s fruit baskets.
"Don’t forget the warning labels, Luma," Reed called out. "The last time someone ate a Void-Plum without peeling it, they tried to propose to a lamp."
"I put the stickers on!" Luma chirped, her liquid form bubbling happily. "They look so pretty. Do you think the Mayor will buy one? He’s coming for his massage on Tuesday."
"He’ll buy two," Reed said, taking a sip of his coffee. "He’s trying to stay on our good side."
The meeting with Mayor Bumble had been... productive. The man had sweated through his suit, shaking like a leaf as he sat in the Grand Suite, but he had listened. Reed had offered protection for the town and a percentage of the tourism revenue. In exchange, the Mayor agreed to delay any reports to the capital about "dark rituals" or "eldritch horrors."
It was a fragile peace, but it was holding.
Reed leaned back against the counter, watching the room. Adventurers were mingling with townspeople. A group of dwarves were arguing with a slot machine near the stairs. It felt normal. It felt safe.
Then, a group slipped out of the classic dungeon entrance.
A party of four stumbled into the lobby. Reed recognized them. It was the "Rookie Squad" that had been hitting the dungeon every day since the spire.. A Warrior, a Mage, a Rogue, and a Healer.
Usually, they came up looking battered, bruised, or singed. That was the standard "Dungeon Experience."
Today, they looked like they had been dipped in a vat of industrial sludge and rolled in a craft store.
The Warrior was covered head-to-toe in a thick, black, viscous oil. He tried to take a step, slipped, and performed a cartoonish split, his metal greaves screeching against the obsidian floor.
The Mage was worse. He was plastered in pink feathers. Thousands of them. He looked like a giant, angry flamingo. He was coughing up glitter.
"Refund," the Rogue wheezed. She was leaning on her daggers, sliding backward slowly because her boots had zero traction. "I want a refund. This isn’t a dungeon. It’s a hazing ritual."
Reed walked around the counter, careful not to step in the trail of black grease they were leaving on his clean floor.
"Rough run?" Reed asked, keeping his face neutral.
The Healer looked up. Her robes were stained with neon green paint. "Rough? We didn’t even see a monster. We saw... whacky. I tried to cast a shield, and a goblin shot me in the face with a pie. A literal pie. But it was made of cement."
"And the floor," the Warrior groaned, finally managing to stand up by holding onto a pillar. "The floor was moving. Or maybe I was moving. I don’t know. I hit a wall at thirty miles per hour because I couldn’t stop sliding. My shield is still down there. It’s probably in the next county by now."
Reed frowned. He looked at the black oil dripping off the Warrior’s armor. It smelled like burnt sugar and heavy machinery.
"Who was running the floor?" Reed asked. "Also no refunds."
"The little one," the Mage spat, picking pink feathers out of his teeth. "The green one with the goggles. She was laughing. She was laughing the whole time."
Grika.
Reed sighed, rubbing his temples. He had told Grika to "tweak" the Classic Gauntlet. He had told her to make it "engaging" for the new influx of adventurers. Apparently, Grika’s definition of "engaging" involved turning the dungeon into a high-velocity death trap.
"Maira," Reed called out over his shoulder. "Comp their drinks. Give them a free spin at the slots. And get a mop."
"Understood," Maira said, already typing into her ledger. "Grabbing Luma."
"I’m going downstairs," Reed said, buttoning his velvet coat. "I need to see what she’s done to my house."
As Reed walked down, the air changed.
The smell of lavender and expensive floor polish faded, replaced by the scent of hot copper, grease, and... was that popcorn?
Thumping, bass-heavy music was vibrating through the walls. It was a rhythmic, industrial beat that seemed to be made of grinding gears and steam whistles.
Reed stepped through the archway into the first room of the Gauntlet.
He stopped.
The room, formerly the Spanking Pit, had been transformed.
The walls were painted with glowing, neon runes that pulsed in time with the music. The floor had been replaced with polished metal plates that looked suspiciously slick. Ramps, jump-pads, and swinging pendulums filled the space, turning the combat arena into a chaotic obstacle course.
And in the center of it all, standing on a floating platform, was Grika.
The goblin looked like a mad scientist who had just chugged three energy drinks. She was wearing a yellow hazmat suit that was three sizes too big for her, cinched at the waist with a tool belt. On her head, she wore a pair of oversized, multifaceted goggles that reflected the neon lights.
In her hands, she held a weapon that looked like a Gatling gun crossed with a fire hose. A massive tank was strapped to her back, sloshing with black liquid.
"MORE VELOCITY!" Grika screamed over the music. "IF YOU CAN WALK, YOU AREN’T LEARNING!"
Below her, a group of Orc Matrons were engaged in "combat." But they weren’t using their axes. They were wielding massive, pillow-case sacks that looked heavy.
Reed watched as an unfortunate adventurer, a Ranger from a different party, tried to run across the room.
Grika swung her weapon.
THWUMP.
A stream of black sludge shot out of the nozzle. It hit the floor in front of the Ranger. The moment his boot touched it, friction ceased to exist. His legs flew out from under him. He didn’t just fall; he accelerated. He slid across the room like a hockey puck, screaming the whole way.
He was heading straight for an Orc Matron.
The Orc grinned, winding up her pillow-sack like a baseball bat.
WHACK.
The impact sounded soft, a deep fwoomp, but the Ranger went flying in the opposite direction, spinning in the air before landing in a pit filled with foam blocks.
"SCORE!" Grika yelled, pumping her fist. "That’s a home run! Reset the trap! We have another group coming in five minutes!"
Reed walked onto the observation deck. "Grika."
The goblin spun around on her platform. "Boss! You’re here!"
She hopped down, landing with a splash in a puddle of grease. She skated over to him, using the slick surface to travel without moving her legs. She stopped inches from his boots, beaming up at him through her goggles.
"What do you think?" she asked, gesturing to the chaos. "I call it Operation: Slip-N-Slide. The mortality rate is down to zero, but the humiliation rate? It’s up four hundred percent!"
Reed looked at the Orcs, who were high-fiving each other. He looked at the neon paint on the walls. He looked at the Ranger trying to crawl out of the foam pit.
"It’s... messy," Reed said.
"It’s physics!" Grika corrected. "Damage is boring, Reed. Anyone can stab a guy. But taking away his ability to stand up? That’s psychological warfare. Plus, the grease is conductive. If I flip this switch..." She pointed to a lever on her gun. "...the whole floor gives them a little zap. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make them dance."
Something whistled through the air above them.
Reed looked up just as a dark shape swooped down from the rafters.
It was Riva.
The Harpy was wearing an old leather flight helmet and aviator goggles. She was carrying a satchel slung across her chest.
"Bombs away!" she screeched.
She reached into the satchel and dropped a round, black sphere. It hit the ground near the foam pit and exploded.
It wasn’t shrapnel. It was confetti. A massive, blinding cloud of silver and pink paper strips erupted, filling the air.
"My eyes!" the Ranger screamed from the pit. "It’s so festive!"
Riva swooped through the glitter cloud, her talons snatching the coin purse off the Ranger’s belt with surgical precision. She landed on a perch near Reed, looking incredibly proud of herself.
"Shiny," Riva chirped, tossing the coin purse to Grika. "He didn’t even see me. The sparkles distract the prey."
Reed looked at his staff. They were having fun. They weren’t just defending the dungeon; they were playing. For the first time in months, there was no fear in their eyes. No worry about starvation or invasion. Just pure, chaotic joy.
He looked at the Grease Cannon in Grika’s hands.
"That tank," Reed said, nodding at the weapon. "What’s the mix?"
"Alchemical lubricant base," Grika recited. "Dash of slime extract for stickiness. And I added some crushed Void-Hops to make it smell nice. Why?"
Reed unbuttoned his velvet coat and tossed it onto a clean crate. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.
"Because that Ranger has friends," Reed said, nodding toward the entrance tunnel. "I can feel them coming. A Heavy Knight and a Paladin."
Grika’s eyes went wide behind her goggles. "Boss? You want to... play?"
"I’ve been stuck in meetings with Maira these last few days," Reed said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I need to hit something with a pillow. Give me a cannon."
Grika let out a squeal of delight that was loud enough to crack glass. She scrambled to a weapon rack on the wall and pulled down a second Grease Cannon, a heavy, double-barreled model painted matte black.
She tossed it to him. Reed caught it. It was heavy, satisfyingly solid.
"Load the Giggle Spores," Reed ordered, checking the pressure gauge on the tank. "Riva, take to the air. Wait for my signal before you drop the glitter."
"Roger that, Alpha!" Riva saluted with a wing and took off, disappearing into the shadows of the ceiling. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚
Reed turned to the entrance of the arena. He could hear heavy boots clanking down the hall. The next party was here. They were expecting skeletons. They were expecting a boss fight.
They were not expecting a Dungeon Lord armed with a high-pressure lube gun and a bad attitude.
"Grika," Reed said, pumping the primer handle on the cannon. "Let’s paint the town."
"Aye aye, Captain!" Grika shouted, revving her own weapon.
The music swelled. The bass dropped.
And the doors to the Gauntlet burst open.
