I don't wanna be a rat!

I'm a thirty year old tech support specialist and a nerd with experience, I thought that nothing could be worse than my last boss. I was wrong. To die from coffee spilled on an old computer system is to be such a bugger! Well, that's who I am.… But in my defense, I'll say that the computer has been messing up for a long time, but who would have thought that it would explode?! I woke up not in a new and wonderful world, but, damn it, on a new level of HELL! "Hey, innkeeper, beer!" a burly orc in rusty armor barked, slamming his fist on the counter. The counter cracked. My desk, by the way. "I'm on my way, dear," I muttered, mentally adding: "May you choke, green carcass." In this world, I am the owner of the Crooked Fang Tavern, and my great adventure began with washing mugs and listening to the drunken tales of the heroes. The system, the infection, also throws up tasks in the spirit of: "Clean up after the elf who pukes on the rainbow" or "Separate the dwarves fighting over the last chicken leg." No, of course, I've seen a lot in various books and fanfiction on this subject, but it's NOT LIKE ELVES ARE THROWING UP LIKE A FUCKING RAINBOW! These animals—I can't think of anything else to call those around me—don't let me breathe normally! Fortunately, I'm not trying for free, at least... For this, I get "reputation points", but I haven't figured out yet why I need them if everyone is kicking me. [New task: Sell 10 mugs of ale in an hour. Reward: +5 reputation, ragged rag. Failure: -10 reputation, kick from an orc], — it flashed in front of my eyes. The system, judging by the tone, is laughing at me. "Really?" A ragged rag? I muttered, pouring the ale. "Give me a sword, +15 charisma, or at least a Shut Up spell!" "Those screams are starting to give me a headache!" [Don't whine, NPC. Get to work, or the orc will give you more kicks]," this digital bastard replied. And why does she even call me an NPC? Have you lost all your hair? I am human! I looked around the tavern. The orcs were laughing, the elves were singing some nonsense about forests, and one dwarf was already asleep in a bowl of stew. The fucking players. They came to this tavern as if it were their personal sandbox. Yesterday, a "hero" tried to steal a spoon because "it looked like an artifact." A spoon! Fuck it! Is that what kind of idiot you have to be to steal spoons? Barely managed to take it away… I then washed it for half an hour from his saliva. "Hey, innkeeper, what kind of stuff is this? — a new player, a man in a leather jacket with the inscription "Killer69", threw a mug on the floor. — This is not ale, but donkey urine! "It's ale, asshole," I snapped. "If you want the nectar of the gods, go to the capital, and there's a village, three houses, and a goat." Everything was boiling inside from such arrogance! These geniuses even in the assholes of the world need elite booze! And how to get it is not their business at all. I wanted to shout, "System, give me a fireball, I'll roast this Killer!" [The assignment has been updated. Calm the Hitman69 by preventing him from smashing up the tavern. Reward: +10 reputation. Failure: repairs at your expense], — the System immediately got involved. "You're kidding me," I groaned. "This is not a client, but a walking bug!" No, honestly! Even by the look of this asshole, it's clear that there's nothing under the skull! My destiny didn't let me grumble at the system. The killer was already reaching for his sword, and the orcs were shouting, "Piss him off, bro!" I grabbed a mop, the only weapon I found in this godforsaken place, and screamed: "Hey, Killer, calm down, or the local shaman will curse you with diarrhea!" I was bluffing, but the shaman, the old bastard, was really sitting in the corner and laughing, chewing some grass. The killer hesitated for a second, and I added: "And give me back the spoon, moron, this is not an epic, but my service!" The tavern burst into laughter. Even the orcs were burning out, and the Killer, blushing, muttered, "Okay, never mind," and sat back down. The system clicked: [The task is completed. Reward: +10 reputation. Bonus: Killer 69 now considers you "not such a sucker"]. "Well, thanks," I muttered, wiping my sweat. "Now who's going to take that fucking ale off the floor?" Probably, many people have a question, but why the hell haven't I left this tavern yet? No, I'm not afraid—well, if only a little... okay, okay! Scribe, I'm so scared! These players, even if they're at an entry level, their stats are pretty good, but I'm at the damn first level! No matter how hard I try, I won't be able to escape from them... although they kind of take me for an NPC, but that's hardly going to save me. I sighed heavily, looking at the puddle of ale spreading across the wooden floor. The tavern was buzzing like a beehive, and every new scream from the players or the clink of mugs was screwed into my head like a screw. The mop in my hands seemed to be the only anchor in this crazy world, where I, a former IT guy, now wipe floors and separate drunken orcs. "Hey, innkeeper, more ale!" Someone shouted from the corner. I wasn't looking at who anymore. What's the difference? They're all the same: the players for whom this tavern is just a decoration, and I'm a walking quest giver with a sign that says "pat on the head and get loot." [New assignment: Get the goblin company in the far corner drunk. They ordered three mugs of ale, but didn't pay. Convince them to pay or kick them out. Reward: +5 reputation, a couple of coppers. Failure: -5 reputation, goblins will smash the table.] "System, are you serious?" I hissed, gripping the mop so tightly that my fingers turned white. "Goblins?" Those little rats that tried to steal my ladle last time? [Don't fuck with me, NPC. Keep working. Or do you want me to add the task "Fix the table after goblins"?] "Call me an NPC again, and I'll..." What am I going to do? Will I rebel against the System? With my stats… [Status Race: Mikkiri Profession: Missing (opens at level 100) Title: The owner of a decrepit tavern Your charisma directly depends on your reputation points. Specifications Strength — 8 Dexterity — 6 Endurance — 2 Intelligence — 1 Charisma — "You're just a cute loser" Abilities: Missing] No, seriously, who came up with this title? And what kind of race do I have? Mi...miki… Mikkiri? Well, what the hell? This is the first time I've ever heard such a word, and... I didn't ask to be reborn into an innkeeper with the characteristics of a potato! Those goblins over there—why the hell are they players at all—have all the stats for fifty kopecks! No, well, where's the justice? [The time for whining is over, NPC! It's time to work!] — happily informed me of this something. I wiped the floor, threw the mop into a corner and headed towards the goblins. The three of them were sitting, grinning with yellow teeth and poking each other with forks. There were leftovers and a couple of coins on the table in front of them, clearly not enough for three mugs of ale. "So, gentlemen pickpockets," I began, trying to sound confident. — You're drinking ale, but who's going to pay? The goblin with the earring, clearly in charge, giggled: "Oh, innkeeper, don't lie. We have a cultural holiday here. Give me another cup, and then we'll figure it out." "Can we figure it out?" I crossed my arms. "You have three coppers on the table, and ale costs five for a mug. Either pay up or get out of my tavern." he said and made the most serious face. The goblins exchanged glances, and I could feel the situation escalating. And then I felt my knees tremble with fear. What if they attack? I can't do anything to them.… One of them, with a crooked nose, reached for the dagger on his belt. I mentally howled, "System, this is not fair! I have a mop against a dagger!" [Hint: Use the environment. Goblins are small and cowardly. Scare them away.] "Okay," I muttered, looking around the tavern. In the far corner, the shaman was still chewing his grass, the orcs were cackling, and the Killer was drinking ale, squinting at me with the look of "make another joke about a spoon, I'll cut it." And then it dawned on me. "Hey, the greens," I leaned over to the goblins, lowering my voice. "Do you see that shaman? He cursed a goblin yesterday for not paying, and he's still running around the village with ears like an elf's. Do you want to see what he will do to you? and the smile is the one that all reasonable people are afraid of." The goblins froze. The one with the earring swallowed nervously, and the one with the dagger took his hand off the weapon. "Okay, innkeeper, don't get all worked up," he muttered, taking a handful of coins out of his pocket. "Here you go, everything is fair." I counted the coins—exactly fifteen coppers. The system clicked: [The task is completed. Reward: +5 reputation, 15 coppers. Bonus: The Goblins now consider you "sly as a huckster."] "Sly, you say?" I chuckled, putting the coins in my pocket. "Well, that's something. But it was too early to be happy. The door of the tavern was flung open with a bang, and a figure in a black cloak with a hood hiding his face appeared on the threshold. The player, judging by the interface above his head: "no_name, level 115." Level 115! In my tavern, where there are at most twenty levels hanging out! "Innkeeper," the Shadow's voice was low and husky. "I need your best ale." And information. "Uh, sure, I'll get it now," I tried not to show how my knees were shaking. Level 115 in the village is like a tank in a sandbox. One sneeze, and only splinters will remain of the "Crooked Fang". [New assignment: Find out what the Shadow needs without_No name, and don't piss him off. Reward: +20 reputation, chance for a rare item. Failure: the tavern is in ruins, - 1000 reputation with player ten_not_Name.] "The system," I howled mentally, pouring ale for Shade. "I just wanted to fix computers, not play "Guess how not to die"! No, that's real! What the hell is going on with this System? And why is the penalty for failure so terrible? Well, thank you for not dying, that makes me happy." I complained, but I had no choice. I put the mug in front of the Shadow, forced a smile, and said: "The best ale, as requested. What kind of information do you need? We have a quiet village here, you know, just goats and drunken dwarves."