The smell of burnt rubber and cheap gasoline was a perfume I'd never known existed until three months ago. Now, it was the only thing I could truly appreciate.
My previous life—Michael J. Harrison, CPA, resident of Syracuse, NY, connoisseur of microwaved TV dinners, and champion of filing tax extension forms—had been an exquisite exercise in beige mediocrity. I had spent thirty-four years successfully avoiding anything remotely interesting, dangerous, or fast.
Then came the storm.
I was mowing my perfectly manicured lawn when the sky split open like a cheap zipper. The last thing I remembered before the world turned into a single, blinding flash of white-hot agony was thinking: Well, at least I won't have to finish the edging.
When I woke up, I wasn't in a hospital. I was floating in a space that smelled faintly of ozone and old parchment. And there he was: the entity. He looked like an overworked middle manager wearing a truly spectacular beard, smoking a pipe made of condensed starlight.
"Michael J. Harrison," the entity—who I instantly understood was God, or at least the regional manager of the cosmos—sighed, adjusting his tie. "Bad luck, son. You got hit by the cosmic equivalent of a faulty surge protector. My bad. Look, standard procedure for accidental obliteration: Three wishes, no take-backs, no wishing for more wishes, and nothing that disrupts core universal physics."
My mind, still buzzing from the residual charge, bypassed the sensible. I didn't wish for peace, wealth, or resurrection. I wished for the opposite of Syracuse.
"I want a life of danger, speed, and constant high-stakes action," I declared, my voice echoing strangely. "I want to be dropped into the middle of the most exciting, high-octane world you've got."
God tapped his chin. "Ah, the Street Racing/Heist Sector. Excellent choice. Populace is surprisingly resilient to explosions."
"Secondly," I continued, a sudden clarity washing over me, "I need tools. I want a complete, integrated system that tells me everything I need to know, tracks my progress, handles my inventory, and manages my funds. Something robust. Let's call it the… GTA System."
God smiled genuinely for the first time. "Nifty. Done. Loaded with all the bells and whistles. You'll even get the health regeneration and the ridiculous inventory capacity. Just try not to run over too many pedestrians—it lowers your reputation points."
"And finally," I said, leaning forward, the true, desperate yearning of my past life fueling the last wish. "I'm an accountant. I know nothing about driving at 180 mph, vaulting off moving trucks, or hot-wiring an armored car. I want the ability to instantly master any physical or technical skill the moment I rationally understand its requirement. Instant Mastery."
"Ooh, that's a spicy one." God puffed his pipe, the smoke smelling of cinnamon and infinite sadness. "Takes the fun out of practice, but alright. Instant Mastery granted. Now go cause some chaos, Michael. Don't call us; we'll call you."