Chapter 3: The One with the Thumb and the Ring
Phoebe Buffay's fingers froze around her soda can, the cold aluminum biting her skin. Central Perk's cozy hum—espresso machines hissing, mugs clinking—faded as she stared inside. A fleshy thumb bobbed in the fizz, grotesque and surreal.
"There's a thumb in my soda," she whispered, her blue eyes wide with horror. "This is cursed!" she thought, her quirky spirit shaken. Her blonde hair glowed under the lights.
The group crowded around, gasping. "A thumb?!" Monica shrieked, peering into the can, her ponytail swinging. Her chef's instincts recoiled, her face pale with disgust.
Ross, ever analytical, squinted, "It's probably a prank, right?" His sweater was rumpled, his glasses slipping. He leaned closer, curious despite the horror.
Chandler snorted, his tie loose, "Yeah, soda's new flavor: Thumb Surprise." His sarcasm landed, easing the tension. Joey gagged, pushing his coffee away, "I'm sticking to beer."
Adam Stields, perched on a stool, watched the chaos, his prankster instincts buzzing. His green eyes glinted, his new life a thrilling game. The System hummed in his mind.
Earlier, he'd followed the System's lead:
[Buy a vintage ring in Chinatown for Monica Bellucci, October 1, 1994. Sell it for $10,000 after gifting.]
In Chinatown's alleys, the air thick with fish and incense, he'd haggled for a tarnished silver ring with a sapphire, snagging it for $50.
An auctioneer confirmed its value—$10,000. "This System's a goldmine," Adam thought, pocketing the cash. His old life's financial struggles were a fading memory.
Now, he planned his next prank: swapping Monica's baking sugar with salt. His feud with her was a sitcom staple, and he relished the chaos it brought.
At Monica's apartment, the group rallied behind Phoebe's outrage. "We're protesting!" Phoebe declared, scribbling "No Thumbs!" on napkins, her marker squeaking.
Rachel, struggling as a Central Perk waitress, joined in, her apron stained from spilling coffee. "I'm the worst," she sighed, slumping on the couch, her green eyes tired.
Phoebe hugged her, "You're learning, sweetie, like a baby bird." Her warmth was a balm, her quirky wisdom grounding. Rachel nodded, her resolve flickering.
Ross, obsessing over Carol's pregnancy, rambled, "What if my kid drinks thumb soda?" Monica rolled her eyes, chopping vegetables, "Ross, focus." Her knife flashed, her stress palpable.
Chandler, irritable from quitting smoking, snapped, "Can we protest faster? I need a cigarette." His tie dangled, his fingers twitching for nicotine.
Joey, practicing commercial lines, chimed in, "No thumbs in our drinks!" His script was crumpled, his confidence unshaken despite a failed audition.
Monica baked cookies to soothe the group, unaware of Adam's prank. He'd swapped her sugar with salt, smirking as she mixed dough, her apron pristine.
The cookies emerged golden, tempting. Jack Geller, visiting, bit one and grimaced. "Monica, what is this?" he spat, his mustache twitching. Judy frowned, "Your baking's slipping."
Monica tasted, her face contorting. "Salt?!" she roared, glaring at Adam, who lounged by the fridge. "You're dead, Stields!" Her competitive streak blazed.
Adam grinned, "Taste the chaos, Monica." His green eyes glinted, his prankster heart racing. Phoebe led a chant, "No thumbs! No salt!" The group laughed, the room alive.
The protest hit Central Perk, signs waving: "Thumb-Free Soda Now!" Customers joined, chanting, "No thumbs!" The manager, frazzled, promised refunds, sweat beading.
Rachel, serving coffee, spilled again, thinking, "I need a real job." Her apron was a mess, her confidence shaken. She wiped her hands, frustrated.
Ross muttered about Carol's cravings, his sweater rumpled. His obsession was relentless, his thoughts a whirlwind of fatherhood fears and hope.
Chandler, chewing gum to curb his craving, quipped, "My lungs hate me, but I'm thumb-free." His sarcasm was sharp, his eyes tired from nicotine withdrawal.
Joey nailed his commercial line, "Buy Sparkle Soap!" His grin was wide, his energy infectious. Phoebe clapped, "You're a star, Joey!" Her enthusiasm lit up the room.
Adam met Monica Bellucci, gifting the ring. "It's vintage," he said, per the System. Her smile dazzled, "You have taste." Her elegance was breathtaking, her accent warm.
He sold the ring at an auction, his bank account swelling. The System's loophole was unreal, his confidence soaring. His old life's struggles felt like another world.
Back at Central Perk, Phoebe's lullaby—"Oh, the moon, it weeps for me"—soothed Adam. Her voice was a quirky balm, grounding him in this surreal life.
Monica, fuming over the salty cookies, eyed Adam. Her revenge was brewing, her competitive streak a storm. The thumb incident faded, but the gang's bond tightened.