Rainbow Ranch, Chapter 4

Loki the Skull’s jowls continued to flap in the icy wind as equally cold words poured from his mouth like hemlock into a glass of wine. He thanked Lucy and her crew for leading him to Ozzie’s cave. He rambled and ranted and raved about animals being too lazy to exact their own revenge against their abandoners. And then he seamlessly transitioned into a nonsensical allegory about icy bridges leading to hell. And he rambled some more until his verbiage became cacophonic word salad. The overuse of magic truly made King Harrison insane, which would explain his obsession with getting revenge for his animals.

 

Lucy would have shed sympathetic tears for the Kafkaesque descent if it wasn’t for the fact that Loki rocked her hammer back and forth like a hypnotic pocket watch. Watching this former king mentally drift away into outer space meant nothing in comparison to the deflated tennis ball that once brought Lucy joy. Her fangs didn’t have much in the way of sharpness, but they clamped down with the utmost tightness at this display of hubris. Lucy’s doggy hairs stood up and prickled against her metal armor. Her tail wagged uncomfortably fast. Her murder victim growls grew deeper with rage the longer this was allowed to go on. And then…

 

“GIVE! IT! BACK!” Lucy launched her tiny body despite protests from Callie and Ozzie. Surely, a lightning bolt or fire bomb was waiting for her at the end of the trajectory. It never came, just Loki ducking out of the way and keeping the hammer to himself. Lucy yipped and yapped as she bounced up and down in an attempt to grab her weapon. Loki always kept it out of reach, sometimes by only a tiny tap. The fact that he could have ended this anytime he wanted to and chose not to brought even more venom out of Lucy’s bitter barks.

 

After what must have been the seventh or eighth attempt to grab the hammer, Loki aimed his paw and finally launched a fire attack…but not against Lucy. A nearby record player that once made Ozzie’s eyes milky with nostalgia had instantly transformed into a pile of black dust, along with whatever piece of licorice pizza Callie attempted to play.

 

Lucy didn’t take time to register the deeper meaning of such destruction and continued to jump after her hammer, which was still hanging over her head like the tennis ball she once loved. She didn’t even pay much mind to Callie shouting, “Okay, that’s it!” and pulling out her golden dagger. Lucy didn’t care if neither of them stood a chance at beating this cackling, jabbering sorcerer. She just wanted her hammer back, the last symbol of what life was all about for her.

 

And then Callie stuck the knife where the sun never dared to shine. Not in Loki’s fuzzy butt, Lucy’s instead. She yipped in pain and jumped even higher than before, which gave her enough height to finally grab her hammer. Loki still held on and the two of them played tug-o’-war over it, all while the sorcerer shot a lightning ball into Callie’s chest and knocked her backwards, almost unconscious.

 

“That wasn’t very nice! GIVE IT BACK!” Lucy screamed, suddenly gaining more strength upon seeing her friend get zapped. It wasn’t enough strength to earn her a tug-o’-war victory as Loki pulled harder himself. The yanks from both sides disturbed their equilibrium and they nearly fell out of the cave together. Lucy would have rolled back down the mountain covered in snow if not for one small mistake on Loki’s part.

 

“Harrison!” said Ozzie in a husky old man voice. Loki’s mistake was awakening the memories in the old cat’s brain. He gazed at Loki with piercing eyes and trembling whiskers, energy forming in his paws at the risk of refrying his brain. “It ends with you!” Ozzie used whatever mana was left in his rotted brain to throw a tiny whirlwind at the tug-o-war scene. He then collapsed face first onto the cold icy ground.

 

Loki let out an arrogant, “Ha!”, as if that was the best the old man could do. But that little spark of wind gave Lucy momentum. Sure, Loki wouldn’t let go, but he didn’t have to. Lucy wasn’t pulling the hammer towards herself. She was pulling it to the side. The little gust along with Lucy’s heroic rage caused her to spin little by little, until she herself was a whirlwind of chaos. She spun Loki around and around while picking up steam, never once letting go of her weapon.

 

Lucy paid no mind to her own rotting brain, she kept spinning Loki around anyways. The sorcerer’s face grew bright green and his eyes watered. His jowls puffed up bigger and bigger and his stomach growled like the tough guy wolf he was trying to be. Spinning, spinning, and spinning until Loki’s fingers slipped further and further down the shaft of the hammer. One tiny slide later and Lucy was reunited with her precious hammer. She plopped backwards into the snow with her vision blurring in and out of focus and her tummy aching like she was about to lose her life in addition to her lunch.

 

Loki fared no better when it came to aching stomachs. His jowls continued to expand as he clutched his midsection and doubled over. He did everything in his power to keep it together. The salt water collecting in his eyes was a souvenir of his last ditch efforts. And then…”BLAAAAAAAAAAH!” Loki puked a bubbling stream of green and gray acid onto the snow.

 

Lucy couldn’t tell if the rising steam was from the vile stench or if spirits were magically floating out of the excess juices. Maybe it was both. She squinted her eyes as hard as she could to relieve them of rapidly freezing tears. She laid there trying to keep her own lunch under control, as every part of her body ached badly enough to want to vomit herself inside out. But the acidic spray never came. Her stomach calmed down long enough for her to drift off into darkness.

 

She didn’t spend too long in the black abyss. The wetness and comfort of a dog’s tongue kissed her furry flesh. If she was a kitty, she would purr at this loving sensation. She did however slowly open her red and puffy eyes to see Loki reviving her with gentle licks. Except this wasn’t the sorcerer she was fighting against this whole time. This was the original Loki, who stood on all fours and never once threw a magical spell. Instead he was just a sweet, tender dog who wanted Lucy to love him as much as he loved everybody, the way a dog should be.

 

“Loki-Pokey!” Lucy squealed before hugging him around the neck and getting a few puppy licks in herself. The labrador snuggled up beside the snow-bitten Lucy and snuggled with her for warmth. “Hey…is that?” She finally put two and two together: Loki threw up King Harrison’s ghost and was no longer possessed by the insane sorcerer. She could smell the chunks of lightning-fried flesh in the puddles of vomit. “It all makes sense now! Yay! We did it, Loki-Pokey! Ozzie and Callie are going to be so proud of us! Hey…wait a minute…”

 

She nipped up and rushed towards Ozzie’s cave, Loki trotting right behind her. Sure enough, Callie and Ozzie were right there face down on the floor, not one movement or sign of life between them. Lucy began to shiver with sadness. “No…no, no, no, no, no!” The two dogs rushed over to the cats’ prone bodies and began furiously licking them. Not even a dog’s loving tongue could revive the old coots. Lucy shook some more as she gazed to the ceiling and howled. Loki howled alongside her and the two of them became a chorus of sorrow at their fallen friends. They sacrificed their lives just so Lucy could have her stupid hammer. They gave so much of their energy to a toxic king that wouldn’t reciprocate.

 

“Ouch! My ears! Will you two stop your cotton-pickin’ yelling!” Callie blurted out. She snapped wide awake while Ozzie took his sweet time in coming around.

 

Lucy, having no sense of boundaries, hugged them both around the neck and shrieked, “You’re alive! You’re alive! Oh, I missed you two so much!” She and Loki continued to lick their feline faces. Callie folded her arms in defeat while Ozzie chuckled and petted Loki’s head. The gang was back together and Rainbow Ranch could finally heal. They could laugh, play, eat sausage, get pettings and love, all the things that animals had at the top of their wish lists. Revenge wasn’t just on the bottom, but it never even made the cut. That was until…

 

“Fools! You’ll never get rid of me that easily!” King Harrison may have been exorcised from Loki’s body, but his poisonous green ghost still hung in the air. He shouted a bunch of mindless gibberish. He summoned energy in his clawed hands. He scratched himself until black pudding oozed from within. It was then that it dawned on Lucy that she forgot her hammer outside. She, Loki, Ozzie, and Callie all snuggled against each other knowing exactly what was coming to them. They hoped their deaths would be swift and merciful. They gave all they could to this fight only for King Harrison’s ghost to hang around.

 

“I love you guys. I love you all…” mumbled Lucy as she squinted her eyes in defeat.

Necro Power Plant

Ever wonder how those malls play holiday music?

Keep your internet connection and never lose it?

Keep the lights on in your depressing man cave?

Keep the water warm so you can shower and shave?

 

You can give your thanks to the utility wizards

Necromancy keeps you warm during blizzards

Now that your eyes popped out of your sockets

We run on dead bodies, it’s how we line our pockets

 

Feed the giant slab of rotten gray beef jerky

Through the dynamo of swamp water so murky

Boil them corpses like a pot of spaghetti

Let the green steam get the juicy juices ready

 

What’s the matter, kid? You think this is wrong?

Grab the hippie-dippie guitar, write a protest song

It’s not like we killed the dead bodies ourselves

Who cares when their souls are stuck in hell?

 

Exploiting dead people is a great business model

When politicians do it, the press is sucking milk bottles

When Vince McMahon does it, it’s a sure ratings draw

Whether the corpse has hands or puppy-duppy paws

 

It’s all in bad taste, but it ain’t nuclear waste

We’ve got no souls, but at least it ain’t coal

Call us super villains, we don’t give a goddamn

They’re your lights, bro, you’ve got the wrong man

 

What do you mean we’ve failed the safety inspections?

What do you mean the civil court is now in session?

What do you mean we’ve got to pay a billion dollars?

What do you mean we’ve got debt collecting callers?

What do you mean we’re going right out of business?

What do you mean the plaintiffs got their own star witness?

What do you mean we got to put on these orange onesies?

What do you mean our cellmates are extra snuggly?

Rainbow Ranch, Chapter 3

Even though Lucy’s metal armor provided most of her warmth, the chilly air of the mountainside nipped at her skin like a predatory case of fleas, each with meat grinder teeth. She hugged herself for extra heat, but the incoming snowflakes made her shiver nonetheless. In such a short amount of time, one snowflake on her canine nose turned into an entire winter of defeat and agony. Without her war hammer and tennis ball, she might as well have been the most naked being in the entirety of Rainbow Ranch. How was she supposed to fight Loki the Skull now? Barking and clawing could only do so much against a sorcerer who flashed in and out of combat as he pleased. Lucy became jealous of Callie the Wildfire for having any kind of weapon at all, the golden knife in question.

 

“Get a move on, Lucy! Ozzie is vulnerable out here!” roared Callie. Toughness would have been an admirable trait during these times, but all it did was make Lucy’s eyes water, which in turn hardened into icicles that shattered on the ground. It was completely normal coming from Razor Ripley, but Callie was a stranger who appeared unsympathetic to Lucy’s struggles. Then again, Callie had little to worry about wrapped up in the warmest orange fabric. Why burden herself with an annoying Chiweenie’s suffering?

 

The mountainside trek weakened Lucy’s legs to where they were trembling with or without a freezing temperature. She was used to scampering up to any challenge, but such athletics were punished with a painful gut and sour breathing. There were many times when Lucy wanted to just plop over and allow whatever was going to happen to happen. No weapon, no bravery, and no help beyond someone who couldn’t stand her to begin with. This was a losing battle against an opponent with seemingly endless magical energy. Lucy’s head swirled with dizziness and hopelessness. Why not just lay down and prove her abandoners right?

 

“We’re here! And no sign of Loki!” Callie’s grumpy demeanor was masked with a tiny smile, but only for a little while. “Come on, Lucy, let’s move it!” She grabbed the Chiweenie’s trembling paw and dragged her up the mountain, where a comforting orange light shone from a lone cave entrance, flanked by two scarecrows with rotten pumpkin heads. “His place must be a pigsty. I knew he was out of his gourd.”

 

Lucy and Callie scampered past the scarecrows and into the brightly lit cave. Sure enough, this was the home of Ozzie the Wise, whose days of wisdom and intense thought had long abandoned him. Sitting at the table next to a glowing metal stove (the source of the gentle light), the elderly gray and white cat man tenderly ate cold turkey scraps from a plate that had seen better days. Nibble, nibble, nibble, gulp, gulp, gulp, all with teeth that smelled worse than the pumpkins outside.

 

The messiness of this home could give his dental work a run for its money. Torn blankets strewn every which way. A record player that hadn’t been dusted since the days of his youth. A sink full of dirty dishes that would have attracted flies if not for the freezing weather. A bookcase of cracked yellow paper, probably with spells written on them that couldn’t be studied with a forgetful brain. There was even a golden framed picture of Callie and Ozzie as a couple hanging on the wall, albeit at an awkward angle.

 

Ozzie peeked up from his dubious dinner and smiled at Lucy and Callie. “You look familiar.”

 

“Gee, I wonder why that could be,” said Callie with a sharp tongue. “See that picture on the wall? Any clues coming yet?”

 

“Yes…yes…it’s all coming back to me now…” Ozzie stood up and cracked his spine over the back of his chair, causing Lucy to twitch in disgust and Callie to reprimand her for it. The old man cat trudged over to his two guests with Callie looking hopeful that she might be recognized after all of these years. But instead, Ozzie ruffled Lucy’s ears and said, “My granddaughter! My precious little granddaughter.” Lucy looked confused at first, but then chuckled as Ozzie groomed her face over and over again.

 

“For Pete’s sake, Ozzie, it’s me! Callie! Your ex-wife!” protested Callie. Ozzie continued licking Lucy’s cackling face while running his claws through her fur. The tough facade had melted away when Callie sighed and tucked her head in defeat. “He’s forgotten me…Ozzie has forgotten me…”

 

“Oh no, I haven’t,” said Ozzie. “My other granddaughter! You’ve come to visit me after all these years! Come here, you!” He gave Callie tummy scratches, which earned him a swat for his troubles.

 

“I’m not your granddaughter, you old coot! I’m your wife! We shared a house together! We chased balls of yarn together! You used to cook tuna fish every night and it was delicious! Don’t you remember?” Callie’s elderly anger turned to sorrowful word salad as her voice became increasingly jittery.

 

Ozzie placed a tender paw on Callie’s shivering shoulder and said, “Now, now, now…you know I can’t marry my granddaughter. But I’ll be there at your wedding when you’re old enough.”

 

Callie held her face in her paw and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “There’s no hope. He’s gone. He’s all gone.”

 

Now that she’d established some rapport with Ozzie, Lucy suddenly found her confidence again, which was definitely helped by the warm breeze blowing on her from the metal stove. “Mr. Ozzie, I’d love to stay and eat turkey with you, but there’s something we have to warn you about. There’s an evil sorcerer coming up this mountain and he says he wants to hurt you. He’s too powerful for any of us to fight off. The best thing we can do is get you out of here and to a safe place.”

 

“A sorcerer, you say?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Ozzie. He’s someone you used to know, I mean, once knew…” Lucy let out a phew at almost appearing insensitive towards Ozzie’s forgetfulness. “He’s an old rival of yours. You were the one who defeated him in the first place. Now he wants revenge. He’s come back to life in a dog’s body and he wants to…”

 

“Old rival? Hmm…” Ozzie scratched his own chin looking for answers. “Is he another one of my grandchildren? I’d love to play some fetch with him and tell him all about my record collection. These young whippersnappers could use some good music these days.”

 

“He’s gone, Lucy,” said Callie in an uncharacteristically low voice. “He doesn’t remember me or anyone else. All that magic use turned his brain into mush. He’d be better off in retirement care instead of this disheveled cave.”

 

“Wait a minute…” pondered Lucy. “If magic use can turn your brain into mush, then Loki the Skull…”

 

“You just now figured that out?” The fire and spunk was back in Callie’s voice, her knife raised in the air, much to Lucy’s cowering terror.

 

“Put the knife away, you old bat. I’ll finish the job for you.”

 

Lucy, Callie, and Ozzie’s eyes widened at the demonic voice haunting the once warm and cozy cave. The stove’s glow was slowly dying down and the only neon flash that appeared this time came from Loki the Skull’s eyes. Bright red horror enveloped the room, followed by the poisonous green of the sorcerer’s aura. Lucy gulped as hard as she could while hugging Callie for comfort. She tried to push her off, but Lucy was too strong and it was the only strength she would exhibit for a while.

 

But then, Loki waved the war hammer like a pendulum and taunted Lucy. “Looking for this? It’s the perfect tool for smashing, let’s say…tennis balls!” He then pulled out said tennis ball, this time deflated and dirty, no longer fit for an hour of friendly roughhousing.

 

“What are you going to do, Lucy? Are you going to snuggle up and cry like a little cherub? Are you going to howl to the night moon like a lost wolf puppy? Are you going to run back into your mommy’s arms? Oh wait…that last part isn’t an option anymore.” Loki laughed at his own callous joke.

Rainbow Ranch, Chapter 2

Lucy could have searched the entirety of Rainbow Ranch up and down and it wouldn’t have done anything but make her lonelier. Not a friend in sight. Not even a piece of driftwood came from that flood. The more she traveled, the harder she hugged herself for warmth. She became dangerously close to creating her own flood with the tears that she held back. Her old fur parents wouldn’t have faulted her for crying. She could have done it all she wanted when she was abandoned on this island with many others. Razor Ripley didn’t want “weakness” in his ranks, but Loki the Skull was even more discouraging of vulnerability due to the insane king that haunted his soul. King Harrison wanted Lucy the Hammer to bear a grudge against her abandoners, but all he succeeded in doing was making her resent him instead.

 

The frosty wind gathering around Lucy did nothing to ease her resentment. “That mean old jerk!” she muttered to herself through shivering breaths. With the power station knocked out, there was nothing to guard against the chilly weather that made Lucy shake harder than any sorrow ever could. She had been wandering aimlessly for so long that she failed to take in her surroundings. There was indeed harsh snow dusting the ground and making the air nip at her fur harder than fleas. “Where am I?” she asked. “Where are my friends? Where’s my tennis ball? I want my mommy and daddy…”

 

With very little meat on her bones (armor notwithstanding), she knew she would perish in this weather and was strangely okay with it. This was what abandonment meant to her. Rainbow Ranch was a lie. Her dumpers were right all along. And as long as Razor Ripley was upset with her, she would never prove them wrong. Debating wasn’t where she excelled in life despite having a yappy bark, which she missed using in the presence of her squad mates.

 

And then…a warm breeze passed over her, putting a tiny smile on her face. The more she felt this, the harder her tail wagged. Lucy yapped and barked as she dashed toward the source of this heavenly heat. Among the uncaring frost was a tiny grotto which radiated a warm orange glow. Hopefully, whoever dwelled in this place was as warm as the heat radiating from within. It would have been easier for Lucy to knock, but her happy zeal carried her past the entranceway regardless, romping inside like a wild stampede.

 

The minute the heat warmed her aching bones, she breathed a sigh of relief and plopped down on her butt. There could have been a fire-breathing dragon in this grotto and Lucy wouldn’t have cared as long as she could feel this heat forever. Though the breeze was no substitute for a mother’s hug, it came pretty close. Her eyes widened at the sound of a phonograph playing gentle guitar and violin music. As if the relaxation couldn’t be more blissful, now she was going to be lulled to sleep by the sweet strums of guitar strings and graceful glides of violins. Lucy yawned before placing her paws behind her head and smiling her way into the dreamworld.

 

Her subconscious vacation lasted as long as one of her kibble dinners as a pup. The record scratched and the new age lullaby was replaced by the hisses and growls of an angry cat. Lucy gulped and slowly opened her eyes to see an elderly anthropomorphic cat standing over her. The cat flashed her cutting fangs, balanced a golden knife in her hands, all while hogging the warmth for herself in her orange knitted armor with brown leather boots.

 

“Are…are you Ozzie the Wise?” asked a trembling Lucy before turning her head away in anticipation of a scratch.

 

“Ozzie the Wise is nothing more than a myth,” the cat growled in a feminine voice. “I’m Callie the Wildfire and you’ve crossed into my domain. What makes you think you’re welcome here? This is not a stray shelter. Move along, fleabag!”

 

“Wait, wait, wait!” begged Lucy before nipping up. “You don’t understand! I’m a member of the Shut Up Stupid Dogs! I’m here to help you! There’s a wizard on the loose and…”

 

“And you led him here, didn’t you.” Callie’s arms were crossed, blade still balanced in her paw.

 

“No, no! It’s not like that! You see, my…um…my squad mates were all…” Lucy gulped in an attempt to come up with an answer that never came.

 

“Let me guess: they met a cruel and unfair end at the hands of this wizard,” Callie said coldly.

 

“Um…yes…I mean…I hope not…” The tears were harder for Lucy to fight, but fight them she did.

 

“This is what happens when one of your kings decides to turn perfectly happy animals into monstrosities. This was always the plan for him. You think you’re the only one who misses your mommy? I miss mine too! I never had responsibilities and I don’t want them now. And yet, here you are begging for my help when my generator is sputtering and flickering.”

 

“Please, Miss Callie!” Lucy got on two knees and held her hands together like a prayer. “I can help you fix your generator if you just let me stay a while! Besides, you’re in danger! So is Ozzie the Wise!”

 

Callie tucked her head and turned her back to Lucy. “Ozzie the Wise is a danger to himself.”

 

“What do you mean? You know him?”

 

“I used to. He and I were supposed to be beddy-buddies in our fur parents’ humble home. We did everything together. And then…you know by now what King Harrison did. Ever since then, Ozzie became obsessed with responsibilities that were never his. He learned how to use magic and the more he used, the more his mind shut off. He’s not the man I loved so many years ago. I don’t even know who he is. HE doesn’t even know who he is. If he hasn’t gone down the same path as King Harrison with his insanity, he sure as heck is on his way there.”

 

Lucy stood up and hung her own head. “I’m sorry to hear about that, Miss Callie.”

 

“Don’t feel sorry for me, little pup. Animals never had a say in their own fates anyways, whether we were human-like or not. If our destinies are going to be chosen for us, then at the very least they should be chosen by people who undoubtedly care for us.”

 

“That’s…that’s so sad…”

 

Callie sighed and faced Lucy once more. “When you’re as old as I am, sadness becomes part of the norm. You’re not there yet, but you’ll get there someday. Your joints will ache. Your body will break down. Your mind will cannibalize itself. And then…we all fall down and die.”

 

“Why not speed up the process?!”

 

Lucy and Callie gasped before turning to find those words came from Loki the Skull, lightning swirling his hands and poison dripping from his fangs.

 

“So…you DID lead him here, didn’t you! Foolish oaf!” screamed Callie before she pulled out her knife to confront Loki.

 

“Callie, wait!”

 

It was too late; Callie already engaged her enemy with the fastest of stabs. Her paw blurred and flashed because of this speed, which left Lucy wide-eyed and awestruck. “Cool,” Lucy whispered to herself. Soon enough, her stabs began chipping away a the stone walls of her own grotto. She for sure had victory well within hand…until Loki blasted her with an energy ball and send her crashing into her record collection.

 

Lucy gasped as Callie picked herself up to fight again. But once she saw her records and phonograph destroyed, she collapsed to her knees and trembled in sorrow. “Oh no…no…Ozzie loved this music…and it’s gone…All of it’s gone…” She hugged her possessions and tried her damnedest not to break down in front of her mortal enemy. The last connection she had to her past, gone. All gone. Maybe she really should have “sped up the process”.

 

“YOU BIG FAT MEANIE! I’M GOING TO SMASH YOU GOOD!” An enraged Lucy drew her war hammer and charged at Loki with all of her scrappy might. Spittle flew from her lips like rabies and the warmth of the grotto was replaced with hellfire rage for her sworn enemy. She swung. She smashed. She pounded. She gave the old “one, two, buckle your shoe”…and her hammer went flying once again, jutting into the stone wall.

 

Loki, who dodged every shot Lucy gave, mockingly pulled the hammer out of the wall and dangled it in front of her. “This yours?”

 

“Give it back, you sick little mutt!” Every time Lucy jumped up and reached for it, Loki held it out of her way. Bored with this dog-exclusive game of cat and mouse, Loki zapped Lucy in the chest with a thunder bolt and send her barreling across the grotto. She coughed and wheezed at the damage while Loki continued to taunt her with the hammer.

 

“You want this back? Come get it. It’ll be waiting patiently for you in Ozzie’s home!”

 

“YOU LEAVE OZZIE ALONE, YOU PIG DOG! AND GIVE ME BACK MY HAMMER!” shrieked Lucy.

 

Loki ignored her command and teleported out of sight, black dust following him out.

 

Defeated and humiliated, Lucy dropped to her knees once more and pounded the dirt ground with her fists. “It’s not fair! It’s just not fair! Why does he get to have all the magic and all I’ve got is this stupid hammer?!”

 

“Magic?! What’s all this about magic?!” snapped Callie as she stood up to collect herself. “Ozzie the Wise has plenty of magic! He’s beaten King Harrison before and he’ll beat him again! You want your hammer back?! I want my past back! Come on, let’s got them both!”

 

Bewildered, Lucy asked, “So…you’re not mad at me anymore?”

 

Callie placed her paw on Lucy’s shoulder and stretched her claw. “Let me put it this way: I’m madder at King Harrison than I am at you. I’ll deal with you another time. But for now…” She held up a piece from one of her broken records. Lucy gulped in fear, but understood the mission at hand.

Rainbow Ranch, Chapter 1

In a world where something unexpected happened every day, Lucy the Hammer used her time off to chase her favorite tennis ball back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She missed doing this so much as a non-humanoid puppy that she ran after said ball with excited pitter-patters, galloping like the world’s smallest and peppiest horse. Her long Chiweenie tongue hung down in anticipation for finally getting her beloved toy in her mouth. But once she snapped her jaws, her fellow squad mates would throw it in the opposite direction. Even with whiny cries of, “Give it back, give it back!”, her much bigger humanoid dog companions got their chuckle-filled kicks out of playing keep-away.

And then the towering bulldog caught the tennis ball and waved it around out of Lucy’s reach. Even after jumping her highest, her feet dangling in the air, she could never snatch her coveted treasure. And then the much bigger dog reached down and rolled Lucy on her back, tickling her stomach and getting her to giggle like the little child she always wanted to be. Somewhere in this playful session, the bulldog shoved the tennis ball in Lucy’s mouth and then she began to relax on the stony ground. Her squad mates continued to horse-laugh, but these were jovial laughs rather than mean ones.

The longer Lucy the Hammer could live in the past and forget the Hammer part of her name, the happier she became as evidenced by her glowing grin and wagging butt. Playing with tennis balls, chewing pork sausages, getting belly rubs and ear scratches, and running across wheat fields unhindered by the burdens of humanhood. But as heavenly as these fantasies were for Lucy, it didn’t change the fact that she was laying on a cold stone ground this whole time. 

This place wasn’t her happy home. It was a hydroelectric powerplant in the shape of a pyramid. Water flowed through channels like a gentle creek and powered a spinning magic crystal, the essence of energy in a region already full of magic and hope. Lucy carried a war hammer for a reason. Her squad mates carried swords, maces, and axes for the same reason. Their duties as soldiers were calling to them. War was never the answer, but they protected their homeland from those who thought it was.

“Razor Ripley is here! Salute!” And just like that, Lucy spit her prized possession out of her mouth and joined her squad mates in a straight line, barking their heads off until their voices echoed across the sky. While her much bigger brethren had muscle and power behind their voices, Lucy’s bark was that of a yappy murder victim despite nobody ever laying a finger on her. That’s just how she was.

But the bass in her squadron’s voices couldn’t compare to the monstrous bellow that came out of Razor Ripley’s skeletal mouth. “SHUT UP, STUPID DOGS!” That was the name of their group and upon hearing it, the dogs did what they were told before tensing up military style, weapons in hand, ready for a job.

Ripley cracked his bony knuckles and wiggled his fingers for extra effect. “I’m certain you all have heard the news of a new enemy on the horizon. Except we’ve faced him before and succeeded. But even in this enemy’s new form, we will succeed again. King Harrison Gaines, the brother of our beloved ruler James Gaines, has possessed the body of my lovable lapdog Loki. Loki the Skull as he’s now called is the new vessel for chaos and destruction. King James is busy securing other powerplants here on Rainbow Ranch. We are here to secure this one. Harrison made the vast majority of animals into humanoids expecting them to want revenge on those who dumped them here. When he didn’t get what he wanted, he went insane and incited the violence himself. We can’t let him do that for a second time. Even with his necromantic abilities, we are one! We are strong! We will put him back into the dirt where he belongs! Do you all understand that?!” The dogs barked their loudest. “I can’t hear you! Sound off like you mean it!”

The dogs barked even louder than before, but Lucy was the most animated despite her diminutive form. She swung her hammer all around while declaring, “Let me at him, Razor Ripley! I’ll give him the old one-two-buckle my shoe!” In her overzeal, Lucy spun around and belly flopped onto the ground, her hammer spinning like a beer bottle until it skittered to the tip of Ripley’s toe. Her squad partners gasped in horror while Lucy smiled nervously at her boss.

With a glare on his face that could shake entire civilizations due to his fiery green eyes, Ripley picked up the hammer and marched over to the fallen Lucy, who was trembling and sweating in terror. She gulped a wad of saliva while Ripley’s leather sandaled footsteps echoed off the ground. Ripley leaned down. “On your feet, this instance!” Lucy sprung back up without a second thought before her hammer was given back to her. With a low and sinister tone, her boss said, “I hope you finish your job better than you started. Because if I have to have this conversation with you again…you won’t enjoy the outcome!”

Lucy gulped again. “Yes, sir.” Out of fantasy-land and into the harsh realities of Rainbow Ranch, a place whose survival hinged on her being the best soldier she could be. There was a reason she wore metal armor instead of a wool sweater that her grandma loved dressing her in. There was a reason she carried a hammer and not a tennis ball that reeked of dog breath. There was a reason everyone was glaring at her for literally falling behind on work. It was time to put down the toys and pick up weapons of war that no dog had any business carrying.

The Shut Up Stupid Dogs alongside Razor Ripley marched back and forth in a patrol unit looking for any sign of trouble. The gigantic bulldogs and pitbulls marched with a purpose. Razor Ripley floated through the air like a specter aching for his next haunt. Lucy just stared at the stone floor with the weight of early failure dragging down on her neck. She didn’t want to let anybody down. She wanted to be the goodest of good girls. She also wanted one of her squad mates to scratch her behind the ears and tell her it was okay.

In the glow of a purple magical aura shadowing behind her, Lucy had one more opportunity to prove herself. There he was in the flesh and fur: Loki the Skull, donning a black wizard’s robe with a hood barely concealing his murderous face. No lapdog should ever have been described that way, but here they were.

“This is the end of the line, Harrison!” threatened Razor Ripley as he gathered green energy in his bony hands. His soldiers readied their weapons and backed him up. Lucy once again shook in terror as she stood behind her boss, not out of solidarity, but out of fear of the magical lunatic that floated before them. “Ozzie the Wise has no time or tolerance for you! None of us do! What you’ve done was inexcusable! Now go back to bed, sweet king!”

Razor Ripley threw fireballs and lightning bolts at Loki the Skull while the dog soldiers attempted to rush into battle, cutting their foe off at all angles. Lucy held her war hammer in her trembling hands, clearly out of her league with this evil wizard. Despite having a clear numbers disadvantage, Loki the Skull held his own with rings of electricity and stardust emitting from his aura. The soldiers were swept off their feet while Ripley was blown backwards by the magical tremors. Ripley gave cover fire to his troops while they looked for an opportunity to flank past Loki’s magic and get within striking distance. Every time a soldier thought he had a chance, he was blown back even further with a fiery ring.

Lucy continued to bite her nails and watch in horror while one of her comrades was hanging onto the side of the building, scratching, clawing, and yelping for help. Loki smiled sickeningly as he slowly zeroed in on what would be his first kill of the battle. Loki’s paws electrified, his breath emitted clouds of poison, and his laugh made his evil intentions as clear as the crystal that powered this plant.

Lucy didn’t know which one she feared more: Loki the Skull or knowing she would let her squad down if she continued standing there without doing anything. The sight of Razor Ripley scowling at her and her squad mate dangling on the edge brought forth a fiery heart of her own. She readied her hammer and pitter-pattered across the ground, ducking underneath Loki’s defensive rings. And then she jumped in the air, one mighty swing of her hammer coming down on Loki’s foot.

Harrison’s vessel howled like werewolf while dancing around holding his cartoonishly thumping and pumping foot. Lucy wasted no time in pulling her friend back onto the building while Loki took a plunge of his own. Soon Loki’s cries of pain and terror grew quieter and quieter until he splashed into a lower bank of water like a turd in a toilet bowl.

Lucy’s squadron, Razor Ripley included, gazed upon her with shock and awe. She could only give a nervous smile in response. And then the dogs cheered and hoisted her on their shoulders in victory. “Congratulations, Lucy, you did it! Woo-hoo!” said the tennis ball-wielding bulldog from earlier. The hip-hip-hoorays continued as Lucy was launched higher and higher into the air. She laughed and screamed, “WEE!” while Razor Ripley crossed his arms and smiled benevolently in what seemed like the first time since forever.

Then the sound of cackling fire and electricity started up again and the next time Lucy was caught, she toppled her squad mates. “No…NO!” she cried while Loki the Skull floated right back up to the top of the powerplant, evil energy swirling around him and downward eyes glaring holes through all of his opponents. This time everybody backed up in fear, but Lucy’s newfound confidence led her tiny legs into battle once again. But this time, Loki brought backup in the form of the water from the river bank he had just splashed in. It rose in a tidal wave behind him, taller than the highest trees and more destructive than a biblical flood.

The wave crashed down upon the Shut Up Stupid Dogs and Razor Ripley, washing them down the side of the pyramid-like powerplant. The squad mates and Ripley screamed their heads off as they were being tossed around by the turbulence. Lucy, on the other hand, squealed in delight like she was riding a water slide. “WEEEEEEEEEE!” She even let out a few giggles while her friends were probably defecating themselves knowing they were going to get squished by whatever was down there. Sure enough, the wave hit the bottom of the pyramid and splashed the Shut Up Stupid Dogs and their boss every which way.

The end of the “ride” came when Lucy smacked her butt on the dirty ground and giggled one last time. “That was fun! Let’s do that again, guys!” No response from or sight of her squad mates. “Guys?! Guys, where are you?!” She pitter-pattered on the dirt ground looking for her friends, crying for help and howling in her murder victim way. Just like the day she was abandoned on this once desolate island, Lucy the Hammer was all alone and she knew it. Her head hung low, but not without her blowing the water out of her ears and letting out a deep sigh. Just like the patrol at the top of the pyramid, she trudged along the ground not knowing where to go or how to recover from a failure she thought was her fault. “Where’s my tennis ball?” she softly whined.

Rainbow Ranch, Prologue

Loki repeatedly slurped his canine tongue across Razor Ripley’s bony toes, half-expecting them to taste like they used to have meat on them. Even that was better tasting than the dried kibble in his metal bowl. What the brown and black Labrador really wanted was some scratches behind his ears and maybe a few rubs of his belly. Ripley certainly had the sharp nails on his fingers to achieve such a blissful massage.

But this was far from the night to be asking his master for love and affection. The skeletal necromancer’s mind was somewhere else, far away from the borders of Rainbow Ranch. The same thing could be said about the king sitting across from him at the chess table. The stone pieces hadn’t moved in what seemed like ages. These two lovers of doggies everywhere were growing old sitting in these wooden chairs. Then again, growing old explained the presence of most of the “clients” in this funeral home. Loki curled up against Razor Ripley’s sandaled feet to provide him with warmth, but it was his heart and soul that needed warmth the most.

“I’m growing impatient,” growled Ripley, gesturing with his skeletal fingers for King James Gaines to move one of his pieces.

“I’m sorry, Ripley. I can’t focus tonight.” King James squeezed his temples with his gauntlet-covered hand. “It’s hard to get anything done these days knowing my brother is in that coffin.” He jerked his thumb to the next room, the temporary resting place of his younger brother Harrison. He wiped the wetness from his eye and breathed a sigh.

“I understand where you’re coming from, my liege. But your brother made his decision a long time ago. He couldn’t let go of his obsession with revenge, even though our animal friends already did. He made them human-like, for god’s sake. It was never the mission of Rainbow Ranch to give these poor creatures human responsibilities. Harrison made a grave mistake. I’d say he has to live with it, but he’s clearly not doing a whole lot of living.”

“I know. Trust me, Ripley, I know. I just wish things could have been different. Maybe if I convinced him to seek help for his madness…Look…it doesn’t change the fact that I still miss him. He’s my brother. This is not the same man I grew up with. He was hurting.”

Razor Ripley placed his hand over King James’s and spoke in a much more sympathetic tone. “I miss Harrison too. But he has changed so much over the years that he’s hardly recognizable. It’s time to let his spirit go to the next world. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ll have the Shut Up Stupid Dogs primed and ready.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call them that, Ripley.”

Loki finally got his desired pettings upon sniffing Ripley’s robed crotch. But there was something off about his master’s strokes. They didn’t feel right. They didn’t feel like true affection. Loki whined before stumbling off to the nearby wall and laying down in a donut circle.

Ripley continued. “I call them that, because that’s what they respond to. They don’t seem to mind.”

“I know, but it just feels…wrong.”

“If it pleases your majesty, I’ll ponder another name shortly. But for now, this is what my squadron of soldiers will be called. Do you wish to forfeit this game of chess?”

King James nodded and languidly knocked over the stone pieces before Ripley began disassembling the board. Loki’s eyes grew sore as he watched his masters in this much pain. The death of King Harrison hit them like a war hammer to the gut. Loki could hardly blame them for their slow zombie-like movements, but the Labrador still wanted his love and affection. He still wanted to be called a good boy. But in that regard, he was glad he was never made human-like by Harrison’s magic and called a Shut Up Stupid Dog by the bony wizard who was supposed to love him. Loki whined and whimpered as his masters shuffled out of the lobby, presumably back to the castle to deal with the logistics of Harrison’s funeral.

Loki could just lie there all night and let his puppy soul drift away into the universe. Maybe somewhere out in the stars, he could hear Harrison’s voice calling him over for the pettings he wanted. Maybe Harrison would have a sausage link ready to wolf down in a matter of seconds. If dogs could purr, these thoughts would get Loki’s throat motor running. Maybe the dream world would be kinder to him than a couple of royals whose minds were somewhere else. Loki knew they wouldn’t be like that forever, but why did this cycle of grieving have to take so long?

“Loki!” said a sinister throaty voice that only the funeral home dog could hear. His head perked right up and he looked everywhere. “Loki! Loki-Pokey! Loki J. Pokicus! Sweet gee-nee baby!” There was only one person the dog knew of who would use such a hideous, yet endearing baby voice. But it couldn’t be him. He was dead! Ozzie the Wise made sure of that with a storm of lightning bolts! Loki whined and wailed as the hypnotic voice from beyond continued to haunt his mind.

“Loki-Pokey! Into the coffin room, Loki! I have a treat for you! Come get some din-din!”

The dog pranced and galloped into the coffin room where Harrison’s body was being kept. There it was among rows of beautiful pink wildflowers. There it was among stands of burned out candles. There it was smelling of death and fried meat: Harrison’s corpse resting in a golden casket. He wasn’t moving. He gave no indication that he was alive. But that voice was unmistakable. That grizzly-bear-like voice that was reserved for the sweetest of animals. “Come to me, Loki! Eat something other than dried food!”

Could Loki do it? Did he dare do such a thing to Harrison’s corpse? Yes, he was a dead body that should never have been violated…but his burned flesh reminded Loki of strips of bacon. The saltiness made him drool. The fattiness made him pant and smile. He had stars in his eyes the likes a depressed necromancer and king had never seen before. Could he do it? Loki slowly approached the casket licking his lips. He sniffed Harrison’s burned skin. Oh, that salty stench that only grew more powerful with the increasing loudness in Loki’s head.

He took a bite of crispy bacon flesh. He swallowed it down in a rush. He took another bite. And another. And another. This desecrating act soon turned into a god-like feast. Loki couldn’t stop eating. The meat was so delicious and tender, so crispy and salty, so juicy and fatty. It didn’t take long at all for Harrison’s corpse to be reduced to an empty shell of black bones. For good measure and good flavor, Loki licked the bones clean until their savory benefits were gone. The dog’s tummy was fatter than a hot air balloon. His colon was gassier than industrial smoke.

But more importantly, Loki’s eyes were brighter than Ozzie the Wise’s lightning spells could ever be. The eyes glows bright green while the light in the back of his throat projected red energy. Loki convulsed and twisted, rolling around on the carpeted floor and knocking over some of the flowers and candles. He also knocked over a sacred religious tome that Razor Ripley kept for such occasions. His stomach bulged and his anus blasted.

A shield of thunder enveloped Loki’s body until he had become just like any other experiment Harrison worked on: human-like. His body was no longer his own. His thoughts were at the mercy of spiritual puppet strings. The voice in Loki’s head grew louder until it was the only thought he had. The disgraced King Harrison Gaines had complete control of Loki’s body. He was alive and well once again, back from the dead and hungry for the vengeance he wished the animal society had earlier.

“Loki…you are my vessel…you are my slave…you will do what my worthless human carcass couldn’t do the first time around. You will kill Ozzie the Wise…and you will kill anybody who hurts our cause, whether they come from within Rainbow Ranch or far beyond. You will use my magic. You will obey my commands. And if you’re a good boy…I will give you all the love and affection you deserve in the afterlife!”

Harrison’s wicked laughter echoed throughout Loki’s acid-washed mind, but also blasted out of the dog’s mouth along with drool and magical energy. Vengeance would come whether James and Ripley wanted it to or not. That would go double for the “weak” animals who were “too lazy” to find their own justice after being abandoned on this island.

A Brief History of Rainbow Ranch

They didn’t have a name for this lonely island, because there was no they to begin with. Not a sign of human life. Not a shred of biodiversity. Not a liter of clean water for miles. It was a perfect place, though a little too perfect, for soulless cowards to dump their unwanted furry friends. Dogs with saggy jowls. Cats with pretty torbie colors and velvety fur. Rabbits with indiscriminate amounts of love to give in such tiny bodies. Rats with all the stigma, yet none of the villainy to justify being abandoned by the heartless. This nameless island was their new home, though it could never feel like home to anyone. If the animals didn’t eat each other in their feral states, they were forever erased from the gene pool, never to be seen, never to be loved by tender hands again. This cruelty went on for years…

Until a pair of king brothers found out what was going on and allowed the information to boil their blood. The Gaines brothers, Harrison and James, got off their sofa thrones and rolled their mobile castle away from their comfortable lands, finding their new home in this desolate strip of earth. They saw firsthand how hopeless these beautiful creatures looked, their ribs visible, their fur matted and torn, the joy in their eyes scrubbed clean from their handsome features. Under the rule of the Gaines brothers, no more would they suffer. With an army of loyal soldiers under the Kingdom’s command, every animal that could be found was rounded up and nurtured back to full health.

The carnivorous creatures were treated to plump sausages and juicy steaks, while the vegetarians were given fresh, crisp lettuce and crunchy carrots. During this mass rehabilitation process, the gardeners of the Gaines Kingdom went to work planting seeds all over the island, giving way to the tallest trees, the softest green grass, the loveliest red and purple flowers, the tastiest vegetables, and enough clean water to sustain the ecosystem. The healing wasn’t an overnight success. Some animals and plants didn’t make it. But those that did lived long and happy lives under the brothers’ care. The nameless island was no longer a death sentence for abandoned pets. It was a paradise not surprisingly renamed to Rainbow Ranch, a heaven on earth to live comfortably with the fastest tail wags and the loudest purrs.

But despite what the new name suggests, it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows for Harrison Gaines. While everyone seemed to move on with their lives, seeing all that suffering for the first few months took its toll on him. He was the less logical of the two brothers, giving into his rawest emotions and nightmarish insanity. It wasn’t enough that these animals got their revenge by living well. He wanted everlasting revenge on the ones who made them suffer in the first place. But with no names and no faces to place on the heartless former pet owners, the gulf between Harrison’s vengeful goals and his ability to act on them grew wider as his insanity began to take over. That is, until he finally had a plan.

While James Gaines was the fighter of the two, Harrison dabbled in magic, especially of the dark and occult variety. Nobody could possibly tell him where the abusive owners were…except the animals themselves. Behind his brother’s back, he began experimenting on the surviving animals to give them human features. And with these human features, they would learn to speak real words. But when asked about their abusers, the anthropomorphized animals didn’t share the same resentment and anger that Harrison did. They just wanted to live normal lives and use their now human features to build communities instead of tearing other ones down. James ultimately agreed with this notion. Harrison, not so much.

The insanity started to take an even harder toll on him. He’d spend his nights waking up from terrifying visions. He’d have conversations with ghosts who weren’t there. He’d lash out at anybody who disagreed with him. When James had to put his foot down and do something about his brother’s erratic behavior, Harrison fled and his anthropomorphic creations tried to track him down now that some of them had become soldiers and wizards themselves. Harrison’s escape led him to the highest snow-covered mountain in Rainbow Ranch, where he finally met his wizardly match: an elderly gray and white cat named Ozzie the Wise.

Ozzie tried to talk him down, tried to talk some sense into him, but Harrison’s erratic mind wouldn’t allow him to listen to reason. Ozzie was wise indeed, but even his problem-solving skills couldn’t crack the puzzle that was Harrison’s melting brain. The two of them faced off in a battle of magical energy. Harrison appeared to be getting the upper hand until Ozzie finally struck him down with a lightning bolt, causing him to roll down the mountainside and into a snowy grave. His body took days to find underneath all of that snow and Ozzie was cleared of all charges by the remaining king on account of self-defense. Harrison’s tragic tale had finally come to an end.

James couldn’t find it in his heart to bury his brother in an ordinary cemetery, so he expedited the corpse to the funeral home of an old friend, a skeletal necromancer named Razor Ripley. Despite the intimidating name, Ripley had a fondness for the animal kingdom and respect for the dead. Harrison’s body would be well taken care of under his watch and the watch of his non-humanoid Labrador Loki. This would leave James plenty of time to grieve for his fallen brother while his subjects tended to the operations of Rainbow Ranch.

This would seem like an apt place to end the story. The history of Rainbow Ranch had been written and the future seemed brighter than the wave of color in the island’s new name. Harrison would be sorely missed despite his odd behavior and penchant for revenge. He was a brother first and foremost whose heart was always in the right place. But for anyone who dearly missed him…he wouldn’t stay gone forever. It all began with a nice long psychic conversation between the disgraced King Harrison Gaines…and the soon to be anointed Loki the Skull. The phrase, “I’ll rest when I’m dead” can only be valid…if the subject is dead in the first place.

Razor Ripley

CHORUS 1

While you’re nice and cozy in your gingerbread house

Here comes Razor Ripley to tear your hearts out!

VERSE 1

A necromancer with no fucks to give

A dead man walking with no reason to live

Except to steal souls like shoplifting at Wal-Mart

Clean the whole town out, it’s his favorite part

Of every single day he walks the planet earth

Death is one part of life, another is rebirth

Casting his magic is what makes him feel alive

Raise an army of skeletons with minds like a hive

CHORUS 2

While you’re nice and comfy in your funeral parlor

Here comes Razor Ripley, respect the fire starter!

VERSE 2

All those empty souls waiting to go to hell

They were there all along when alive and well

The nine circles represented a decade in life

From childhood conformity to fucking a wife

To sitting in a nursing home waiting for the end

After spending many years in the backwards bend

Pushing buttons in an office meant nothing at all

Just like breaking your back to hang up dry wall

CHORUS 3

While you’re snuggling up on Satan’s warm lap

Here comes Razor Ripley to make the devil tap!

VERSE 3

The underworld is under new management

The Promised Land is next, the new sacrament

Some call it succession, but I’ve got a confession

Corporate power structure is a fickle motherfucker

All the NDA’s and the ass-kissing lawyers

Can’t silence necromancy or the undead warriors

A dark fantasy tale of the American variety

Is the bastard child of an uncaring society

CHORUS 4

While you’re wrapped up in shackles like a Christmas blanket

Bow down to Razor Ripley, make your final statement!

While you’re wandering the world with no mind of your own

Ask Razor Ripley if he’ll animate your bones!

McLean Wolf V Can't Fight

Sorry, ladies, gentlemen, and non-binaries: the road to hell is closed for repairs. So what do we do with all of these good intentions? We make a D&D character who has the best of them, but belly-flops at the thought of executing them. And thus we have a level one human mage created in the late 1990’s named McLean Wolf V. His name was so badass that there had to be five generations of those motherfuckers. Unfortunately, McLean was so bad at fighting that it was amazing there was one generation at all. Never mind abortion rights, because killing off the first generation would have been sufficient birth control for a fifth-generation character that turned out to be a drive-by abortion in the end. You see…how do I put this as delicately as McLean’s fragile bones? The man couldn’t fight worth a shit.

And it turns out, that’s how the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons rules designed mages to begin with. They start out with four hit points. Four! You know what that means? It means there isn’t a constitution modifier in hell that will keep him from dying from a fucking paper cut. Mages can’t wear heavy armor and they can’t use heavy weapons. McLean of course had neither of those things. He had a wizard’s robe, a knife, and a bola sling. That’s. About. It. You’d think with all of my experience playing Final Fantasy games I would have figured out a long time ago that wizard-type characters were going to be piss-poor fighters who couldn’t be self-sufficient if they tried. Tellah from Final Fantasy IV can throw all the lightning bolts he wants, but if an imp so much as pokes him with his short sword, he’s on the ground sucking his thumb like a bitch. In the very first Final Fantasy game, white mages and black mages are the first party members that monsters go after, because they’re more fragile than Lego sets. Ever wonder why bullies pick on smaller kids? Because if they picked on hulking body builders, the police would need the bullies’ dental records to identify them afterwards.

So…I’ve got McLean Wolf V ready to go for a campaign. What he lacks in fighting prowess, he makes up for in magic…provided that he studies his spells every fucking night like he’s cramming for the SAT’s. And once he exhausts his spells, he has to study them again…and again…for hours upon hours…Well, guess what, McLean? Your enemies aren’t going to give you hours and hours to prepare for them. If a barroom brawler wants to pound you into coffee grounds, he’s not going to wait for you to study your fireball spells. He’s going to beat the shit out of you weather you’re ready or not. Schoolyard bullies don’t wait for their victims to complete karate training. Terrorists don’t wait for their victims to learn how to use firearms. Nobody’s going to wait for McLean to get his nose out of his books. In fact, forget the footman’s mace, you could just take his Stephen King-sized doorstop and beat him to death with it. It would only take one hit and he’d go from lying on the ground to lying IN the ground.

And because McLean couldn’t do a damn thing on his own, my brother invited his friends Nathan and Chris to come play with us. They could wield all the battleaxes and long swords they wanted to. I, on the other hand, had to throw fireballs, lightning bolts, and magic missiles like they were substitutes for a gatling gun. And if you ever needed an indication of how forgetful of a memoirist I am (which is a lot like being a mage who can’t fight), I don’t even remember what quest we were doing or why we banded together. All I knew was that midway through the game, I wanted to tear up my character sheet and never see McLean Wolf V ever again. James, my DM brother, wasn’t having any of that nonsense. He said that if I did that, he would make my eighth level paladin Charles Goodhorn die of natural causes…even though he was only twenty-five years old. He’s not even old enough to use his bastard sword as a walking cane and already my brother wants to hold him hostage so that I’ll keep playing as a mage made of glass. I guess he was trying to motivate me to try new things since I was so accustomed to playing warrior characters. Either that or it was the 1990’s and we were constantly at each other’s throats due to the inevitability of problematic brotherhoods.

Well…the campaign continued and Chris, Nathan, and I found ourselves in the middle of a cleared forest getting our shit pushed in by orcs and goblins. Chris and Nathan’s warrior characters slashed and hacked their way through the frontlines while I was in the background preparing for a spell. This was my chance to save their lives and prove myself as a wizard. The orcs and goblins became too much to handle due to their swelling forces. Even with the heaviest equipment, Chris and Nathan couldn’t fight them all without getting swarmed. So…McLean conjured a massive fireball and rolled it onto the battlefield like a bowling ball on a snowy mountain instead of a proper bowling alley. The analogy was appropriate since the fireball indeed got bigger and bigger as it rolled along. The screams of goblins and orcs burning alive was like a Baroque symphony of beautiful music. Then came the magic missiles to take out the stragglers. And the lighting bolts to make the battlefield crispier than a bucket of KFC, though not as tasty, but probably greasy considering the monsters we were dealing with. And just like that, the battle was over and I was the hero of the day. My opinion of fragile mages hasn’t changed, but I had more fun playing them as I got older. Truth is, they’re better in groups than on their own, not unlike D&D itself. Tellah lived as long as he did because the dark knight turned paladin named Cecil protected him. Black mages are always accompanied by hulking fighters turned knights and thieves turned ninjas.

Teamwork is the name of the game. But the D&D party that wins together serves prison sentences together. It wouldn’t be a James Haines-Temons D&D campaign if it didn’t involve incarceration of some kind. At this point, we should change the name of the game from D&D to Shawshank Redemption. While none of our characters had rock hammers to dig us out or posters of Raquel Welch to cover up our schemes, McLean was allowed to keep his books. Prison libraries are a thing, not unlike The Shawshank Redemption. But why in the hell would you allow a wizard capable of throwing avalanche fireballs to have access to books? That’s his source of power! You wouldn’t give Chris and Nathan their weapons and armor, so don’t give McLean Wolf his books! Nothing made sense in the 1990’s, but this should have been glaringly obvious. I guess we’ll never know if McLean torched the whole fucking prison, because that’s where the campaign ended for the day. We never did continue it. Bummer.

I’m not against the idea of wizards in my fantasy settings. They’re aesthetically pleasing, after all, and that’s why I enjoy fantasy so much. I could have a necromancer with skulls everywhere and poison mist surrounding him. I could have a pyromancer with fiery staves and spiky red hair that resembled his flames. I could have a sorceress who wore fancy black dresses into battle and could turn the skirts of them into circular blades while she twirls in a dance. The possibilities are as endless as my imagination. But as far as playing videogames and tabletop RPG’s goes, maybe it’s best if my wizards were accompanied by other characters. Every party has a role that needs to be filled. As much as I love the idea of an all-barbarian squad, who’s going to heal them when there’s no cleric and they get their shit pushed in after being exhausted from rage? What about an all-thief party? Who’s going to protect them without a wizard’s magic spells if they get caught? Like life itself, there’s something for everybody in this world. Nobody can do everything, but everybody can do something. A wizard can’t carry the load by himself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t need a chiropractor at this point, but an embalmer.

A Brief History of Honey Valley

“Honey Valley isn’t known for its bee population.”

Throughout the history of the former dwarven lands, that joke had been beaten to death almost as badly as the soldiers who fought over control of said lands. The younger inhabitants see the word honey and instantly think of elven sex slavery, which in a perverse way had become Honey Valley’s national product. But the bloody roots of the dwarven island run much deeper than a shallow night of adult fun time. Conquest is the word of the day, and the many days after that if history seemed intent on repeating itself.

In the early days of its inception, five hundred years ago to be exact, Honey Valley didn’t even have a name. If it did, it wasn’t kept in any public records. It was simply referred to as the home island of the dwarven culture. The dwarves were labeled as savages by anybody with no knowledge of tribal culture. The dwarves made ends meet by farming and hunting for food, not generally bothering anybody. One of their favorite crops to farm was coffee beans, which they would combine with caramel to make the perfect caffeinated drink, enjoyed by mostly chiefs and other warriors higher on the pecking order.

During the course of this farming for coffee, a poisonous plant was accidentally mixed in with the ground beans and the drink was subsequently consumed by one tribal chief in particular. Instead of killing him outright, the poisonous plant turned him into a psychotic monster capable of ravaging large numbers of his own population. His skin turned bright red, his muscles bulged to the size of cannonballs, his fangs and fingernails grew into sword-like weapons, but it was his aggression that became synonymous with his genocidal tendencies.

As the poisoned chief slaughtered his own kind, more dwarves became infected with his brain-altering disease. This went on for several years until the entire dwarven population was cannibalizing each other. When they got too feral for each other, they swam across the sea to the mainland looking for victims to dine on. The dwarves were so powerful that they couldn’t be fought off by ordinary soldiers and civilians; they could only be negotiated with once the poison tapered off.

In exchange for the dwarves not invading their lands, several kingdoms offered to donate prisoners to the island whether they were deserving of a death sentence or not. This arrangement continued for several years until the prison population exceeded the rabid dwarves’ appetites. Among those imprisoned on the island was a green-skinned woman named Ryoka, who is believed to be the first “elf” in the history of the world.

The greenish hue, pointy ears, and funky-colored eyes were believed to be part of a rare auto-immune disease Ryoka had. As a result of her strange appearance, she was bullied by her peers to the point where she couldn’t find work and ultimately lived on the streets. Her official imprisonment came when she appeared to conjure magic and set one of her tormentors on fire. Ryoka went on a killing spree against those who wronged her until she was caught and sent to the dwarven island along with several other dangerous prisoners.

In addition to Ryoka, an elite human warrior known as Thomas Xavier joined the roster that would be known for driving the dwarven population underground, never to be seen again. The kingdoms got greedy with their prison exiles and sent too many fighters over to the island. Now that the humans and Ryoka were the supreme masters of what would later be called Honey Valley, they started forging their own alliances and building their own towns and kingdoms. The northern territory belonged to the Atwood lineage, Atwood being a literal name for living near the forest. The central territory was home to the Shadow Asylum mercenary guild, a longstanding organization headed by the ultra-rich Rinehart family.

Ryoka and Thomas Xavier found their own paradise in the southern portion of the island, a forested area with a lovely beach at the tip. Because of the threat of the infection keeping the northern, central, and southern territories isolated from each other, Ryoka and Thomas had enough alone time together to forge a romantic relationship and begin the Xavier bloodline. Several generations of isolation has led to a growth period of the elven race, to the point where their magic usage was becoming too much of a threat to the northern and middle territories.

The official start of human racism towards elves began when an elven boy accidentally set Morgan Town on fire with too little control over his own magical powers. An overabundance of magical energy swirling around wasn’t uncommon in those days and ultimately the Morgan Town government and Atwood monarchy teamed up together to keep the elves under control. Generations of brainwashing, beatings, and enslavement of elves were done to ensure no more accidents would happen and that magic would be completely erased from the elven culture. The xenophobia was bad enough, but when the disenfranchisement of elves became a business, that would be how the new generation of prisoners would negotiate with the mainland.

The newly minted Honey Valley was now in good standing with the mainland kingdoms with elven slave trade becoming lucrative. Slavery was even used to rebuild Morgan Town and refurnish the northern and middle territories with technology unheard of at the time. As traumatizing as the slave trade was for elves, they would get their well-deserved reprieve from their nightmares in the form of a “lion god” they dubbed Mageta.

To this day, the elves don’t know if Mageta was an actual lion who succumbed to the dwarves’ infection or if it was a powerful elf who wore the skin of a lion. Either way, this lion god would prove instrumental in keeping the elves safe for a long enough time that they could get back on their feet again. By the time Mageta was hunted and killed by slave trading warriors, the elves were powerful enough that they could forge their own empire with the recuperation time they were given.

The elves were so grateful for Mageta’s help that they built an entire religion around him, which is still practiced to this day. Because actual history was lost in the elven/human conflict, most of the mythology surrounding this religion was crafted by creative minds. Storytellers, artists, and poets came together to give the elven race their epic Magetan tale, which is why many elves are regarded as being creative types. But with this creative prowess, there was still a need for the elves to defend themselves against the humans that hated them so much. Many Magetan zealots became soldiers hardened by combat and rigorous training. While elves are seen as being overly sensitive, the trauma they hold deep is just waiting to be unleashed on a xenophobic human waiting to strike.

Just as the southern elves began a quest to find their missing brethren who were lost to the slave exchange, another force emerged in the form of a mobile castle run by the Stonewall Kingdom. The knights were sent to investigate the happenings of Honey Valley, but they were short on manpower due to some of their own soldiers and citizens being caught up in the slave trade despite not being elves. Without the support of their superiors, the Stonewall Kingdom had no choice but to throw money at Shadow Asylum since they had no loyalty to any crown.

The current Queen of the Xavier bloodline, Llewellyn, wants to secure a trade deal with the current Stonewall King, Lars, since his mobile castle brought so much technology with it that the elves could use for farming and rebuilding. While Lars and Llewellyn have the same goal in mind of eliminating the slave trade forever, they are two different rulers with a lack of real communication between them.

And now here we are in the year 500 PM (Post-Mageta). The table is set for all out war among the different kingdoms and territories. The Atwood monarchy seems intent on expanding its power and not giving up any sliver of it to the other territories. Shadow Asylum wants to maximize profit and grow fat together off of their earnings. The Xavier and Stonewall monarchies want to put an end to generations of torment and anguish, which all began with the bullying of a green-skinned woman with pointy ears. Who will survive?

Somewhere beneath the surface are the dwarves who have not been heard from since the takeover of the mainland prisoners. Will they rise again? Will they take back their island and erase the Honey Valley name forever? If the threat is not real, then the paranoia is.

The Fiend

 Consumers of storytelling should never have to compromise when it comes to good character work. Apparently, the readers of the Wrestling Observer Newsletter agree with me given how often they slaughter Bray Wyatt in the yearly awards. No, this isn’t just a minor disagreement. They annihilate him! They murder him! They brutalize him! They do all the things he could never do to his opponents when it counts the most. Oh sure, they’ll give him the Stockholm Syndrome treatment with the Best Gimmick awards in 2013 and 2019. And trust me, there’s a lot to be said about playing a demented cult leader and an indestructible monster on TV. But unfortunately for Mr. Wyatt, that’s where the praise ends and the raging against terrible booking begins.

Most Overrated Wrestler in 2020 (that’s a little harsh, all things considered, but okay). Worst Feud of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton. Worst Feud of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins. Worst Feud of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman. Worst Gimmick in 2017 for being the bodily host for the spirit of Sister Abigail. Worst Gimmick in 2020 for doing the same indestructible monster character in 2019, but with more losses and more ridiculousness. Worst Match of the Year in 2014 against John Cena in a Steel Cage match (deep voiced child, anybody?). Worst Match of the Year in 2017 against Randy Orton (the worms…all those fucking worms!). Worst Match of the Year in 2019 against Seth Rollins in a Hell in a Cell match (a.k.a. the match without rules and limitations that ended in a disqualification anyways). Last and surely least, Worst Match of the Year in 2020 against Braun Strowman in a Wyatt Swamp Fight (there was no clear winner in this cheesy horror movie with more plot holes than I can count).

So…how did this happen? How did the WWE fuck up this badly when they had handfuls of gold with Bray Wyatt’s various characters? How do you fuck up a charismatic cult leader who could and would kill you with a screwdriver if he wanted to? How do you fuck up a creepy children’s show host who looks crazy enough to be on the sex offender registry and therefore shouldn’t be around children? How do you fuck up an indestructible monster with a hideous, ugly, nightmarish face that would put Pink Floyd and Slipknot to shame? How do you fuck up a character with so many layers, so much creativity, and so much potential to be a top star for the rest of eternity? I’ve got your answer right here: he loses too much.

Yep, that’s right. He’s a three hundred pound killing machine who can hit like a cannonball and move like a cruiserweight. His dialogue is so cryptic, so seductive, yet so terrifying that it’ll echo in your mind like a schizophrenic voice for days on end. If he tells you he’s going to murder you in a cold blood and leave your corpse for the buzzards to feast on, you don’t question him for a second…until he loses all of his biggest matches. He talks a big game and never backs it up when it matters. The audience is so used to seeing him fail that when he finally does add a championship or two to his resume, nobody cares. All the Hawaiian shirts, bowler hats, demonic masks, and pedophilic tendencies don’t mean shit if no one believes in the villain who embodies those traits.

Even if you don’t watch wrestling and have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about, you as authors should still take Bray Wyatt’s story and career as a cautionary tale when creating your own villains. If you want to create a convincing villain, you can splatter them with all the creative tropes in the world as long as they’re powerful enough to make their eventual defeat believable and meaningful. I’m not saying the villain has to win EVERY time, but his losses should be in small ways that don’t derail whatever momentum he has. 

You think Darth Vader would be an iconic villain from the Star Wars franchise if he kept getting his ass kicked by the rebels? Fuck no, he wouldn’t have! So what does he do to solidify his power? He cuts off Luke Skywalker’s hand, he imprisons Han Solo and hands him over to Boba Fett to be frozen in carbonite, he destroys entire planets with his Death Star battle station, and he murders the fuck out of Obi-Wan Kenobi. If you’re coming for Darth Vader’s head, you’d better paralyze his ass, because he’ll kill you the first chance he gets.

Your main villain doesn’t have to have political power over an entire galaxy. Maybe he can have power over another person. Maybe he can kidnap somebody and bend them to his will through mind-fucking torture and endless agony. Can his captive defeat him over and over again for the story to be believable? Hell no! But can his captive run away for a little while and get recaptured and brutalized over and over again? Sure! Even if the kidnapper gets an infected bite on his arm, that’s still a small enough defeat that he’s not completely gone just yet. Maybe he has no medical supplies for that wound. Maybe over the course of the story, he has to travel a long way to the nearest hospital for care. The longer he travels, the sicker he becomes. Even if he does make it to the hospital, he still risks getting captured himself, but by the police. So many layers to this story, yet the kidnapper in question is still a villain you love to hate and would love to see systematically destroyed.

Now…take those two scenarios I laid out and replace the head villains in charge with “The Fiend” Bray Wyatt. He’s the last motherfucker who deserves to wield a light saber. He shouldn’t be allowed near anybody whom he can easily stuff into his windowless van on its way to a room with no view. Long dreadlocks that look like Cthulu’s tentacles. A face with an enormous grin, rotten teeth, and ripped skin. A lantern with Bray Wyatt’s original head covering the light. Dialogue peppered with death threats and seductive promises of the darkest kind. Immunity to pain that his torture victims could only dream of having during their times of torment. If he’s written like a killer, he will succeed in these roles and become even more iconic than his predecessors. If he’s written like a chump like he’s been for most of his career, Siskel and Ebert will come back from the dead just so they can shit all over whatever story he’s a part of. And then they’ll be put back in their graves by The Fiend’s necromantic powers.

Even the most brain-dead authors understand the idea of the villains having a shit-load of power. Power can come from anywhere, but if a villain has a lot of it, then his defeat will be even more incredible, especially if the hero comes from modest means. But that of course is giving the WWE too much credit. They used to know how to build stars. Hulk Hogan, The Ultimate Warrior, Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Rock, and John Cena are all shining examples of their success in that department. But as Vince McMahon got older and slower, so did his storytelling. 

As the CEO of WWE, Vince gets the final say in whatever creative decisions make it to television. When his brain is rotting that badly and he has that much influence over the shows, people start to notice and people turn off their televisions. I turned off mine in 2018 and haven’t turned it back on for WWE since then. Thanks, guys, for completely murdering my love for pro-wrestling. And an extra special thanks goes to the geniuses who set Bray Wyatt up to fail. He had all the creative potential in the world. He could have been a badass villain everyone can be scared of. But not anymore. That makes me sad. I’m sure it makes him sad as well.

Authors, if you’re going to make your readers sad, do it the old-fashioned way by killing off their favorite characters or at least badly torturing them. Don’t do it by creating awful villains. And don’t do it by creating awful heroes and neutral characters either. If you’re going to create a character cast, do it right! Make them three-dimensional. Make them overflow with personality. Saddle them with crazy gimmicks. But most importantly, make their victories and losses believable, for fuck’s sake! 

(sigh)

…In case it wasn’t abundantly clear already, my heart hurts for Bray Wyatt and all of his incarnations (except for Husky Harris, but he was just learning how to do decent character work at the time, so I shouldn’t be too hard on him). Wrestling fans were angry as hell in 2020 when the Wrestling Observer Newsletter put out their yearly awards and Bray Wyatt was absolutely wrecked. If those same fans still believe in the magic of Bray Wyatt, then they’re certainly welcome to. I’m not going to shit all over their happiness in that regard. So maybe the negative attention has less to do with the wrestler himself and more to do with the way he’s portrayed on TV. Even Dave Meltzer, the head journalist in charge of the WON, called him a genius when it came to his character work. I bet it hurts him and the rest of his voters to do Bray dirty like that. But silencing criticism is the same thing as acknowledging the problem doesn’t exist. WWE fucked up Bray Wyatt like a bunch of idiots and now they’re surprised when he doesn’t connect with everyone who watches him. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

The Scatomancer

The lighthouse bathroom was the only one available for miles at Cheney Park. Not a good night to have overstuffed intestines…and an even worse night to be trapped in the men’s room with Johnny Lockwood. The black hoodie-wearing youngster sat in the middle stall with his knees to his chest and amber-colored magic swirling in his hands. His wide grin counted as a bold attempt to stifle his laughter, a low bar to clear for a man with an immature mind. “This is going to be good…this is going to be so good…” A tiny chuckle escaped his throat, but he quickly suppressed it when he heard the steel door burst open and business loafers tapping across the tile floor.

Judging from what Johnny could see underneath his stall door, the thick legs filling out business slacks suggested that whoever burst into the bathroom had a lot of…ammunition to work with. He put his non-magic-wielding hand over his mouth to keep his giggles in check. The corpulent corporate rushed into the stall next to Johnny and pulled his pants around his ankles long before the door could lock. Johnny’s giggles were laced with spitting noises as he saw a yellow stain in the front of the man’s white briefs.

The scatomancer went to work right away, forming symbols and gestures with his hands to cast his first spell. On cue, the stranger’s bowl movements sounded like a bomb going off, the splatter of toilet water suggesting the same. The man’s moaning didn’t deter Johnny from casting another spell, this time shooting feces from his pudgy cheeks like a fire hose. The poor bastard’s grunts and groans sounded more like a dying opera singer performing his magnum opus. Johnny held his aching ribs while struggling to keep his laughs under control.

For his final trick, Johnny pointed his fingers upwards and trembled as the amber magic did its work. The man screamed and hollered as he tried to give birth to a rock-hard wrecking ball, causing little droplets of blood to tap the floor. “Get out of my ass!” he shouted, causing Johnny’s laughter to make him lose control of the spell. The intestinal boulder collapsed into the toilet and completely destroyed it, spreading muddy water all over the floor and moistening its sticky surface. The man wiped his ass with toilet paper, but not without crying out like a torture rack victim. He didn’t even stop to wash his hands. He got out of there as fast as his hulking body could take him.

Johnny howled and hooted with laughter as he exited his own stall, holding his spine the entire time. “Ouch! Ouch! Oh my god, that was gold! Holy shit!” Even after seeing his scatomancy teacher standing across the bathroom with his arms folded in disgust, the hee-haws never stopped. They slowed down, but without making a complete stop. “Owen, did you see that? I got him good! Come on, man, laugh!”

Owen Murphy, a dark-haired middle-aged gentleman with a cloak covering his body (but thankfully not touching the floor) spat back at his protégé. “Multiple generations of potent magic has all come to this, it seems. The lost art of scatomancy has been reduced to a goddamn JOKE!”

Johnny’s laughter abated and his smile sagged into disappointment. “Joke? You mean it wasn’t a joke before? I’m literally a shit wizard! Most wizards like to shoot lightning bolts and fireballs from their fingertips. I control shit!”

Owen slapped Johnny across the face and killed the last remnants of laughter remaining. “You do more than just control shit. You have the power of life and death in your hands. Your little middle school prank could have killed him! Losing that much weight within seconds could have dehydrated him to death!”

Johnny waved him off. “Don’t worry, Master Murphy, he’ll gain all the weight back after he stuffs down a couple more chocolate-covered pork roasts.”

“So not only is lethal diarrhea funny to you, but also obesity. You truly have the mind of a toddler, Johnny. If your father didn’t have so many goddamn connections, you would have been fucked off a long time ago!”

With wide eyes and a hunched spine, Johnny said, “Dude! I’m a shit wizard! You taught me how to manipulate shit! Those jokes pretty much write themselves! So an army of dragons comes breathing down our necks. So what are we supposed to do about it with all of this cosmic knowledge we have? Do we make the dragons shit themselves to death? Oh, that’ll go over like a fart in church! See what I did there?”

Owen death gripped Johnny’s shoulders and made him hiss in pain. The master’s face oozed with anger, seriousness, and a little bit of psychopathy. In a gravelly whisper that could force giants to quiver in fear, he said, “I don’t have time to re-teach you the applications of scatomancy. You’ve had years to process it in your head. It’s more than just shit magic, Johnny. It’s biology. It’s pathology. It’s a pathway to information we wouldn’t otherwise have. So excuse me if I don’t share your immature sense of humor over magic that shouldn’t be toyed with!” Owen gave an extra tight squeeze and Johnny yelped.

He swatted his master’s hands away. “Alright, jeez, you don’t have to bite my head off! I’m sorry, okay! I won’t do it again! Like you said, I’ve had years to process this.” Owen’s mask of rage softened. “But then again…Fudge Tunnel McGee had years to process his string cheese and hotdogs and look how that turned out. Phew! Smells like chemical warfare in here!” Owen face-palmed. “Hey, there’s another useful application for shit magic, I mean, scatomancy: chemical weaponry! More powerful than a nuclear bomb and more radiation cancer! Huh? Yeah!”

Still with his face in his hands, Owen said, “I have lost all respect for you, Johnny. You could have been the chosen one of our sacred order. You could have lived up to your potential as the greatest wizard of your generation. All that time teaching you…it went to waste.”

“You’re damn right it went to waste! It’s all over the goddamn floor!”

“Goodbye, Johnny. I never want to see you again. If your father gets nepotistic on me, I’ll be sure to tell him that you’re a bigger piece of shit than what came out of…no, I’m not giving you comic fodder. You don’t deserve to laugh. I’d tell you to give up magic and get a job making pizzas at a gas station, but…”

“But my hands are too dirty for the job?”

Owen sighed, tucked his chin in disillusionment, and trudged out of the bathroom, dragging his wizard’s slippers across the murky floor. Johnny shrugged his shoulders before Owen poked his head in again. “Oh, and by the way…that gentleman you just pranked? He’s on the Board of Magic Education. His name is Bill Grass. If you want to laugh about how his last name rhymes with a certain expletive, be sure to tell him that to his face.” Owen slammed the door behind him.

“What does he mean by that?”

Somebody behind Johnny cleared his throat and the magician got a lump in his as he slowly turned around to face him. There he was: Chairman Bill Grass, complete with hands on his wide hips and a gorgon death stare on his bearded face. Needless to say, he wasn’t in the mood for comedy.

“Hey, Chairman…” Johnny looked down as he twiddled his fingers and thumbs. “How’s it going?” Bill tapped his foot with impatience. “Eh, I already know how it’s going, if you know what I mean.” Johnny placed his hands over his own mouth, as if trying to put the joke back where he got it from.

“You like jokes, Mr. Lockwood? You like making people laugh? Here, let me help you out with that.” Bill scooped Johnny off the ground, the young wizard begging and pleading to be put down. And so Bill did as he body slammed his attacker onto the scatomantic sludge. Johnny’s back and ribs pulsated with pain as he struggled to take even the simplest of breaths. He wouldn’t have wanted those breaths anyways since they all tasted and smelled like an intestinal plutonium rod.

“Go ahead, Johnny. Get up! Leave the bathroom! I dare you! You’ve got an entire student body gathered outside. You want people to not be so sensitive and have a sense of humor? Well, they’ll be laughing at you for years to come, my friend. Enjoy the attention! You’ll never shake it off again. Oops! I said shake it off in a men’s bathroom. Silly me!” Bill horse-laughed as he exited the bathroom, leaving Johnny in a painful heap on the ground.

Johnny had the choice to punch up with his sense of humor rather than punch down. He could have made something of himself. After that body slam by Chairman Grass, he’ll be the stuff of legend for as long as he lives, but not in the way that Owen Murphy had envisioned for him. Johnny rolled over onto his knees and pounded the ground in frustration, shouting a few curses for good measure. The splash of the toilet water got into his mouth and he immediately puked his guts out all over the floor, becoming an even bigger legend in the process. The best he could have done was laugh with his contemporaries, but his ribs and spine were too sore for that. In a way, his bones were one in the same with his spirit: broken down and never to be fixed again. The only question of the evening was…who’s laughing now?