The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else

WizardA Fireball Blast.

Too generic.

Necromancy.

Too morally ambiguous.

A Slam Bam Wizaroo Slamarama Bang Bang Beam.

Too obscure.

Magic.

Just lame in general.  Who needs it?

The Wizard sighed a heavy sigh, a sigh that told the story of a weary adventurer, the pain of the one who saw all four corners of the world but expected more.  They had spent centuries of their life practicing every magic there ever was and was gifted enough to master each ancient craft.  Yet despite all this, despite being the most powerful wizard of all time, this wizard had an issue.

This Wizard preferred the heft of a shotgun in their hands to anything else.  Everything else was a joke to them.

The Wizard sat in their study, polishing their shotgun for the umpteenth time.  It was a messy room.  Ancient tomes were scattered all over, their pages torn out.  Notes and doodles, that previously were neatly pinned to a cork board, laid about in messy piles.  Dirty dishes lied everywhere, all of them smeared with crusty brown oils.

It was a compact room.  The garbage had cluttered so much that it actually made a solid inch of trash across the floor.  A window twenty feet above the Wizard allowed light to shine down on the trash, revealing the dust that permeated the air.

Sometimes guests would come over and say, “Elliot,” for the Wizard liked that name very much you see, “We all get that you have mastered all magic and prefer the heft of a shotgun in your hands to anything else,” and they would pause to take a deep breath for whenever referring to The Wizard’s odd habits, it was required to mention that piece of the complex puzzle that was The Wizard’s mind, “But if you just did that thing Merlin does in that Sword in the Stone movie where he likes clean ups the room with his magic, I’d be more inclined to hang out at your place as a friend of your’s.”

Oh, how The Wizard would roll their eyes.  Once committed to the art of the shotgun barrel blast, one cannot just simply return to using magic.

Yet, the Wizard’s trash heap of a living room begged the question: What does a refusal to use magic have to do with the general cleanliness of an abode?

It’s true, the Wizard had no issue with a simple dustpan and brush, even thought the heft of those cleaning supplies did not equate to the heft of a shotgun in their hands.

The problem truly lied in the craft of The Wizard, for you see dear reader, The Wizard was a monster fighter.  They loved killin’ beasties with their shotgun, so the Wizard didn’t really work much on keeping the place clean.  (Except their bedroom was very clean; truthfully, the Wizard liked keeping their home messy to imply to guests that they were very busy with the monster fighting and all, but the Wizard actually wasn’t that into keeping a messy establishment and made sure to keep a tidy bedroom.  But do not tell The Wizard’s friends this for they would likely raise an eyebrow at this notion.)

Suddenly, The Wizard’s phone beeped.  Hark!  A text message! The Wizard checked their phone and saw a message that read:

“im outside. forgot the door code, sry.”

The Wizard smirked.  A clever ruse!  This was no text from a close friend at all!  It must have been from a beastie.

“Fuck yes,” The Wizard cheered as they got to their feet.

Let’s take a moment to appreciate The Wizard for their good looks for this was no Wizardly looking wizard.  This was a wizard going down their own path.

The Wizard had the appearance of a non-binary person in their mid-20s.  They wore argyle socks, skinny jeans, and a black wife beater.  Always.  The Wizard’s hair hung over one of their eyes, the sides shaved off.

The Wizard grabbed a blue Hawaiian shirt off their chair and tossed it on, only bothering to button the bottom three buttons.  Then The Wizard cocked their shotgun.  It was time to do some killin’.

The Wizard craned their neck to look up at the window.  Carelessly, they jumped onto their desk, knocking a stack of old tea bags onto the floor, and started climbing the wall, for the Wizard had a plan.  A wily plan at that.  Reaching the window, they pushed it open and peaked outside.

Down below, outside of The Wizard’s home was a giant writhing pink beastie with many tentacles and a single eye.  The Wizard shook their head, and leaped out the window.

The Wizard closed their eyes as they plummeted the four stories down to the ground below.  They felt the breeze rise up, a breeze that made their Hawaiian shirt go aflutter.

But alas!  A four story fall!?  With no magic!?!?  How could the Wizard survive?!  Generally, a wizard, or perhaps even a Sorcerer, nay…a sorcerer wouldn’t be clever enough, would use a Light-As-A-Feather Spell thus slowing their flight down to a point where they would not be damaged by a four story drop.

But The Wizard refused magic.

Because magic is lame as fuck.

Moments before fatally colliding with the unforgiving earth, The Wizard pointed their gun at the ground and fired off quite a blast.  The resulting bullet was so strong that it shot The Wizard five feet back up in the air.  And when they landed finally, they landed firmly on their feet.

“Hey dude,” The Wizard said, pointing their shotgun at the pink beastie.  “My door code is Zero-Zero-Zero-Zero-Pound ya fuck.”

The pink beastie let out a load groan, something along the lines of “HUUUUUUUUUH?!”

And then The Wizard shot the pink beastie in the eye and just like that the pink beastie died.

A Thunder Slam could have vanquished the terrible beast surely.

Honestly, a Gravity-Condensing-Crush would have been a fitting end that might have saved on clean-up.

Heck.

Even the Colombian-Squirrel-Madness Spell would have worked on such a dingbat of a beastie.

But nay.

A shot gun was all it took.  And all it will ever take.

Because this is a Wizard that is really good at using shot guns.

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