Direct sequel to this but this works out of context.
Wizards are a fragment of popular cultures and they are known for one quality: being wizardly.
It would be bereft of me however to discuss the topic of what it means to be a wizard. I, as the author, assume your knowledge of wizards and such lore, and request to proceed forward with our story because first off, this is a story about no ordinary wizard and you might as well throw all your expectations out the window. But it is important to be reminded of their lack of proper wizarding, and because this is a tale of comedic blunders and scuffles, and for the pacing to come out correctly, I apologize, but the first thing to be banished from this piece must be the discussion of proper wizarding.
This is a story that begins with a cloaked figure standing on a hilltop, looking at a large tower shaped like a busted-up trombone.
I think you, the reader, could assume who this cloaked figure is so I would like to move past that. I mean, hey, you already read the ticket stub, right? We all know what we’re in for, so let’s save that character for later and proceed to the poor sap of a villain that we have on our platter for today.
Bits of stone and brick flew around the room like a sandstorm as Elder Ragnarok, a giganticized human with a twirly mustache, stormed about his quarters, cloak lashing out as he threw his little tantrum.
“I’ve tried everything Igor!” Ragnarok jeered as he pirouetted to redirect his anger to his minion who was not quite named Igor, but Munchkin. “I’ve tried everything! Flames and electricity and ice and I know not what else because I have been torturing him…” And this he said with a great flourish. “FOR WEEKS!”
Munchkin frowned and looked up from his brown hands. It appeared that he had forgotten to wipe after his most recent excursion to the bathroom. Don’t worry, this disgusting knave will be disposed of soon.
His name was not Igor, and it did bother him so, but it was his primary duty as a minion to the Elder to be called Igor and not say anything about it.
Because you see, Elder Ragnarok is an unobservant fellow. Why, in fact, last time I saw him, he was pouring some hot tea for me and mistakingly poured all of it into his shoe. And by the gods he didn’t even notice! Oh, drat, you are right, I am showing off my social life with this passage. My deepest regrets. At least I didn’t take time out of your day to discuss proper wizarding though, eh?
Elder Ragnarok, to his amazing stupidity, had hundreds of minions all on his payroll, but he never noticed because they all let him call them Igor.
“Mmmmmmaster…” Munchkin slurred, slobbering over the floor to befit the image of a proper minion. “You don’t understand! This is no ordinary Wizard!”
“HOW DARE YOU!” Ragnarok screamed in a shrill voice, shaking his gigantic fists at the ceiling. “The only unordinary wizard is me! Me! Timothy—uh—erm—Elder Ragnarok!”
Munchkin groaned and slapped their bony hand to their tiny forehead. Someone needed to tell him who this fool was trying to torture.
“You groan at me, Igor?!” Ragnarok shouted while puffing out his chest, looming over his goblin minion.
“Mmmmmmmmmaster no!” Munchkin squealed, concealing their misshapen head behind their tiny claws, brushing their face as if trying to sweep it under the rug. “The Wizard is the master of the Wizard Who Knows All Magic But Prefers a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else!”
Like many of the Igors that Ragnarok cycled through, Munchkin found themselves being whipped into the air by horrible magic, and was launched out of the tower. Good riddance to a poopy rapscallion I say.
“WE DON’T TALK ABOUT THAT WIZARD HERE!” Ragnarok stormed, only able to fish the lame comeback out after a full minute of silence in his now very messy room. “Oh, drat, though, if what Igor says is true then I will truly be in for an ass whoopin’ so bad I may cry tonight.”
He rubbed his butt at the thought of having it whooped.
Munchkin hit the ground on his jaw, rolling continuously, the world whirling into a brown blur as he rolled down Ragnarok’s Summit. It wasn’t until a quaint brown slip-on shoe dug its heel into the ground that Munchkin’s descent reached a definite end.
Munchkin rubbed his cute little bum and looked up at the cloaked figure that saved his life. White flesh and a soft jaw were all that could be seen beneath the hood. Munchkin reached up and felt gold coins clink into his open palm.
“Go,” the cloaked figure said in a high voice. “Live your life.”
This, of course, was the hero of our story. Now I know it would be best for the narrative to reveal this little factoid later at a more crucial moment, but gosh, I just get so worked up over this fella.
Munchkin looked at the gold pile in his hand and shed a tear for now he could finally pursue his heart’s greatest desires: To be the owner of a Slip-and-Slide ®. The minions in the backroom would love it. Ah, but this would mean he would have to become Igor again and what the cloaked figure seemed to be implying was that he shouldn’t.
Munchkin looked up at the brave cloaked figure who had stooped before the doorway to pick the lock. “Master Ragnarok is a powerful sorcerer — you must be careful.”
“Please,” the cloaked figure laughed. “I’m going to whoop his fucking ass raw, dude.”
Munchkin gasped. An ass whoopin’? Aimed at the buttocks of Elder Ragnarok? Utter madness.
“Sometimes the only way to defeat madness, little one,” the cloaked figure stated as if they could read Munchkin’s mind. “Is to give into your own personal madness.”
My apprentice proofread this draft for me and tugged at me sleeve, pointing at the page repeatedly. “Don’t you realize, THIS, this is the passage where it is heavily apparent that The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else indeed does use magic? How else would they know what Munchkin was thinking?”
First, I cried, at the thought of someone discussing my work, but then, I thwapped them upon the head with two fingers. For of course The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else did not use magic in this instance, but was in the form of a rather insightful youth who cared about people and understood their thought processes.
Thus the unlocked door slammed tight and Munchkin’s thoughts immediately went back to the aforementioned Slip-and-Slide, which, if I may say, was a bad call on how to use the funds, and I’d like to tell you that after this day Munchkin died soon after with no friends and no Slip-and-Slide but instead a handful of wacky tobaccy.
Remember kids. Smoking kills.
“WHY WON’T YOU TELL ME THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS YOU OLD HAG!” Elder Ragnarok spat in his infantile temper at Old Wizard Bestephanie. Old Wizard Bestephanie closed her eyes before the spit impacted her face, and smiled a bemused grin despite her aching body.
Despite all the torture and saliva, Old Wizard Bestephanie stayed strong and true because she knew her old pupil would pull through for her.
“Must I cast another evil spell on you, you hag?!” Ragnarok pouted, eyes bugging out of their sockets, threatening to split his flesh apart.
Old Wizard Bestephanie raised a wrinkled hand and her tiny digits curved towards herself. Come and get me you son of a bitch, the fingers instructed.
Unfortunately, Ragnarok wasn’t very observant and didn’t pick up on social queues well, so he had to wait a few seconds before Bestephanie realized his ineptitude and said the dreaded taunt out loud.
“You hurt me so you HAG!” Ragnarok shouted while stamping his feet across the floor, dust rising between the stones. Teeth grinding, his temple exploding with anger, he looked over his shoulder at the hag to once again scoff her but found her silently chuckling as she waved to something in the dark corner of the room.
Now, dear reader, to a normal functioning evil sorcerer mastermind curmudgeon, one would naturally assume that an intruder had entered the room, and a good-looking one at that. But Ragnarok only knew how to cast evil magic, he knew nothing of the basic communication between folks.
For he was lonely and had no friends, aside from myself, but honestly I got better shit to worry about.
“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!” Ragnarok screamed, grabbing the bars, pushing his face up against the rust like a mad dog. Old Wizard Bestephanie let out a tiny gasp no louder than the rustle of a paper bag, and shrugged. Grabbing his face, thumbs pushing against his eyes, Ragnarok screamed as if he had just stepped on a Lego. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAH I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!”
Holding his hand out, imitating her hand wave, he tapped his wrist with his pinky finger as he rotated his hand from side to side. “I don’t get it,” he murmured.
Turning again to the old wizard, he drew his lower lip in to attempt to repress the rage. “Is that the secret to happiness? That—gesture—oh—wait—what are you doing?”
Now Old Wizard Bestephanie was giving a thumbs up to a different corner of the room. Ragnarok’s eyes popped out once again and he rubbed his hand so hard against his face that he nearly scooped the flesh right off. But alas, Ragnarok remained intact enough to get upset another day.
“JUST USE YOUR WOOOOOORDS!” Ragnarok decreed, gesturing wildly, a way that only the finest pizza makers in Italy could translate.
This went on for some time, what with the gesturing and the tantrums and the humorous depictions of these events at the fingertips of the brilliant and might I daresay, beautiful, author, Charles Dickens. That’s right. I’m back, baby.
In previous drafts, we tested a version where Old Wizard Bestephanie used gestures such as winks, butt shaking, tummy pats, and nods, and each time—you guessed it—Ragnarok got real upset over it and said some things that he definitely wouldn’t want memorialized in his high school yearbook.
But it was very repetitive and The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else asked me personally if we could trim it down because it even got on their nerves. I, the author, Charles Dickens I guess, am supposed to ignore such things and be thorough in my examinations of these complicated characters, but alas I am weak and stupid, and don’t know my left hand from my right, so of course I gave in.
“Look, man, what’s going on?” the cloaked figure groaned while tapping on Ragnarok’s shoulder angrily.
Ragnarok whirled around and jabbed a finger up the pointed nose of the cloaked figure. “IGOR!”
The cloaked figure’s resulting groan was so grating that it tossed up the hair that hung over their right eye.
Additionally, Ragnarok’s scream was so thunderous that the evil wizard’s uvula was in full sight, waggling from the vibrations, for a lengthy period of time. “Would you be a lamb, go downstairs, and grab my index on gestures and what they mean?”
“Nah, man,” the cloaked figure shook their head, fingers hooking onto their belt, and walked back into the shadows where they disappeared.
Blinking, Ragnarok let his smile shine as he clapped both hands together. Stiffly turning on his heel, he bowed politely to Old Wizard Bestephanie. “Sorry about Igor.”
Words failed Old Wizard Bestephanie so she merely rolled her eyes, hand pushing up her plump cheek.
“Aw jeez—again with the gestures…” Ragnarok sighed, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose so heavily that they inadvertently threatened to collapse the flesh between the eyes and meld his peepers into old singular sight-hole. “Have you like—not caught on to how this works with me yet? Ah, forget it, I’m just going to kill you.”
And thus, Ragnarok waved his arms, charging up a magic spell that would surely have ended the life of Old Wizard Bestephanie. Death by a Fireball-Wizaroo-Slamarama-Bing-Bang-Beam Spell, the worst way to go, many a wizard had been claimed this very way at the hands of Ragnarok.
I would like to take a moment to say that at this point of writing, I took a break and rubbed my hands in excitement as the ass whoopin’ finally reached its fruition.
As the Fireball-Wizaroo-Slamarama-Bing-Bang-Beam Spell soared at the gentle, unassuming face of Old Wizard Bestephanie, a cloak was whipped before the blast, eliminating the spell in the air, ashes falling to the dusty floor perfectly between the two wizards.
“What—HOW COULD THIS BE?!” Ragnarok spat.
It was at that very moment that our friend, The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else, and note, I do not copy and paste that in every time, I type it by hand because it means so much to me, but anyways, it was this moment that The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else swooped down from up above and crashed on top of Ragnarok, kicking him in the back of the head, sending his jaw crashing into the floor.
But hark! The Wizard was not yet through with the ass whoopin’ for mid-fall, they backflipped off of Ragnarok’s spine and landed firmly on the floor, both knees bent ever so slightly so they could spring back into combat.
Ragnarok, frothy at the mouth, like a man overdosing on tooth paste, turned to The Wizard and saw them dressed in their usual manner: a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt and skinny jeans.
The Wizard outstretched two fingers and bent them towards themselves.
“He doesn’t get that,” Old Wizard Bestephanie chuckled to the Wizard. “Not good with gestures.”
“Oh right,” the Wizard chirped. “Come and get me then you dumb fuck.”
Ragnarok screamed a blood curdling yell that betrayed his next maneuver: a Blast-Blast-Boom-Boom spell. A shockwave erupted from Ragnarok’s finger tips that tore the room apart, each individual brick being whipped from the floor and thrown towards the Wizard.
This was of course an idiot thing to do because Ragnarok, instead of smartly using magic that could dominate the Wizard, instead chose to use magic that influenced nature to strike—and this was stupid because the Wizard was very good at using their shotgun.
Thus the rootin’ tootin’ Wizard whipped out their shot gun and fired away, blasting each brick into shards and dust, shards and dust that slapped their Hawaiian shirt, graying it and shredding it. Ooh, this made the Wizard mad.
Seeing the ever calm Wizard furrow their brow ever-so-slightly was a good sign that an ass whoopin’ was coming very soon, so Ragnarok threw his elbows to his chest and cowered, summoning a Blastaroney-Wind-Spout-Shoot-Shoot-Beam-of-Doom Spell.
Wind burst from the floor at The Wizard’s feet, sending them careening towards the ceiling. Any regular mortal would have died in this moment, the wind sandwiching them against the ceiling and killing them. But of course for the Wizard, things would be just fine.
Flipping over in the air, the Wizard planted their feet firmly on the ceiling, their thunder thighs and calves popping with pain, preventing their body from being completely pancaked as the wind crushed them. Grinning, the Wizard dashed across the ceiling and leapt out of the wind torrent, and held out their shot gun.
Ragnarok screamed as the Wizard’s shadow loomed over them and became bigger and bigger until the Wizard landed on the floor, their out-stretched shot gun smashing Ragnarok in the head.
Old Wizard Bestephanie laughed as the Wizard winked over to them.
Ragnarok clenched their teeth for they knew at this moment that it was all a play — a farce even! His utter humiliation at the hands of a no-magic-no-nonsense kind of wizard.
“You think you can beat me Wizard?!” Ragnarok said, fingers wiggling in excitement. “How about this?!”
The Wizard patted their shotgun in preparation.
Then all of a sudden, the Wizard’s eardrums pounded with the taunts of a thousand Ragnaroks, clones of him appearing all around the room, running about with their arms splayed and tongues a-wagglin’.
The Wizard had so many ways they could stop this and the only reason it took so long for the Wizard to put an end to this racket was because they were overwhelmed with choice. Here are some of the ideas that sprang to the Wizard’s mind:
1.) Use the shotgun to blast the Hallelujah out of each clone.
2.) Toss the shot gun like a boomerang and let it fly around the room, hitting each clone upside the head.
3.) Hold their foot and trip one clone, which could cause a dog-pile of each clone to form and likely collapse the floor under the sheer weight.
4.) Go over to the cell Old Wizard Bestephanie was in, grab tightly the iron bars, and shoot the heck out of the dilapidated floor until it collapsed under the feet of the clones.
5.) Shout “Hey! Which of you is the real one?” and wait a second until the real one pointed at themselves excitedly and went, “Why it’s me!”
Clearly the choice of casting a Thousand-Mes-And-A-Thousand-Hearts was a bad call.
Instead, the Wizard was kind of tired because they had slain so many beasties that day already, so they chose to do nothing.
Hours passed of the clones running amok going “Nyaaaah nyah-nyeh-nyah-nyeh!” And it was quite grating, but as the minutes ticked by, Ragnarok’s shrill, excitable voice faded into a low drone.
At the final hour, the clones trudged around slowly, taking as long to make a full rotation of the room as the Earth did the Sun.
Eventually, the clones all packed up their things and left, little sacks tied to sticks slung over their shoulders, leaving the original Ragnarok in tears as he fell to his knees before the Wizard and jammed the shotgun into his forehead.
“Do it,” Ragnarok sputtered, his shining tears lining his face in a way that revealed the haphazard chunks that composed his face.
“Nah, not like that,” the Wizard sighed, tossing the shot gun over to Old Wizard Bestephanie. “Hold onto that, Teach.” Turning back to Ragnarok, flipping their hand to get the bang out of their eyes, the Wizard threw both hands to their hips.
“Say my name,” the Wizard smirked.
Ragnarok drew in a deep sigh, his coarse breath like sandpaper to his tongue. Looking up, jaw clenched, he said it. “You are The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers the Heft of a Shotgun in Their Hands to Anything Else.”
“Nope,” the Wizard chirped. “Today, I am The Wizard Who Knows All Forms of Magic But Prefers to Make Dramatic Well-Thought Out Entrances and Whoop Ass instead.”
And thus, the Wizard whooped Ragnarok’s ass.