siliquasquama

Oh, I should have been posting the previous chapters of this story! Well here's number 7 anyway. If you like post-apocalyptic stories, and you like Harry Potter, why not try something that combines the two? Have fun reading!

Book 1: Ha ha, look, it's a talking hat!

Book 3: You're being guarded from a murderer by physical manifestations of depression, but don't worry, if you master the magical manifestation of hope you can chase them away. go get 'em, tiger!

Book 5: Okay, so about the depression thing, everyone hates you because of a government smear campaign that they're doing to deny that their biggest enemy has come back. But at the very least you can fuck up this one teacher that's ruining your school, that's something.

Book 7: Okay, so about the government's greatest enemy, he took over the government. Now you're going to need this thing called a "resurrection stone". It doesn't resurrect anything, but it brings back the shades of your loved ones, so at the very least you can have some company when you walk towards the worst enemy of Wizardkind to get slaughtered. But, to be frank, that's the most anyone could do in this situation, and if you brought living companions they might get killed, so it's best if your companions are already dead. Don't worry, at your funeral we'll talk about how useful you were.

Epilogue: Ha ha, look, it's a talking hat!

So I live in urban Connecticut, which everyone says is dangerous and scary, and sometimes I think they're being a bunch of racists, but sometimes I have to admit that they might have a point. Although they don't actually know how they might be right. It's got nothing to do with crime.

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All the souls that Mandos could rule,
Such was the price that was paid for -- jewels!

When I think about what Teen Adventure protagonists are like versus what actual people are like, I feel sorry for any real person who would find themselves in a world that gave rise to Teen Adventurers.

Just think about how that meeting would go.

RESPONSIBLE PERSON: What the hell do you mean, you're skipping school to do international spy adventures?

YOUNG ADVENTURER: The world needs saving all the time.

RP: And the adults are making you do it? No, you are absolutely not handling this yourself. You're getting back into that classroom and completing your studies and being safe.

YA: You honestly think you can make me?

RP: I can certainly call the fucking truancy officer! Where the hell are your parents anyway?

YA: Both dead.

RP: Oh, I'm sorry. Don't you have any other relatives?

YA: Also dead. My family's nemesis was pretty thorough. So now he's my nemesis.

RP: Do you have any adults in your life?

YA: My spy handlers.

RP: Does that mean you just live alone?

YA: Sort of? I live in my dad's seaside cottage with my monkey and my horse. And my friends visit now and then.

RP: Your friends' parents can't adopt you?

YA: My spy handlers say it wouldn't be safe.

RP: Your fucking spy handlers obviously don't a shit about your safety.

YA: I mean safe for the parents. Didn't I tell you I have a nemesis?

RP: Jesus fucking Christ. This is beyond the pay grade of Child Protective Services. Maybe I ought to call on God for this one...wait, shit, not the Catholic church. You know what? Here's what we'll do. I'll disguise myself as you and do your stupid job, and you can go to school and be with your friends and just be a freaking kid for once in your overstressed life.

YA: You want to tell me about overstressed? At least when I'm on a mission I don't have to have to worry about grades!

RP: You actually do, it's just that the grade is pass/fail and the penalty for failure is death.

YA: Death and the destruction of the world. I'm well aware of the stakes.

RP: And you think it's at all fair that all this shit is on your shoulders? This is a job for adults! Your dumbass spy handlers need to be getting actual adults to do this job! No, not even "need to be", this entire business of grabbing a random fifteen-year-old --

YA: Fourteen.

RP: Why am I not fucking surprised. Look, kid. I want to stress that part. Kid. You are being manipulated. If these freaking spy handlers actually have all their efforts riding on you then they're complete idiots, and if not, they're using you because you're at an age where it's easy to play on your pride and lure you along with dreams of glory. This is how militaries recruit youngsters to get shot and die in wars. They want people who don't know how to stand up for themselves yet. That's your situation. I don't care if you have a nemesis, these spy handlers should be taking care of him with all the resources they have. I don't care how much you're being paid to do this, it's not okay.

YA: They said I'm too young to be legally paid so they've got the money in a trust fund.

RP: Oh, sure they do. Alright, that does it, I'm someone's nemesis now. You get the hell on that school bus and I'll take care of this shit myself.

The other day, I found myself splashing water on my face in the bathroom sink and then staring into the mirror while going through an internal monologue. That was when I realized I had turned into a fictional character.

And then these little yellow boxes started floating at the suddenly sharp corners of my vision, containing many of the things i was thinking, and I thought, Oh no, I've become a comic book character!

I even felt the intermittent bolding of my words. It was horrible. Or at the very least terribly annoying.

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I would like to emphasize that I do get home in one piece every evening. Or as close to one piece as possible. But it's a bit of work; there's always something I have to deal with. And then when I get home, things are not necessarily over; sadly, I have a bit of a strained relationship with my neighbors on that account.

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So Goofy has a son.

You thought he'd gotten married and had a kid the normal way, didn't you? And his wife mysteriously vanished?

WRONG! His son is a construct, made out of old crab-meat cans and the souls of all the dead parents in the Disney canon.

( Read more... )

*Bell above door rings*

CUSTOMER WITH LONG BEARD: Good afternoon, my good man, I saw that the name of your shop involved the word "Wizards" and I just thought I'd drop in and ask, do you indeed sell anything related to magic here?

HAPLESS CLERK: Uh...yeah? Everything's related to Magic here.

CB: Excellent, excellent. And they all seem to be in the form of cards. Are they, in fact, magic cards?

HC: They're all Magic cards, yes.

CB: Capital! Now, let me see, I should like five fireballs, ten lightnings --

HC: Oh, um, I don't know what kind of decks you're building or how many, but you're only allowed to have three of each card per deck.

CB: I'm sorry, deck?

HC: For the game.

CB: Game? Magic is not a game.

HC: Oh no, sir, it very much is.

CB: You dare call it a game, you insolent -- ?

HC: I mean there's a rulebook and tournaments and everything. It's big money.

CB: Explain this...game.

HC: Well, like, you have to draw cards, and put mana on the field, so you can spend it to summon creatures and spells, and then use them to attack your opponent, and whoever loses their life points first loses the game. And it's usually a three-round match. It's really fun.

CB: Oh, I see, I see.

HC: Yeah, lots of people love it.

CB: I see, yes. You have this lovely store at the front of your business, selling a little game to distract the mundanes.  But why don't you show me where the real magic happens?

HC: I mean, we run tournaments in the basement on Saturday evenings.

CB: Oh no, no, never mind your silly card game. I want to see the real magic. Show me where the good stuff is. You know what I mean.

HC: We don't sell adult materials here, sir.

CB: Why you impertinent -- Wizards take a vow of chastity! Which you would know if you had bothered to deal in any real magic, you ignorant lowlife!

HC: Oh yeah, well maybe if you'd bothered to look up the name of the shop before coming in here you wouldn't have been an idiot in my face!

CB: How dare you! I'll show you a real fireball! HAAAAAAAAAH!

*FWOOM*

CB: Goodness, there's nothing left of him.

MANAGER: What the hell is this? What was going on out here? Why is there a huge ash stain at the front desk? Who are you?

CB: Someone who just had to deal with exceptionally terrible service.

M: Oh, a customer! I'm so sorry, sir, here, let me offer you some store credit.