A NOTE FROM THE NARRATOR (ME)

The following has been translated from the olde-est of Ye Olde Englische, as spoken by the entire psychomagikal world, circa 10th century CE. Well, it technically wasn't called "Ye Olde Englische" back then, as the language had yet to be mockingly titled as such. It was actually called Elhulu, and it was the tongue of a sentient, far-too-intelligent-for-their-own-good race of singular-sexed aliens—the Elhu—who hailed from the now-destroyed, previously fifth planet of the Sol System. You know the Asteroid Belt? Yeah, that used to be their planet. Anyway, we speak their language without realizing it. Enjoy.

1: LETTER TO START THE SHOW

October 31st

964

Yo, Salazar,

Happy birthday, kid! How's your dad doin'? Whippin' up some crazy-ass potions and creating strange new devices that would boggle my mind and change the lives of Psychomagi everywhere? Haha! Probably, right?

Anyway, I'm just shooting you this letter on your birthday to let you know I've been organizing an expedition down to—what will one day be known as—South Africa. I was super-duper-hoping you and your old man would tag along with me. You will!? Great!

It would be good for you two to get out of the dungeon, too. It's not good to be cooped up in there for too long, y'know? And besides, your dear mum died not too long ago, so I'm sure you're bruisin' on the inside. Time for Unkie Mannelich to clear the sight of her lifeless corpse out of your skull! Haha!

Anyway, I'll be swinging by your pad a few minutes after you finish reading this letter, so be ready. Oh, and let your dad know, okay, champ?

Lookin' forward to seein' you! We've got a wicked journey ahead of us, Sally!

From your Pretend Uncle,

On this day of your birth,

Mannelich Aertsen Hippokoor Marsbergen

2: A HERO'S ENTRANCE

Salazar Sikkerwihn dried his eyes and then proceeded to roll them.

Laaaaame, he thought. His unrelated uncle was soooo laaaaame. Not a very nice thing to say about non-family, I know, but that's what the boy was thinking just then. He tossed the letter aside, where it fluttered down beside the smiley face–plastered envelope it had arrived in. He shooed away the packrat that had delivered the letter. It was gnawing at the walls, gathering bits of wood for its nest and demanding a tip. "No tip for you!" Salazar barked, aiming a kick well away from the animal. It scurried off, but not before urinating on the boy's shoe and swearing at him in angry-sounding squeaks.

And the bit about his dead mother was quite a low blow, even for Mannelich. But, knowing Mannelich Marsbergen the way I do—and I do, believe me—he certainly wasn't aware of how his words of whimsy would affect young Salazar.

"Why's he gotta come here, anyway?" he asked himself, collapsing on his bed and staring out his window at the dreary English countryside. Two Wandwalkers stood on the other side of a ditch and took turns cursing each other, until one turned the other into a plump chicken, grabbed him and sprinted home to tell his wife what he'd caught for dinner. Salazar sighed. "All I want to do is sit in the dark and brood. No cheery Unkie Mannelich. No Dad, trying to tell me all about the new gadgets he's built. No nothing. Nobody but me. And Mum..." He sighed again, closing his eyes and reliving the day she died at the hands of the Normals. Ripped apart by those savages. Right in front of him. She died protecting him.

He wished he'd taken her place.

Oh, but don't get depressed, dearest readers. I'm not intending for this to be a story to slash your wrists to— Woah! At least, I hope it won't be! Salazar was just in his "tenebrous teens," let's say. You know how it is, I'm sure. Everyone's lame, nothing's funny or amusing, and all you want to do is sob in an out-of-the-way bathroom in the mall by yourself with the lights off, listening to that one song by Blink-182 on repeat. You know the one.

"Where are you!" Salazar cried out to his room. "I'm so sorry!" He was talking to his mother's ghost, not—ahem, I repeat—not singing copyrighted song lyrics. Never that. A lawsuit just isn't funny, believe me.

His father Slimerius poked his head into the room. "Who are you shouting at, my boy? Are those two polecats chittering outside your window again? Be gone, you damn fiends!" He shook his fist. "Be gone, or I will create a device which will send you chittering to another realm of space–time!"

"It's nothing, Dad."

"You sure? Well, okay." He made to leave, then swung himself back around. "Oh, oh, oh! Did I tell you about my latest invention, my boy? It will revolutionize interplanetary travel as we know it! Mind you, it is still in its earliest stages, but I can assure you it will work! I've been in contact with the Elhu and we've been sending ideas back and forth. I'm using an old book I discovered in my father's possessions as influence for the technology." Slimerius had taken to pacing the room while he rambled. "Truthfully, the book has been passed down from generation to generation of Sikkerwihn. But the language is unknown. I've been working on cracking the code, you see, and I've discovered preliminary schematics for this new invention of mine! It will revolutionize— Hey, what's this?" Distracted, he bent down and picked up the letter. He quickly read it over, smiled. "Your uncle is coming to take us on an adventure! What a surprise, and on your birthday, even! My, my, this will be like the old days! Oh, I wonder when he will arrive..."

Suddenly—because that's how things work in this story—the shiny silver tip of a just-waxed sword stabbed through the wall of Salazar's room. The blade retracted, stabbed in again, withdrew itself, stabbed once more. An armoured fist punched through the wall and a hand gripped some of the splintered wood. Whoever was responsible for the damage decided to do a little more. They broke the wall down, piece by weak, waterlogged piece.

A helmeted head intruded, looked at the two faces staring back. The visor squeaked up, revealing deranged electric-blue eyes that brought to mind a severe and debilitating psychosis. The man grinned a wide mouth of teeth so white and perfect that many a jealous, early European man had unsuccessfully tried to bash them from his skull—in hopes of grinding them down into a fine aphrodisiac aka "boner pills." "Yo, Sikker... WHAMS!" The intruder punctuated the twist of the name by punching out more of the room's ever-dwindling walls, then finally climbed inside. The rest of the house collapsed around him.

"Mannelich!" Slimerius opened his arms and embraced the big oaf he called his best friend. "Quite an entrance, as always!"

"Yo, Slimey! I thought about comin' in through the roof, but I didn't wanna bring the wind and rain in here! Haha! Lovin' the crappy English weather, chums! Or is it 'mates'?" He scratched his black chin-stubble, lost in deep thought.

Salazar rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, my room's still a mess. Godrean!"

Slimerius shook his head. "Don't swear, my son!"

Frowning, Mannelich said, "Easily fixed, little Sally." He waved his long sword, which had an enormous red ruby set into its hilt, just above the grip. This was his Psych Stone—his manipulator and potentiator of what is scientifically known as psychedelic magik, or colloquially as psychomagik.

With the wave of the sword a spell was woven into existence. Like time itself was reversing, bits of wood levitated into the air, piecing themselves back together, and drifted back into the damaged walls. They looked as good as new—better than new, even. Like the LEGO blocks we all played with as children, something substantial was built from practically nothing. In this case it was a whole house that used to be there before it was broken for no reason at all—other than to serve as a flashy entrance and humourous introduction to a character I hope you love as much as I do.

"Ta-da!" Mannelich bowed—or tried to, anyway. His squeaking suit of armour got in the way and gave him a stabbing sensation in his chest. Possibly a hole in one of his lungs.

Salazar clapped slowly and sarcastically. "Thank you so much," he said in a low, monotone voice. "Whatever would I do if you weren't here to destroy my room for no reason and then magikally repair it."

"Gee, I dunno, kid, but you're welcome!"

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. If he kept that up, his eyes would roll right out of his skull, and then he'd be really melancholic—like, an unbearable, perpetual bummer, man.

"So, Manny," Slimerius said, grinning his yellowed grin, "what's on the agenda down in South Africa? You know, I've been developing technology that will harness psychomagik and make it so the harsh African summer isn't so harsh! It's true!"

Patting his best bud on the shoulder—and making him hunch from the sheer weight of the pat—Mannelich shook his head. "Not now, dudes. We've gotta scoot. You got your bags all packed? No? Well, too bad! Haha! Let's bolt! I'll tell you all about what we're doin' down there. On the ship! Follow me, team! Forward! March!" The dimwitted knight in shining armour punched down the wall again and charged through the fresh destruction.

Salazar sighed and looked at his dad.

Slimerius shrugged and gave him a look that said, What can you do, my boy? That's Uncle Mannelich for you. Now come along. We've got some fun ahead of us!

Returning a different look, Salazar's said, We're all gonna die. Godrean!

3: MEET THE DOOS

Abba Doo watched from the shadows as her brother Dabba stepped into his suit of psychomagikally enhanced armour. She snorted when he tried to slide his head into the helmet, finding it too small a fit for his noggin. Little did he know she'd taken advantage of his narcolepsy to play a little practical joke on him. Dabba obviously didn't find it funny. He kicked and swore and shouted curses. A deadly—and dazzling to the eye—array of spells went whizzing around the cavern, ricocheting off the rock walls, exploding into multicoloured showers of sparks. It's a wonder Dabba wasn't hit by his own magik.

The Doo siblings lived together in an island cave, six kilometres off the southern coast of what is now known as Madagascar. They lived together, but—before you ask, and I know you will; don't worry, it's only natural—they weren't... Um, how do I put this? They weren't... intimate, if you know what I mean. That's just weird. Abba may have been craving rooster, but her incessant need for it didn't extend as far as banging her own bro. That's what the stalagmites were for.

Anywho, the Doos were gearing up for an adventure. Dabba had it on good authority that somewhere in South Africa there was a magikal creature called the grootslang, sealed away in an enormous cave. Legend said it was created by the Elhu themselves, as a sort of prototypical hybrid for two other animals that now walked the Earth separately.

"Ready to go, Slave?"

Abba blinked and shook the thoughts out of her head. She'd been daydreaming about what she wanted to do to the rock formation rising before her eyes. "What did you say, Lord Dabba?"

Dabba backhanded her with magik—which hurts more than when you do it with your hand, and it doesn't leave bruises or break the skin. Very popular in the physical-abuse industry. "I TOLD YOU THAT WE'RE READY TO GO!" Dabba screamed. "Now come along, or I won't hesitate to drag you by your steaming, fecal-spewing entrails." He marched out of their island cave, his armour squeaking with every stride. In his frustration he'd left the helmet behind.

Meekly, Abba followed in her master's wake.

The dreaded Lord Dabba Doo, the Tri-Island area's very own Harbinger of Hate. And his wimpy slave/little sister. What a pair they made.

4: JUST BUMP HIS FIST

"And that's what we're gonna be doin' down there in San Africana, homie sapiens. Haha! Can you dig it, dudes? It's gonna be so totally EXTREME! SOMEONE GIMME A FIST-BUMP!"

Salazar stared blankly at Mannelich. Dad was too busy grinning. He sighed, planted his back against the hull of the ship, and said: "So let me see if I have this straight, Uncle Mannelich. You want to find this incredibly dangerous magikal creature that supposedly exists, and you want to catch it and raise it as a pet and give it belly-rubs."

Nodding like he was being electrocuted, Mannelich put out a fist. "That's right, Sally. Give Unkie Mannelich some skin for bein' so damn smart!"

The boy looked at the silver gauntlet in front of him and rolled his eyes. "I'll pass on your skin." He snorted at his own rudeness.

Mannelich's grin faltered, then it faded completely. He frowned. His lower lip trembled slightly, quivered severely, and then he wept, tears pouring from his too-blue eyes. "B-B-B-But why!? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST B-BUMP MY F-F-FIST!"

Slimerius started to whistle above the din. The wailing grew louder. The whistling matched the volume of the wails, then overtook it. He wandered off to go, ahem, look at the ship's thrusters. Yeah, that's what he was doing. Not wandering away to avoid the awkwardness. No, sir. No way. Thrusters, man. Must be about a gazillion magikal horsepower in those babies.

"A-A-A-All I w-w-w-wanted was to b-be your p-p-p-p-pal, Sally! I th-th-thought you were s-suh-such a c-cool k-kid..." Mannelich tried to wipe his eye but ended up poking it with his sword. "Ow!"

Salazar tugged at his collar. This hadn't been his intent. When he was deliberately being mean he hadn't realized feelings would get hurt. That sort of took the fun out of being a bully. You might call him stupid, but he was only fourteen. Give him a break. We all did stupid things back then. Hell, when I was his age I actually thought monkeys had wings like in The Wizard of Oz. Man, was I in for a surprise when Bobo plummetted to the cold, hard concrete. What a mess that made. They still don't know I did it, either, so keep it quiet.

Or else.

The crying knight looked like a shaking metal boulder. Salazar reached out, drew back, then reached out again. His hand touched the pauldron of Uncle Mannelich, patted it. "It's okay. I'm sorry. I'll bump your fist if you want me to."

Mannelich looked up, eyes drier than a desert during a drought, beaming like he'd just won a free trip to a three-day buffet. "You will! Thanks!" He slammed his gauntlet into Salazar's hand, possibly breaking all of the boy's fingers. He ran over to Slimerius and patted him hard on the back, knocking the wind out of him. "Come on, Slimey! We've got a ship to fly! Off to South Africa we go! In search of fame and fortune!" He suddenly looked serious. "And women. All the women." He raced up the gangplank and disappeared from sight.

"He really shuffles through those emotions fast," Salazar said to his father.

"I think he has some sort of brain illness, possibly due to the numerous head injuries he's received over the years. I'm working on a technology that will allow him to experience a lesser degree of rapid emotional changes, but he claims to feel fine the way he is. One day I shall persuade him to be my guinea pig." Slimerius began boarding the ship. He turned around. "Coming, my boy?"

"Yeah, in a minute."

Slimerius nodded and headed up.

The ship—an Entourage-IV Mark-6 V-7 Falconbridge-VIII Overkill-2 X-Series-11, codenamed Alphahorn Echo—was quite a vehicular monstrosity. Sprawled out from nose to thrusters, it occupied the majority of the neighbour's field. The cows had all been ushered away, and all that remained of them were their fresh brown pies. Psychedelic mushrooms grew from the creamy swirls.

Alphahorn Echo stood twenty-five feet tall, was coloured various shades of red and was based on Elhu technomagik. The nose curved like a hawk's beak, with the pilot's seat positioned behind a thick pane of solidified magik, just above where the hawk's nostrils would be—if it were a real, giant bird, of course. The sides possessed retractable wings, though they were just for show—all flash and no value, as the psychomagik took care of any issues involved with staying airborne. The thrusters at the back fired up, emitting an odour that brought to mind both ozone and farts. This was the fuel: magik.

Done with his inspection of the ship—for both my benefit and yours—Salazar nodded for no reason he could think of and stepped aboard. He found his seat up near the nose, beside Dad and Mannelich, and away they went.

5: COUNT TO TEN, LORD DABBA

Sunlight rocked the almost-Madagascar— Madagascarian? Madagascan? Malagasy? Man, I don't even know which to choose. Which one is right? All of the above? Whatever. Let's just pick one and start over.

Sunlight rocked the almost-Madagascan coast. Abba had to squint to keep the tears from forming too quickly in her eyes. Light sensitivity is a serious issue when you spend all your days hidden away within a gloomy cave. Her brother Dabba was already getting into their little rowboat, clumsily knocking the oars into the water with his bulky suit of armour. He swore and slapped at the clear green-blue water. Trying to make things worse, she guessed.

Abba walked across the hot white sand, past odd-angled palm trees with their roots reaching out of the ground. She stood before Dabba and the rowboat. "Need some help, Lord Dabba?"

Dabba looked up, glaring and sucking on his bad teeth, wiping the sandy slime off of them with his tongue. "I need you to be a good slave and pick up these oars, Slave. Then row me the two thousand eight hundred and whatever kilometres to the Richtersveld." He saw Abba wasn't rowing yet. "Go on, Slave. What are you waiting for? An insult? Will that quicken your pace? Fine, fine. Do it or I will chop off your hair and force-feed it to you through your rectum. Happy? GO!"

"Lord Dabba," Abba said, trying to keep herself from laughing, "I'm afraid we will have to do more than row to the Richtersveld. We must journey by land, too."

"THEN WE WILL ATTACH WHEELS TO OUR ROWBOAT AND DRIVE!!!" He looked down and blinked forcefully. "Count to ten, Lord Dabba," he said in a small voice very much unlike his own. "Don't let Slave fluster you." It took a few moments for him to remember how to count to ten, and then he was good. "Now then, where were we? Start rowing."

"Certainly." Abba sat down in the rowboat, set the oars into position and started to row the boat. "This would go much faster if you could help."

"Fiiiiine." Dabba took off his boot and removed a dagger from inside. The dagger had a tiny yellow topaz gem embedded into the tip, which did nothing to improve its lethality and everything to reduce its sharpness. Furthermore, Dabba would never use it to stab somebody—that would reduce the value of the topaz. It was his pride and joy. He lightly tapped the side of the boat with the tip of the dagger.

Instantly, the rowboat's speed increased to a hundred and fifty kilometres per hour.

The rowboat raced across the ocean. Though it's a shame the ocean wasn't a pond... or a ditch.

6: ENEMIES OF THE FREE WORLD

Mannelich and Slimerius reminisced on old days while the ship flew over Europe and headed south. Conversations about old girlfriends, who was still doing who, which people were losing their hair and looking the most amusingly old—I'm sure you don't need me to tell you any more.

Looking through the windshield, Salazar couldn't believe how much the landscape was changing, and how quickly. It seemed like only a minute would go by before bright autumnal colours gave way to exotic-looking summery scenes of splendour. Even civilization itself seemed to be changing: Destitute, one-shacked villages comprised of dirty people and dirtier sheep, engaging in deplorable acts I won't bother to describe; and now cities with massive, shiny-domed mosques at their centres, where the dirtiest thing their people did was forget to bathe for a dozen or so hours, and wax their absurd amounts of body hair with honey.

It was a whole new world out there. Salazar realized he'd only seen the tip of the world's metaphorical dong. The ship's sharp turn caught him off-guard. He grabbed ahold of the oh-shit bars, placed conveniently above his head, to keep from falling out of his seat and fatally twisting his ankle.

"Ahoy, dudes!" Mannelich needlessly screamed over the silence of the ship. "Enemies down below! Firing magikal barrage! Targets destroyed!"

Salazar saw a scorched field littered with smoking hooves. Barbaric Normals raced out of the nearby treeline and grabbed all the spare intestines they could find. "Uh, Uncle Mannelich... I think those were pigs."

"Swine! Enemies of the free world!" Spit went flying and Mannelich pounded his armour-plated chest in clanging triumph. He went back to steering with his bare feet, making practice stabs and slices at the air with his sword.

The boy rolled his eyes and went back to watching the landscape. Desert dunes of sand and more sand appeared on the horizon, the Sun still high in the sky and never seeming to let up its light. Uncle Mannelich seemed to be flying the ship in that direction. He saw a man in a turban riding a camel aimlessly, a harem of Sun-roasted women being dragged in tow. Those were once his wives, but now they were just his dinner. Cooked in the traditional way, slow and painfully, but gluten-free. Hipsters and hypochondriacs everywhere have just gotten ideas. Cannibalism is now cool again.

Mannelich landed the ship in a secluded desert region. When they got outside, Salazar was surprised to find his pale-white skin had immediately developed an infinite number of brown freckles. The mosquitoes buzzing around were large enough to impale him with their proboscises—yes, these mosquitoes had more than one. The not-so-bright knight swung around his sword and chopped them in half. The blood they'd previously sucked sprayed everywhere, causing the sand it touched to form rust-red clumps.

"Where to?" Slimerius asked, applying a thick white paste to his exposed skin—another of his experiments. This one was designed to protect the body from harmful bands of ultraviolet light, which most people in this time period found to be about as unbelievable as alien races; naturally, they were wrong about both.

Suddenly, sixteen men sprang from the sand. One got sand in his mouth and nearly choked to death breathing it. They all wore fashionable black robes, which conflicted with the bright-green sashes wrapped around their waists.

"Give us yer money or we'll slit yer throats and take yer womenfolk!" one threatened, grinning at Salazar. "She's puuuuurty!"

The other one was still coughing up wet sand, pounding his own back to try and dislodge the stuff from his quickly failing lungs. Those internal scars would never heal.

The fifteen who weren't dying of accidental sand inhalation advanced on the trio, shooting Salazar menacing and highly suggestive leers of longing, subtly unknotting their sashes and letting them fall sensually to the sand.

Mannelich waved his sword and expelled a blast of magik, knocking the creeps off their feet. The spell also had the helpful effect of opening the one guy's airways—he took a deep breath and smiled, thanking them profusely, proclaiming his everlasting devotion to the trio and their wellbeing, then rejoined his friends in looking evil and swinging their short swords.

"Last chance," the leader warned, showing his rotting teeth. "Just give us the girl. We'll have our way with her as a team, then fight over her, make her our wife, have lots of children we mistreat and starve, probably kill. The life, ya know?"

"I'm a guy, you jerk!" Salazar couldn't help but say, very loudly and very angrily. His manhood was on the line. Based on the horrors they'd already described, he didn't want to know what they'd do to him when they found he, biologically speaking, couldn't have children.

"Could've fooled me." The leader sneered, wrinkling his large nose, grinning a mouth full of teeth any self-respecting dentist would've just punched out before hanging himself.

"Mannelich!" Slimerius shouted, taking his son close to his side. "Do something!"

That was the signal our hero needed to hear.

Hey—hear-o, hero. Coincidence? Probably. But maybe not!

Mannelich stormed into battle with such gusto that the robed men threw away their puny swords, jumped backwards and hid behind one another.

He made short work of them, reducing them to a pile of butchered body parts and now-red robes. One was left alive—the one who'd nearly died of sand inhalation—but he quickly pissed his robes and scurried off, eager to tell tales of the blue-eyed, three-armed magician with the heavy brow and a taste for blood and man meat. Every good tale needs a little embellishing, after all.

"You killed fifteen guys!" Salazar said, examining what was left of the corpses (i.e., what wasn't being picked apart by vultures). "How do you feel about that?"

Mannelich looked at him. His eyes seemed even more blue, like lightning coursed through them. "How do you feel about dancing on the innocent babies of snakes and spiders and scorpions?"

"I... don't... do that..."

"Exactly," he said, staring off into the distance, eyes out of focus as the traumatic memories came rushing back to him in one powerful wave. "Exactly."

7: IT TAKES A VILLAGE

There was nothing all around them as far as the eye could see. Just barren, sandy ridges, coupled with the occasional mirage of a faraway oasis, where naked ladies waited with pitchers of ice-cold carbonated beverages and fresh-made lemon-meringue pie. Sights worth savouring, even if one realized they were impossible and anachronistic. But honestly, folks, what isn't? Eh? Really, at the end of the day, what isn't?

Then Mannelich waved his sword, sweeping away the false vision. An entire village appeared in its stead, people roaming this way and that, kids shouting and laughing and playing Tag.

They were a black-skinned people, primitive, with tanned animal-skin skirts and thongs. The men were lean and slim, while the women were short and plump with rather large derrières. The people stopped going about their tribal business, turned to look at these strange white men who'd invaded the secrecy of their world. Their eyes went to the large spaceship.

And then they went down on their knees, bowing, throwing up their arms in praise, chanting: "All hail the Star-Gods" "They have returned" and "It's about damn time."

Okay, they didn't say exactly that. It was in their own language—a series of clicks and tongue rolls, some grunts and pelvic thrusts—but seeing as how I'm the narrator, it means I'm able to translate for you. You may thank me later, perhaps in the form of heavy coinage or high-value bills. Man's gotta eat and spend frivolously, after all.

Slimerius found himself being lifted off his feet, moving with the throng of villagers, bouncing and ebbing with the flow as the percussion sounded and the celebratory songs commenced. He was able to make out some of the words (because, again, I'm translating for him): "They came! They taught! They left and promised to return! Here they are! Back again! To teach some more! Oh yeah!" He turned his head and saw Mannelich standing with his hands on his hips, the villagers testing their strength and manliness by trying—and failing—to move him. He looked around for Salazar and— Hey! Where is Salazar!? "My boy!" he shouted, barely audible over the music, voice trembling. "Wherever are you, my son!?"

"I'm right here, Dad!" Ah. There he was: tended to by numerous beautiful women, having what looked to be purple grapes tossed into his mouth, his feet scrubbed and rubbed, big-bootied African babes twerking all over his junk. "This place is awesome!" the boy said, grinning more than he had since... well, more than Slimerius had ever seen the boy grin. It was the best birthday present ever.

The festivities went on for much of the day and, man, was that village trashed. It takes a village to truly destroy a village. One needs to have an investment in whatever is being destroyed to fully comprehend the subtle nuances that go with savage devastation. A hostile barbarian may think raping, pillaging and setting the place ablaze is enough, but someone who lives there will understand that there's more to it than that.

Then—when the white rind of moon cut through the cloudless heavens with its bright, ethereal light; and when the stars twinkled and blinked; and the meteors went shooting across that cosmic blanket of sky—another festival emerged from the wreckage.

Figures in spooky, downright-alien masks came skipping onto the scene, accompanied by hollow, creepy-sounding bone drums. Some had huge, insectile black eyes, others had antennae, others still seemed to be fanged and scaly-skinned. The variations were truly endless, mixing and matching attributes to create a vast array of different species of monsters and otherworldly life-forms. Just how many supposed Star-Gods had made contact with these people?

"How awesomely absurd and absurdly awesome, dudes!" Mannelich clanged together his steel gauntlets—possibly in merriment, but probably because he just liked the sound it made. "I think I'll steal this indigenous custom and spread it around the world! I'll call it... Halloweird! Haha!"

"Actually," Slimerius said, pushing up his way-ahead-of-their-time, custom-made spectacles, "I've seen the Celtic Normals perform similar rituals, in honour of the coming season of harvest."

"Do they wear masks, Slimey?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, but not, uh— Not these masks."

"Oh no. They make theirs out of large turnips, potato skins and pig rectums. Very economical, those Celts. We can learn a lot from them, methinks."

The masked villagers handed Mannelich, Slimerius and Salazar their own masks to wear, and also offered them a sweet, delectable, and quite-rare fruit or vegetable, or whatever it was. They partook in the offering—'twas only polite—and joined in on what would prove to be a great influence on the Halloween we know and love today.

We can thank Mannelich Marsbergen for that.

8: LIVING AND DYING IN THE RICHTERSVELD

i

The next afternoon, after sleeping off hangovers that even the Elhu would've wept over, the trio awoke to a village that was miraculously back in order. The villagers were going about their business, as if no crazy party had taken place the night prior, as if no mass-banging had occurred in the toothless old man's bamboo hut. Hey, wait a second— Bamboo isn't naturally found in this part of South Africa! The plot thickens, the mystery solidifies...

Mannelich stumbled out of the hut they'd slept in, clanging his armour off the side of the doorframe. The hut fell apart, scattering branches and twigs everywhere. The leaves they'd used to tie together the branches flew away in a sudden breeze, immediately shrivelling to a dry, crispy state under the hot sunshine. He shrugged off the damage and started doing his morning push-ups. "One hundred of these bad boys whilst in this suit of armour..." He grunted in exhaustion. "And I'll have such killer abs that Becky Blomwelder won't be able to deny me." He wiped away a drop of sweat rolling down his nose, keeping himself steady with one hand now. "And then I'll finally lose my virginity!"

Some children who had been watching him giggled into their hands, then ran off to go tell everyone they knew what the funny white man had said.

"No!" Mannelich shouted, picking himself up. "I— I meant my anal virginity! Yeah! That's it!" He kicked the sand when he realized they'd seen through his lie. "Damn..."

"You're still a virgin?" said a voice from behind.

He turned to see Salazar, smirking amidst the destruction.

"You mean, you weren't in on the party?" The boy chuckled to himself.

"I don't kiss and tell," Mannelich retorted, grinning confidently.

"You've never had the opportunity." Salazar strutted off towards the smiling group of young black women, his blond hair blowing in the sudden breeze. "Ladies," he greeted them, which made them all blush and throw themselves at him.

"My nephew the stud." Shaking his head, Mannelich went over to wake Slimerius, but found him already wide awake. "Yo, Slimey. We better head out before Sally catches the syph."

The scientist nodded silently, throwing a hand up at Mannelich, requesting support in standing. "Had some rather bizarre dreams last night, Manny. Dreamt I was being probed by aliens, and that they'd decided they weren't fond of what my meagre human form had to offer, and I was screaming for them to try again, that I would do better. But alas, they went away in their ship. Never saw them again. Would've been nice to see them in greater detail, and for longer, so that I could draw a sketch of them upon waking. Never know. They may actually be out there... somewhere." Slimerius looked thoughtfully to the sky.

"Sorry, bro. I must've poked you a few times with my sword. Haha!" He gave his friend a good thump on the shoulder, knocking him off-kilter.

An old guy came wandering over to them. He had overworked hands, littered with so many knobs and callouses it was a wonder he could even move them. "You two wanna reach the Richtersveld?"

"Yes, that would be divine," Slimerius said. "And who, pray tell, might you be?"

The old man held out one ugly hand to each of them. "Richter. And this is my veld." He led them away from the demolished hut, spreading his arms and nodding proudly towards the wasteland yonder. Some dead-looking white-grey grass was growing from the cracked, parched earth. A few springbok—they basically looked like gazelles—were grazing on the grass, but even they found it revolting and barely edible. One took a dump and then ate it, preferring a hot meal over whatever the hell that grass was.

Mannelich studied the nothingness for about half a second. "So where's the cave, bro?"

"Out there." The old man pointed. Mannelich thought he could see a speck of something way over there. Might've just been a mirage, though. "Just keeping walking thataway. Eventually, you'll see these tracks in the dirt." He spread his arms out. "Like, two or three of these across. And also some huge footprints. Could eat your dinner in those footprints, you could." He laughed. "Matter of fact, I did. Oh, but I don't recommend it. Some vicious animals come out 'round dinnertime. Had to fight 'em off with my boot." He lifted his leg and showed them a boot with ugly, long-yellow-nailed toes poking out the front.

"Thanks for the tip, homie sapien."

"We truly appreciate your assistance," Slimerius added.

The old man waved his hand and then wandered off to go pull weeds from his veld.

"Pleasant fellow. Well, Manny, shall we embark on our quest? Where's my dear boy...?"

"Right here, Dad," Salazar said, suddenly popping up beside them, retying the string of his pants. He was beaming and the smile even reached his green eyes. "We heading out now?"

Mannelich unleashed a battle cry and roared out: "Onward and upward, dudes!" He thumped his chest and charged off in the direction the old man had pointed.

ii

A rowboat tore up the sand as it went rip-roaring across the southern tip of the African continent. A large, mysterious metal ship of some sort was docked up ahead. It reminded Dabba Doo of the ones in the stories. The ones piloted by the Others. Who came down and brought magik to the Madagascans. Never to return.

"Stop! Stop! Stop, you fucking idiot!" he screamed as they nearly passed it by.

They stopped, throwing him forwards with such force that he experienced whiplash.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he stepped out and examined the ship, which was even larger up close. He ran a finger down its hull, could actually feel the psychedelic magik being given off, like static electricity clinging to clothing. "Who owns this ship...? Could it be... Them...?"

Abba Doo watched her evil brother analyze and ponder with his limited mental faculties. It was almost sad to watch. Then she remembered that she didn't like him, that he treated her like she was less than trash, the children of trash—so she smiled instead. It was like watching a rotting banana try to calculate the speed of sound.

Dabba turned and saw an old man toiling in a nearby field of desert weeds. "You there! Old fart!"

The old man looked up from his work, peered around, aimed a thumb at his chest and came wandering over. "Yessir, what can I do for you? Come to see the Richtersveld?"

"Yes!" Abba said breathlessly. "Yes, we have. And the legend that comes with it!"

"Shut up, Slave," Dabba barked at her, giving her a backhand and a spiked boot to the butt. "Yes, old fart, we have. But first I would like to find out who owns this ship. Very intriguing design. Haven't seen anything like it for some time."

"Three adventurers like yourselves," the old man said happily. He indicated the direction they'd gone. "They went out in search of those caves, oh"—he looked up at the Sun—"two, three hours ago?"

"Thank you for your hospitality," Dabba said, taking out his topaz-tipped dagger and licking the edge of it with his forked tongue. "Now, I'm afraid it's time for you to die! Mwahahahahaha!"

"Uhhhh—" The old man raised his eyebrows and looked to Abba. She shrugged.

"Oh, right," Dabba said, and then he stabbed poor old man Richter with magik.

When the dark knight was done with him, Richter was a mere pile of yellow-white bones, nothing left to him for even the vultures to devour.

9: THE IDIOT TEST

i

"Got some sand-rot, dudes," Mannelich said, wincing, as they all stopped to communally water some weeds.

While crossing streams, Salazar snuck a peak at his uncle's massive member. Not only was it possessing a head which looked quite capable of spitting venom and hissing and maybe even going to college, but it was also covered in white-yellow scabs and oozed a thick, runny off-white discharge. He shivered and nearly vomited—a movement which had the unfortunate side effect of splashing piss all over his shoes. "Uncle Mannelich, what the hell happened to you?!"

"Sand-rot," Slimerius said, examining the infected organ with some kind of magnifying device. "It's a relatively harmless infection caused by grains of sand entering the urinary tract via the urethra, and also by prolonged irritation under the foreskin. It'll pus and bleed just a tad, but you'll be perfectly fine. Drink plenty of water so as to help facilitate the flushing of said sand grains, wash regularly... OH! And, oh, ho, ho, indeed! I do just so happen to have a special cream on my person, which I invented not too long ago—never been tested on a case of sand-rot, but I'm ninety-nine-percent positive it will work; one percent that it might cause the affected appendage to shrivel, die, and fall off—which you may find beneficial for your delicate parts, dear Manny. Would you care to let me rub it in so we might try it out?"

"Uh, yeah, nah, bro. No, no. That's okay. I should be fine, bra. Nothin' a little water and a hand massage can't fix. Don't forget, dudeasaurs, these people have been dealing with sand-rot for, like, generations. It's perfectly fine."

"Yes, yes, but that's why they perform the rite known as circumcision! After all, in other Normal cultures, the Covenant with this divine being named 'God' was merely a fancy, manipulative way of saying 'thou shalt giveth to me thy foreskin, or forever feeleth a burning sensation when thou pee.' Not exactly words to live by, if you ask me. Science and psychomagik are far more preferable."

"So how'd you even get sand-rot, anyway?" Salazar asked, immediately regretting the question. But, since the words were out into the air, he continued: "I mean, you never take off your armour."

Mannelich looked away shyly. "Well, little Sally, I often like to meditate outdoors with my willy hanging out. Helps clear the mind and, uh, put me in tune with the planet. Reminds me of my calling as a hero. You know, whuppin' ass, takin' names, bangin' virgins. That sort of thing."

"Yeah, you know a lot about banging virgins," the boy said, snorting to himself and miming wank-related hand gestures.

Stroking his beard, Slimerius noticed a change had started occurring with his dear son. Something about the way he carried himself, this newfound sense of self-confidence and, dare he say it, arrogance. It was refreshing, to say the least, seeing as how that previous morning the boy had been knee-deep in a month-long weeping streak. Refreshing, indeed, to see young Salazar seemingly cured of the melancholy that had been plaguing him for so long. He shook loose a few clinging droplets, tied up his pantaloons and rejoined the other two.

They were making decent time. Though the landscape was relatively barren and the climate unforgiving, they quickly stumbled upon the unique tracks Richter had mentioned. Literally stumbled—as Salazar tripped in one footprint and nearly chipped his two front teeth on the hard, solid ground. It was hilarious, believe me.

"Look, bros," Mannelich said, poking the tracks with his sword. At three-foot intervals, horizontal wavy lines went across the one-foot-deep depression. He sliced through the earth, cutting across one side of the belly-mark and reaching the other side. It was about twenty-five feet in diameter. Flanking each side of the belly-mark were huge, three-toed footprints, each of them five feet deep and both twenty inches wide and long. "Wonder how big its balls are, eh? Am I the only one?"

"Hmm, I, too, wonder such a thing," Slimerius said. "Ehm, from a purely academic perspective, of course. Hmm, hmm." He removed a device from his pocket and began punching at it with his finger. It was a primitive—but highly advanced for the time, since, well, they didn't even have electricity in the Dark Ages—version of our modern computer. He lowered the device to the footprints and held it there for a moment.

"Whatcha doin', Slimey? Taking some pictures?" Mannelich looked confused for a moment. "Wait— What the hell're pictures?" Oops.

Slimerius lifted the device, typed on it some more, nodded with satisfaction. "According to my little invention here, the grootslang's testicles are—roughly calculated, of course—as big as your skull, Manny. And that's merely the size of one. According to my database, they have nine, three of which are located within the body."

"Woah! Bro... I dunno about you two dudes, but I'm feeling pretty, uh, emasculated. Is that the word?"

Slimerius nodded, put the device away. Noticed it was just the two of them. He looked around, worrying.

"You two coming?" Salazar called out from way up ahead, looking back at them. He waved for them to hurry the hell up, turned and kept walking.

ii

There they were. The three adventurers. Getting smaller by the second.

Abba Doo thought they should move faster. Her brother's clunky armour was slowing them down.

Dabba Doo said: "Hurry up, Slave! We must quicken our pace!"

iii

Inside the cave.

They'd made it.

Stalagmites hung from above, stalactites rose from below—or was it the other way around? Who cares? The point is, that damn darkened cave looked like a large, and rather predatory, animal's mouth, with sharpened teeth jutting out every which way of the Earth's gaping maw. Salazar had nearly impaled himself on one when he'd slipped and almost fallen off the edge of a rockface. Mannelich had shone a light from his sword's Psych Stone, showing the boy exactly what he'd have sticking up his rear end and coming out his face if he would've fallen into the murk.

"That would be a wound that probably wouldn't heal, little dude," Mannelich told him. "You'd have a super-killer scar, though. Probably get you loads of babes. Maybe not hot babes..." He waggled his eyebrows and grinned crazily. "But still, bro: babes."

Salazar nodded, gulping down his fear and dabbing at the wet spot on his trousers.

"Sound good, Sally? Want me to push you—?"

"Such strange markings on this wall," Slimerius said from the far end of the cave, his voice echoing. "If I'm not mistaken, I believe this is an archaic form of Elhulu. Very old." He ran his finger up and down the precisely chiseled stonework.

Mannelich and Salazar went over to him. They saw weird lines slashed into the rock with such meticulousness that it must've been done with magik, advanced technology, or both. There were also hieroglyphics on display—and other, less-uniform pictographs, too—but they weren't carved as exactly, and also appeared to be more recent.

"What does it mean?" Mannelich asked, trying to read the writing. He tilted his head to the side, stood upside-down and even squinted. No dice. Try giving your head a good thonk. Nope, nothing.

Salazar shook his head in embarrassment. "Can you even read, Uncle Mannelich? It obviously says that only the wise should enter this infernal place, for there is a dark, deadly, dangerous creature that roams these realms, stalking the tomb in which it resides, watching and waiting for the foolish and the idiotic to stumble upon its twisted little secrets, and that only despair and damnation lie on the other side of this barrier. Enter at your own risk, mortal."

Slimerius ruffled his son's hair. "That's my boy! We'll make an historian out of you, yet!"

"So how do we get in, dudes?" Mannelich asked, after delivering—to no effect—a flurry of Dutch Uncle Punches, Haarlem High-Kicks and Amsterdam Body-Slams to the engraved wall. He readied his sword. "Can I stab it?"

Slimerius prodded an out-of-true rock with his finger. The wall opened inward, making loud clicking sounds, like it was attached to a mechanized system of gears. He went into the chamber beyond, Salazar following.

Mannelich did a few chops, thrusts and slashes to what was evidently a door. Just for fun, and to say he did. Then he went in with the others.

iv

The chamber wasn't too large. Actually, it was quite small. About as cramped as your good-for-nothing son's room, what with all the useless crud he's got lying around; that stuff you kick and trip over just to smack him upside the head, before telling him to clean the goddamn place up: guitar amps, guitars, books, CDs, stolen TVs, PlayStations, Xboxes, GameBoys, GameGirls, GameThings, video games for each respective system, drugs, guns, money, prostitutes he's pimping out, prostitutes he can't get away from, dead bodies he's got stashed under the bed, stuffed Bigfeet and other supposedly fake creatures—you name it, he's got it.

Where were we?

Oh, yeah, it was cramped in that part of the cave. There was just a cylindrical silver thing coming out of the cave's floor. It was a terminal. There were buttons on it. You press them. Then stuff happens. Get it? Got it? Good.

Slimerius nodded, smiling to himself. "Interesting," he said. He pushed one of the buttons, the one labelled PUSH ME.

A translucent blue mist swirled up out of the terminal's port, positioned top-centre, curling smoke, coiling tendrils— STOP THAT!

Lips sucking on the port, Mannelich's eyes shot up towards the ceiling, the terminal's blue mist steaming from his mouth. He let it all come out. "Sorry, boss." He backed away. "Keep on narrating, dude."

Thank you. Now where was I?

A translucent blue mist swirled up out of the terminal's port, positioned top-centre, curling smoke, coiling tendrils as a shape began to develop.

"Cool lightshow! Smoke 'em if you've got 'em, dudes." Mannelich whipped out a joint of warranon—a psychoactive substance he'd acquired from the Elhu; space-weed, basically—produced a flame from the tip of his sword, lit it up, and smoked it.

The blue mist took the form of a person, miniature but properly proportioned. "Greetings," the little person said cheerfully.

Slimerius started rocking back and forth, foaming at the mouth in excitement. "It seems to be some kind of... holographic image! My, my! I thought something such as this was possible, but I never dreamed I would see it in my lifetime! This breaks everything I know about the world! If I could only take this machine apart, study its inner workings..."

The hologram continued: "It is my pleasure to serve you. Would you please state your names."

"Keuvelaar Slimerius Salazar Sikkerwihn." He gave his son a pat on the back.

"Er— Salazar Selverteich Sikkerwihn."

Mannelich stepped forward and roared at the hologram. He laughed quite hard afterward, sucked down his joint.

"Very well," the hologram said. "Welcome, Keuvelaar Slimerius Salazar Sikkerwihn, Er— Salazar Selverteich Sikkerwihn, and AROOOOOOORAAAAGHA Hehehe Ahahaha. I see this is your first visit to the sanctuary. Allow me to explain the rules. As an assurance that you are not idiots, and thus a harm to this fascinating creature beyond, I will ask you but one question. Think of this as an Idiot Test. If you answer this question wrong, you will be castrated and then a giant boulder will fall from above, crushing you to so much mush, much to the benefit of your species, I'm sure. Are we clear?"

"Yes," Slimerius said, rubbing his hands together. He turned around. "Ehm, Manny, why don't you sit this one out?"

"Yeah, Slimey, bro. You've got the brain," he said, lighting another joint.

"You need to breathe me," the hologram said, "for if you do not, you will die. What am I?"

"Hmmm." Slimerius stroked his beard. "May we deliberate together before answering?"

"Yes. Take all the time you need. I have nothing but time. Ha. Ha. Ha."

The three huddled together.

"What's the problem, dudes? It's air."

"No, no, that's far too simple. I am thinking the answer is oxygen, as that is what we truly need to breathe. But it very well could be nitrogen, as that makes up the majority of what we breathe. But perhaps this hologram wishes to know the exact elemental ratio of our breathable atmosphere...?"

"Air, bro. Always air."

"I dunno, Dad. Maybe Uncle Mannelich is right. It's an Idiot Test, after all. Gotta keep it simple."

"I really do not wish to be castrated... Or crushed."

"Air, dudes. I'm tellin' you the answer is air. Let's go with air."

"Fine, fine..." Slimerius faced the terminal. He sighed. "Very well. The answer to your question is: Air." He reflexively flinched and looked up, holding his hands over his head to shrug off any giant, falling boulders.

"Correct," the hologram said cheerfully. "Enjoy your stay within our sanctuary, Keuvelaar Slimerius Salazar Sikkerwihn, Er— Salazar Selverteich Sikkerwihn, and AROOOOOOORAAAAGHA Hehehe Ahahaha. And please do not feed the animal."

A portion of the wall ahead opened inwardly.

The trio cheered. There was much whooping, grunting and high-tens emitted, given and/or passed around. They went as one unit into the grootslang's lair.

10: THE GROOTSLANG OF RICHTERSVELD

i

There it was: the grootslang, sitting there on a bed of green peat moss, a massive creature curled up in a ball, sleeping with one shockingly red eye wide open. It sensed their movement and billowed its large elephant ears, making them stick out in a defensive attempt at appearing even bigger. It uncoiled its incredibly long body, stood up on its four powerful legs, revealing a serpent's tail that didn't so much as switch left and right as it did swing.

"It's beautiful," Slimerius said, awed by the sight.

"Makes me want to smoke another number, it's so pretty," Mannelich added, swishing his sword to quickly roll another one up.

Salazar felt something in him—call it instinct, call it a calling—and he approached the grootslang, being dwarfed by its immense size to such a degree that he barely reached its swaying elephant's trunk. He reached out, hissing like a snake, and gently stroked the creature's yellowed tusks, ran a finger down its wrinkled green trunk.

Both of its red eyes were on him now, looking at him. In those vertically aligned golden pupils, he saw wisdom, a friend. He hissed again, speaking its language. It hissed back.

"What's he saying?" Mannelich asked. "Need some subtitles."

"You know we can't afford those. He's telling it to not be afraid," Slimerius told him. "I had no idea he had the gift to speak to animals. He's certainly never done it in my presence. This completely changes our understanding of psychedelic magik, ability, and genetic predisposition!"

The grootslang lowered its trunk, brought it to Salazar's face, sniffed him, and then gave him a slobbery kiss on the forehead.

The boy smiled, turned to his father. "I'm gonna name him Hisses."

"Not something totally badass, like Killmaster? Or Deathbringer?"

"No, Uncle Mannelich. Hisses. He likes it, too."

Which Hisses the grootslang definitely did, as he had begun to affectionately head-bump young Salazar.

The door opened behind them.

"Well, isn't this cute," a man's voice said. "Prepare to die."

ii

The trio spun around. They saw a short guy wearing rusty armour but no helmet, wielding a wimpy little dagger; and a girl dressed in rags who looked crestfallen, staring down at her own bare feet.

"Who the hell are you, dude?" Mannelich asked, swinging around his long sword, sizing up the intruder, sizing up the puny knife.

"My name is Dabba Doo, and I've come to kill you all and steal that monster for my own sick and depraved purposes!"

"Cool story, bro. Say, you got any warranon you can sell me? I've just got these roaches, but I'd rather save them up so I can roll a generation joint!"

"Who's the young lady behind you? Does she have a name?" Slimerius asked.

"Her name is Slave and she is my sister," Dabba said.

"My... My name is Abba Doo," the young lady in rags said, her voice soft at first but gaining strength. "And I am tired of this game!"

"Shut your mouth, Slave!" Dabba yelled over his shoulder. "Or I will remove your eyes and shove them so far up your rear that you will beg me to disembowel you, if only so you can enjoy the pleasure of a different sight!" He looked at Mannelich, didn't like the shiny armour he wore, felt jealous of it, wanted it for himself, thought it would make him beautiful. "Now it's time for you to die—!" He'd raised his dagger and slit his own throat with it, choking on the word "die," blood spilling and spraying from his new air hole, painting his ancient armour a snappy-looking red. He collapsed in the sand, deader than the dirt—which was actually quite alive, given the innumerable amounts of bacteria, fungi, and tiny animals calling it their home. They would soon call him home, too.

Abba grinned at the fresh corpse, then laughed high and haughty. Any meekness to her, any sadness—it was gone. She proceeded to viciously kick and stomp her brother's dead but heavily armoured body. "Finally," she said, wiping snot from her nose and sweat from her forehead. "For too long I have been manipulating his mind for the fun of it, making my dimwitted brother believe that he was controlling me! AHAHAHA! But, no! It was I who controlled him!"

"You're a cold-hearted bitch, dude." Mannelich shook his head at the severely beaten body. It had suffered a lot more than a throat-slash by now.

"Yes, I am," she said proudly. "Now, give me the grootslang or I will be forced to really kill you violently."

"You'll never take Hisses!" Salazar shouted, putting an arm around the creature, or trying to, anyway.

"Then we shall fight," Abba said, picking up the dagger she'd made her brother commit suicide with. She licked the blood and the dirt off it, wiggled her eyebrows at the others. "Who wants to die first?"

Slimerius stepped forward. "Allow me the chance to test this device I've invented... Please?"

"Certainly."

The scientist pulled out a six-inch-long metallic object. It looked like a modern dildo, but with buttons on the side. He held it away from himself, upright. He pushed a button and a green beam of magik shot out the top of it. The walls around them glowed with the green light it produced. "I call it the Light Subatomic Beam Electron Regulator. Or, for short: the Light-SABER."

Mannelich rushed over to take a closer look. "Dude, Slimey, that thing is sooo freakin' awesome! Can I get one!? Pleeeeeease?"

"Of course, Manny. In fact, I've already made one for you. It's back in my lab, however."

"Enough!" Abba started towards the trio, waving the dagger around, about to perform a spell.

Hisses stomped forward, letting out a high-pitched, trumpeting sound from his trunk. It sounded like a baby crying/screaming. Pretty grating stuff.

Abba shrieked in terror. Pretty grating stuff.

Hisses swallowed her whole, then spat out the parts he and his second set of esophageal jaws didn't particularly like.

The three all laughed together, then said, "Aw."

11: THE END...?

i

The Elhu had brought him to Mars Mountain, where the school was being built. Though the Normals would one day believe Mars to be an inhospitable wasteland—a place that may have once resembled Earth—this was a lie, a clever bit of psychedelic magik concocted by the Elhu themselves to provide the Psychomagi a place to call their own. The Mars the Normals would see and visit was a different Mars, a parallel one.

The Normals War, the scars from which had only begun to heal, was still fresh in everyone's minds. Conflicts would only continue if things stayed as they were.

"So, dude," Mannelich said, staring at the construction taking place. Elhu used their minds to place the strongest of magikally strengthened metals, building the school, floor by floor, piece by piece, under Olympus Mons: the tallest of Mars' mountains. "You're saying that we're moving? Do we have to? I was kinda, like, totally digging Earth, y'know?"

"It is recommended," the Elhu named Godrean said in his deep voice. The Elhu were practically indistinguishable from humans, simply looking like seven-foot-tall white men. "Obviously we will not force you, but it really is not safe for your kind on Earth. The Normals have their own history to create, their own fated future, their own destiny to design."

"And what about them—? What do you call 'em—? The Wandwalkers?"

"They will remain on Earth, but will live within their own magikally cordoned realm."

Mannelich nodded, thinking he understood. "You got any warranon, bro?"

ii

Dad was inventing more things in his lab, so Salazar thought he would go to the fen and visit Hisses. The marshland wasn't too far from home, just a short hike through some muddy patches and he would be there. Unfortunately, however, he would also have to pass a Normal castle town. He'd been doing it quite a bit lately—Hisses couldn't live with him at home—and some of the Normal boys his own age had been getting rather unpleasant, calling him rude names.

So Salazar grabbed his wand—which Dad had had fashioned for him; if they were to truly blend in amongst the Wandwalkers, such a thing was necessary—and headed off.

Soon enough, the huge castle of King Shitbag the Second loomed on the horizon. He gulped down his anxiety and tried to look determined as he went past a weeping woman failing to sell her fellow villagers stale bread. She only wept more when he declined her free samples.

Salazar didn't notice the Normal boys crack their knuckles and start to follow him into the swamp, cruisin' for a bruisin'.

He made his way through the fen, pushing aside reeds of cattails. He was glad he had a pair of boots imbued with waterproofing magik. He found Hisses munching on a deer. The grootslang trumpeted happily upon seeing him. Then they both hissed to each other, starting a conversation.

"Wh-What the hell is that, nutbar!?"

Salazar turned around and saw them. Three Normal boys from King Shitbag's village. They were backing away, too scared to run.

They couldn't go back home, not after having seen Hisses. The other Normals would come and kill him.

Salazar did what he had to.

He hissed to the grootslang: "Hisses, kill!"