I mean at this point does anyone expect normal stories from me?
[h2]The New Kid in Town[/h2]
I stared at the blank walls of my new room, the stench of cardboard and dust mingling with a sense of resentment that clung to me like a second skin. How did it come to this? A slip, a thud, and here I am, Tanya—no, "Tony" now—in some godforsaken town where my biggest achievement was accepting virtual friend requests from strangers.
"Tony, give us a hand, will you?" Chris called out, his voice echoing in the hollow space as he assembled what looked like an excuse for furniture.
My lips pressed into a thin line, the pain flaring at even the thought of replying. The irony wasn't lost on me; a former general was now rendered selectively mute due to a resonating pain in my throat. I shifted my gaze to the phone buzzing with notifications. Three-point-two billion friends. What a joke.
I moved over to the man who claimed to be my father, handing him a hammer so he would stop trying to smash a nail with the bottom of a screwdriver…
"Look," Kelly interjected, slicing through the silence. "We know this is hard, but you've got to make the best of it." Her eyes darted around, wary, as if expecting shadows to leap into action.
Chris stood up, apparently finished with the three-legged bed, and stood by the door with Kelly. "Look, champ. Do you know why we came here to South Park?"
'Honestly, no. I thought we were pretty okay at-' before I could finish thinking a response, "He doesn't remember." Chris whispered loudly to Kelly.
"That's good." She replied.
The two lean close to each other, agreeing before turning back to me. "We want you to make the most of your break, so go out there and make some Friends," Chris spoke—almost like a command. "We love you, son." He emphasized "Son" as if I had forgotten.
A few moments of silence passed in the room.
"I know, Dad," Chris said suddenly, in a high-pitched voice. "I love you too..." The man childishly rolled his eyes and stormed out of the room. He didn't understand. Neither of them did.
"Tony," Kelly's voice softened as she approached, her hands busy unpacking yet another box. "There's some money for you on the counter."
I merely nodded, the gesture sharp and clipped, like the cut of my hair, which now framed my face in a boyish style—a disguise I loathed.
She wrapped her arms around me, a fleeting warmth in the cold charade we were forced to play. "I know you don't like pretending, but It's just for a little while longer," she whispered, a promise or a plea. I couldn't tell.
"Little while" felt like a lifetime when Being X had you in their twisted game of chess. But survival was something ingrained in me; whether facing the hellfires of war or the absurdity of this domestic fugitive life, I would endure. Because that's what generals do—they adapt, fight, strategize.
Even if it meant becoming someone I'm not, it meant playing a part in Chris's farce of normalcy. Make friends, he says, as if friendship was a commodity I could barter for peace.
The phone buzz punctuated the silence once more, a reminder of the power I wielded and the attention it brought. They wanted to use me to control the masses through my uncanny connection ability. But I was no one's pawn.
I snatched the cash from the counter, crisp bills that felt like a bandage over a wound too deep to heal. Money was nothing more than another tool in this farce of life; it was necessary. I shoved it into the pocket of my boyish jeans and headed for the door.
My hand hesitated on the doorknob, the cool metal indifferent to the turmoil. With a hard twist, I stepped out into the blinding light of day, the sun mocking my somber mood with its cheerful rays.
The world outside was too quiet for a town supposedly teeming with life. I squinted against the glare, scanning for any sign of the normalcy Chris seemed to believe was within arm's reach. It wasn't—normalcy, and I were strangers passing in the night.
"Make friends," he had said as if I could forge connections as easily as breathing. In truth, I could; the irony was not lost on me.
I walked with purpose, each step a silent challenge to Being X. My mind raced with plans and contingencies, the general within calculating odds and potential threats. The streets were a chessboard, the unsuspecting townspeople pawns in a game they didn't know they were playing.
"Thank you, Dad, I love you too..." Chris's sarcasm still echoed in my ears, making me scowl. I barely even know you; why do I care?
I walked past picket fences and manicured lawns, each house a silent sentry to the secrets they harbored. Pretend to be a boy, pretend to be normal, pretend until the pretending becomes your reality.
But I was Tanya, even if the name now belonged to someone else. Even if I had to bury her under layers of lies to protect what little we had left, I would endure, adapt, and survive.
Generals don't just fight battles; they win wars, even against gods who meddle with human lives.
As I meandered down the sun-dappled suburbia of my new, painfully average neighborhood, my eyes snagged on a peculiar sight. Behold a fortress of cardboard majesty tucked behind a nondescript house, its flaps fluttering like banners in the gentle breeze. My curiosity, an ever-persistent beast, tugged me towards it despite my general aversion to whimsy.
Halfway through casting suspicious glances at the makeshift stronghold, movement caught my attention. A diminutive figure approached, decked out in what could only be described as a low-budget cosplay of heroism: a bedsheet cape trailing behind him and a hammer clutched with the gravity only a child could muster.
I halted an instinctive unease prickling at my nape. The boy wielded his hammer with an unsettling seriousness, and for a fleeting moment, I entertained the notion of turning tail. Perhaps it was time to retreat to the dubious sanctuary of my home, where the worst I faced was Chris's latest batch of questionable brownies and the silent judgment of walls that had witnessed too many one-sided conversations.
But as I swiveled on my heel, ready to abandon my exploration of town, chaos erupted from the shrubbery. Another boy, donning an elf costume complete with pointed ears and a wooden sword, sprung forth like a jack-in-the-box with ill intentions. He launched himself at the would-be Thor with a ferocity that belied his size.
The clash was immediate and absurd. Elf met a faux Norse god in a spectacle of flailing limbs and enthusiastic battle cries. They danced around each other, the elf swinging his sword with the reckless abandon usually reserved for video game avatars.
Despite my better judgment, I found myself rooted to the spot, watching the drama unfold with a mix of horror and fascination. Their duel lacked grace or finesse, but they made up for what they lacked in skill with sheer determination.
And there I stood, a veteran of wars far grimmer than this suburban skirmish, unable to peel my gaze away from two boys locked in mock combat, their imagined battlefield as far removed from my memories of real ones as the moon from the earth. But then again, perhaps that was the allure; here, no one died, no one truly suffered—it was all just a game.
It was a game I had no intention of joining, not unless absolutely necessary. And even then, I'd do so with the same enthusiasm as a cat thrown into a bathtub—claws out, teeth bared, and deeply resentful. After all, my vocal cords were reserved for matters of life and death, and this...this was neither.
The elf's ambush was a masterstroke of playground warfare, and the blonde boy's surprise was palpable. His shouts for help pierced the suburban tranquility like a plastic sword through a bubble wrap shield. I hesitated my instincts as a seasoned general warring with the practicality of non-involvement. But when the cries continued, unheeded by anyone but myself, that damned sense of responsibility gnawed at me.
"Assistance! Aid! I can't hold on for much longer!" The blond boy's voice cracked under duress. His bedsheet cape was now askew, and the hammer was gripped in desperation rather than confidence. It wasn't the trenches, but the panic was real enough.
I marched forward, propelled by a strange cocktail of curiosity and a begrudging sense of duty. The elf boy was relentless, each thwack of his wooden blade punctuated by a grunt of victory. He made up for what he lacked in size in sheer tenacity, pounding away at his opponent who had clearly lost any will to retaliate.
Enough. I thought, my hand reaching out, fingertips brushing the shoulder of the pint-sized aggressor. My touch might as well have been a declaration of war.
"Hey! No cheating!" The elf spun around, his eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand suns—or so it seemed from the melodrama of his glare. His accusatory finger jabbed in my direction, and for a moment, I entertained the idea of launching into a tactical explanation about the Geneva Conventions and fair combat.
But before I could summon an arched eyebrow, he turned on his heel—such a dramatic exit—and bolted. Part anger, part indignation, his escape was as swift as it was comical.
I stood on the sidewalk of suburbia, wondering if this was what passed for normalcy in this era of peacetime childhoods.
Standing up as if he wasn't just mercilessly beaten a second ago, the blonde boy, his bedsheet cape now askew and his plastic hammer dropped unceremoniously to the ground, smiled at me with the brightest smile I have ever seen.
"Hi there!" he chirped with unearned optimism. "I'm Butters the Merciful, Paladin of the Last Order, Keeper of the Hammer of Forgiveness." He beamed at me, apparently unfazed by the recent skirmish. "We're neighbors, I think. We should be friends! The Wizard King sent me on an epic quest to find 'The New Kid.' And that's gotta be you, right?"
I stared at him, my silence not out of choice but necessity. A response would trigger the sharp sting in my throat, a reminder of the side effects of the concoction my father so carelessly administered.
"Ah, it's cool if you don't want to talk," Butters continued, already filling the space with his own chatter. "I can talk enough for both of us!"
He started pacing around me as if orbiting a newfound planet; his questions shot out like rapid-fire. "So, do you like it here? Have you tried the cheesy poofs at the corner store? Aren't they just the best?"
His barrage of inquiries went on, each more random than the last. But never once did he pause to consider that I might be anything other than another boy—his assumptions as blind as his enthusiasm.
"Yep, Yep, talking isn't everyone's thing," he nodded, interpreting my silence as agreement. "But hey, we'll have plenty of time for that later. There are adventures to be had!"
Butters' words were a stark contrast to my own internal monologue, which ran through strategies and contingencies, always preparing for the worst. His innocence was something out of a fable, while my mind was etched with the scars of battles long past.
"Anyway," he rambled on, "we'll need to introduce you to everyone else. Build up our party, y'know?"
There, amidst his blissful ignorance, I couldn't help but weigh the absurdity of this moment against my life the past year and a half. Yet, even as my mind plotted and planned, a small, begrudging part of me wondered what it felt like to embrace such unwavering hope.
"Let's go on an adventure to Kupa Keep!" Butters declared, mistaking my stoic expression for enthusiasm. "It's gonna be legendary!"
'Legendary,' I repeated internally, a spark of dark humor igniting within. Perhaps, even a silent general could find an odd sort of camaraderie in this strange new world.
"Honestly, I don't know why Cartman's mom let him build it…"
He certainly can talk for both of us. Strolling down the nondescript suburban street, I had Butters alongside me, his chatterbox mode on full display. He talked about random adventures he had with the other boys in town, like when he wrote a novel that became a bestseller or when he had a robot friend despite the absurdity of his tall tales. I didn't mind; it saved me from the agony of small talk.
"You're going to love the grand wizard! He's super-duper awesome at magic and stuff," Butters blabbed with the infectious enthusiasm of a puppy. We approached a green two-story house that looked perfectly ordinary, except for the cardboard fortress towering in front of it, as if mocking the very concept of medieval architecture.
"Here we are!" Butters announced, banging on the door like he was trying to wake the dead. Seconds ticked by until the door swung open, revealing a kid who looked like he'd eaten all the sweets in the kingdom. Draped in red robes that strained against his girth, he wore a blue wizard hat crowned with a smiley-faced star. It was so absurd that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing—or wincing—I wasn't sure which.
"All hail the grand wizard!" Butters belted out into the streets, throwing his arms wide in a dramatic flourish.
"Shut it, Butters," the corpulent child-king grumbled, then turned his gaze to me. "So you are the new kid. Coldwell Banker foretold your coming," he proclaimed with a gravity that would have been more fitting if he weren't dressed like an overgrown toddler playing dress-up. "I am the wizard king. But the time for talk is not now. Come see my kingdom."
Considering his size, he retreated into the house with a dramatic pivot that seemed to defy the laws of physics. Butters scampered in after him, beckoning me to follow with a wave of his hand.
'Great, another Larper,' I thought, trailing behind them. Here I was, playing along in a child's fantasy.
'Let's get this over with,' I muttered silently, stepping into the lair of the so-called wizard king, bracing myself for whatever madness awaited.
I trudged through the threshold, my eyes barely registering the cacophony of colors that was in the living room. The 'wizard king' led us with a waddle that shook the floorboards beneath his feet. Butters flitted beside him, a caricature of loyalty in every bounce.
"Mom, not now!" the wizard king barked as we passed his mother—a thin lady with lines of worry etched into her face. She hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, a blue blouse hanging off her like the sail of a ship without wind.
"Shut up mom. Not now," he repeated, his voice flat and devoid of the grandiose flair he had outside. His mother's lips tightened, but she retreated back into the recesses of the house. It was a familiar dance—the kind I'd seen all too often in other homes, other lives. A sigh almost escaped me, but the pain it would cause wasn't worth the release.
We continued our strange procession, leaving behind the scent of lemon-scented polish and unfulfilled maternal curiosity. The backyard loomed ahead, the kingdom of cardboard on display through the glass sliding doors.
"Come, witness the splendor of my realm!" the wizard king announced, throwing open the sliding door with a flourish that sent a stack of papers flying from a nearby table.
As we stepped into the fresh air, I couldn't help but feel out of place in this situation. Here I was, a ten-year-old girl pretending to be a boy haunted by memories of war, following a pretend monarch to his kingdom of... what? Lawn gnomes and discarded toys?
"Behold!" he gestured dramatically to a hodgepodge of cardboard structures littering the yard. "Kupa Keep! The wizard's stump! The towers of despair!"
Butters clapped his hands together, nearly squealing with delight. "Isn't it amazing, New Kid?"
I simply nodded.
"Come," the wizard king beckoned again, and I followed, curious to know how much effort they had put into all this.
The late afternoon sun glinted off the assortment of makeshift weapons sprawled across a table resembling a medieval arms dealer's discount bin. I watched as a boy with a helmet squeezed onto his head, giving him the appearance of an overstuffed sausage link, stood guard over the arsenal. His gaze was serious, a misplaced solemnity amid the absurdity of his ill-fitting armor.
"Behold," announced the wizard king, striding toward the table with all the pomp of a peacock in mating season. "Our weapon shop here is managed by Clyde, a level fourteen warrior." He gestured grandly at the 'warrior,' whose helmet tilted even more precariously at the acknowledgment.
'Level fourteen, huh?' I observed dryly, noting the duct tape holding parts of his cardboard getup together. 'What perilous quests did he conquer for that title? The Battle of the Broken Swing Set?'
As if reading my mind, the boy's dry tone cut through the air as he rubbed a rag over a wooden sword. "You may have heard of me from the battle of Starks Pond."
Ignoring the comment, I followed the self-proclaimed ruler of this backyard kingdom and was guided to another spectacle. A boy wearing a typical 'ranger' costume, complete with a bow, appeared to be engaged in an intense conversation with a disinterested cat perched within the 'stables.'
"And over here, you see our fearsome monsters overseen by our level nine ranger, Scott Malkinsen, who has the power of diabetes." The wizard king nodded towards the 'ranger,' whose greatest battle, it seemed, was against hypoglycemia.
'Power of diabetes? What's that? Summoning a flood of insulin to drown your enemies?'
"Shh, Douchebag," whispered the wizard king conspiratorially. As if he could hear my thoughts, "Scott takes his condition very seriously."
I rolled my eyes in response to the fat wizard's glee.
Honestly, amidst the nonsense, there was something almost endearing about their commitment to this fantasy.
I shuffled my feet, following after the king, feeling the crunch of dry leaves beneath me as we approached the entrance of the 'keep'. There stood the final member of this motley crew, adorned in a white dress and a blonde wig that seemed to mock the very idea of royalty. His orange hoodie peeked out from under his costume like a glaring anachronism.
"Behold," announced the wizard king with a flourish, "the breathtaking and lovely Princess Kenny. The fairest of all the kingdom." His arm swept forward grandly as if presenting the boy to an invisible court.
Leaning into me, he cupped his mouth with a conspiratorial hand. "Don't ask why Kenny wanted to be a chick. That just seems to be how he is rolling right now."
Kenny twirled, sending ripples through the fabric of his makeshift gown, and I wondered if there was any logic left in the world—or at least in this backyard.
Flanked by the ever-obedient Butters, the wizard king fixed his gaze on me. "Now then. New Kid, what is thy name?" His voice boomed with a sense of importance that only he truly felt.
I steeled myself against the impending sting that came with speech, but before I could say my first words, he barreled on.
"Is your name Douchebag?"
My jaw clamped shut as if on reflex, the words lodging in my throat. Was it mockery or some skewed form of acceptance? I couldn't tell.
"Douchebag it is!" He seemed pleased with himself as if he'd just christened a battleship rather than insulted a girl who preferred silence over pain.
"Now, Douchebag, what class do you want to play in? You aren't black enough to be a thief." His blunt assessment of my appearance made me bristle, the ridiculousness of his statement almost laughable—if it wasn't so absurd.
I shot him a glare that could have curdled milk, yet the wizard king simply grinned, unfazed by my silent reproach. In this strange land of pretend, I was the outsider—not them. Here, rules bent like light through a prism, and I was just learning to see the spectrum.
'Fine,' I thought, finding a twisted amusement in their expectations. 'Let the games begin, your highness.'
I thought about leaving, but a voice in my head—Chris's—echoed with annoying clarity: *Make friends, Tanya. Like a normal kid.*
The fat wizard continued, "Fighter's out. No decent white fighters around these parts in ages," the self-proclaimed monarch mused, stroking his fake beard he just put on as though it held ancient wisdom. "Mage ain't as cool as a wizard, but if you pick Jew, we might as well not even talk."
The group of children around us, more than I initially thought participated in this LARP farce, watched with wide-eyed expectation. There was an air of anticipation, which I knew all too well from coordinating military maneuvers. It tugged at the corner of my resolve, and despite every instinct screaming retreat, I remained rooted.
Silently, I pointed to the disheveled pile labeled 'Mage armor.' The paper trembled slightly under the force of my jab.
"Ah! Mage it is, then! Arm yourself in the keep, Douchebag the Mage," he had boomed in a voice that tried too hard to mask its prepubescent cracks. Butters' applause was as lackluster as my enthusiasm.
As I stepped into the keep, the scent of cardboard and mustiness assailed my nostrils—a far cry from the crisp air of no man's land that still haunted my dreams. The wizard king's command to don the mage armor felt like a trivial order, but one does not survive wars by taking orders lightly, even if they come from an overweight boy with delusions of grandeur.
I surveyed the dimly lit interior, noting the so-called throne—an upturned bucket with a cushion—and the pedestal that held their 'relic,' a stick crowned with a flashlight's glow. It was like standing in a museum curated by children whose imaginations ran wild.
'Fine craftsmanship,' I thought sarcastically, approaching the makeshift altar. The light flickered as if in response, casting eerie shadows across the room. For a moment, just a fleeting second, the stick seemed more than a child's toy. But then reality—or whatever version of it this was—snapped back like a rubber band stretched past its limit.
'Yup, that's a stick, alright,' I scoffed internally, turning away from the object.
"Let's get this over with," I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips. Speaking sent a familiar sharp pain through my jaw, a reminder not to talk.
With swift movements, I slipped into the mage armor, a patchwork of fabrics that smelled faintly of mildew and mothballs. It hung loosely on my frame, the sleeves too long, and the hem dragging on the floor. It was a far cry from the tailored uniforms of my past lives, but it would suffice for this farcical battle.
'Ready for some LARPing magic?' I was dryly amused at the prospect of engaging in pretend warfare with these kids. My previous life's muscle memory kicked in as I adjusted the cloth, creating knots to prevent dragging, preparing for whatever ridiculousness waited outside.
Emerging from the keep, I squinted against the daylight, catching sight of the wizard king's eager face. His eyes were wide with anticipation, a look I knew all too well—one of expectation before the chaos of battle, real or imagined.
"Clyde! Get your ass over here!" the king bellowed, his voice breaking mid-shout.
I glanced toward Clyde, who shuffled forward with reluctance etched into his features. He probably didn't sign up for this part of the game, either. No matter. If the king wanted amusement, he'd getit—even if it was at Clyde's expense.
Normal. Yet here I stood, about to engage in mock combat to fit in. If this was what friendship entailed, then so be it. I'd play their game—for now.
The echo of footsteps on the grass was my only warning before the wizard king's voice boomed like a megaphone commandeered by an overzealous child. "Ah, Douchebag. You finally joined us. Now, pick up your wand..." His chubby fingers pointed towards the stick lying in the dirt, its mundane nature failing to conjure any sense of magic.
With deliberate slowness—a silent protest—I reached down and let my fingers wrap around the rough wood. It felt almost as ridiculous as it looked, but I wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing me balk.
"Beat up Clyde," he commanded with the casual authority of a despot in his paper crown.
"What!?" The word burst from Clyde's mouth like a bubblegum pop, incredulous and sticky with disbelief.
"You heard me! Douchebag, fight Clyde!" The wizard king's eyes gleamed with the thrill of his edict, a smugness that made me want to use the stick for something other than this farcical duel.
Clyde's protest was a mere mumble under his breath, quickly quashed by another decree. "I am the king, and the king wishes to be amused!"
Rolling his eyes, Clyde took his place in the center of the makeshift arena. He brandished his wooden sword with the confidence of someone who'd wielded it a thousand times in pretend battles like this one. "I'm not going to take it easy, new kid."
I nodded and stood still, eyeing the branch in my grasp. In comparison, Clyde's wooden sword looked like it could inflict some minor bruises—assuming he could land a hit. My gaze flicked between the weapon and its owner. Size might matter in a real fight, but here, amidst make-believe warfare, it was all about speed and cunning.
My free hand patted my pocket. And a firework sparkler or two if things got desperate.
A sneer curled Clyde's lip as he sized me up, likely expecting an easy win against the quiet, unassuming kid before him. Little did he know, I was no stranger to combat, whether on blood-soaked battlefields or suburban lawns besieged by adolescent power plays.
"Fight!"
The word was a gunshot, propelling Clyde forward like a cannonball. He barreled toward me, the wooden sword raised high and ready to strike. But I wasn't there when his blow came crashing down. I sidestepped swiftly and snapped my stick against the back of his helmet with a satisfying thwack.
Laughter erupted from the self-proclaimed wizard king, his girth jiggling with mirth as he watched his knight flounder. "Well, well," he chortled, "it seems Douchebag has some moves."
I dodged another wild swing, feeling the air whoosh past where my head had been a moment before. Clyde's frustration was palpable, his grunts growing louder with each missed attack. I danced around him, the makeshift wand in my hand delivering sharp raps whenever he left himself open—which was often.
"Use your fireball spell on him!" bellowed the king, amusement rich in his voice.
A fireball spell, right... My hand plunged into the pocket of the tattered mage armor, fingers closing around a sparkler—the closest thing to magic in this absurd little game. With a flick of the makeshift lighter, the tip ignited, spitting out golden sparks with a fierce crackle.
Clyde paused, huffing like a disgruntled bull, eyes wide at seeing my "spell." Seizing the moment, I shoved the sparkler directly into his pocket. It was easy—he was too winded to dodge.
"Ah—hot! Hot!" Clyde's screams punctuated the evening air as he dropped his sword and fell to the ground, hands frantically trying to extinguish the fiery intruder.
'Victory.' I thought grimly, watching Clyde writhe on the grass. No matter the battlefield, be it cloaked in the horror of war or the farce of child's play, survival demanded adaptation—and a certain ruthlessness.
"Ha! Did you see that?" The fat king was beside himself with glee. "Douchebag, you're a natural!"
The others around us started clapping loudly.
Ignoring them, I looked at Clyde crying on the ground in front of his friends; with a tinge of regret shadowing my thoughts, I stepped forward, extending a hand toward Clyde, who still lay crumpled on the grass. He brushed away the remnants of sparks, his eyes brimming with tears and a seething resentment.
"Need a hand?" I uttered my voice barely above a whisper—a painful rasp that scratched at my throat and reminded me why silence was my preferred state.
But before the words could fully reach him, the fat wizard bounded over. His cheeks flushed with delight. "That was awesome douchebag! He was all like Waaahhh and you were all like Whack!" he bellowed, drowning out my attempt at consolation.
Around us, the other kids raised a chorus of snickers and cheers. They slapped my back, their hands heavy and their grins wide. Clyde, however, remained grounded, ignoring the offered help as he wiped his face, his glare sharp enough to slice through the thickening tension.
"Sorry, Clyde," I murmured, though I knew the apology would fall on deaf ears.
Before I could dwell on the aftermath of our mock battle, an iron grip clamped onto my shoulder, spinning me around. The wizard king—whose girth suggested more royal banquets than battles—tugged me toward the cardboard fortress. His excitement shook the ground beneath us, or maybe it was just my legs, weary from the absurd dance of this LARPing ordeal.
"Come, come, Douchebag!" he insisted, his voice echoing with a fervor that bordered on mania.
I steeled myself for whatever nonsense awaited within the makeshift keep.
He ushered me past the threshold into a dim chamber where the stick sat upon its pedestal, bathed in flashlight glory. My gaze fell upon it, and despite my skepticism, I couldn't deny the allure it held over these would-be warriors.
"Behold," he proclaimed, waving a pudgy hand toward the relic. "The reason for your recruitment, the root of this endless conflict! The Stick of Truth! Whomever controls the stick controls the universe," he announced with a dramatic flourish. "We liberated it from elvish clutches two days prior, and now, our kingdom thrives!"
'Thriving seems a stretch,' I thought dryly.
"Watch your eyes!" he warned, shielding his own as if the very light of the stick could sear his retinas. "Its powers are too great for mortal minds to comprehend."
I joined him in his make-believe, squinting skeptically at the illuminated driftwood.
"Good, good," he nodded, satisfied with his theatrics. "Now you see why we need you, Douchebag. Your cunning in battle, your... spark."
Here I stood, playing sorcerer in a child's game. Yet, amidst the whimsy and pretend, I felt the familiar stirrings of strategy and conquest. A game it might be, but one where I could still command respect—or at least avoid further parental disappointment.
'Let's start this war, then,' I thought, not quite sure whether I was playing along or plotting my own rise to power within this bizarre backyard kingdom.
"Now that you have seen the stick of truth, we can discuss your dues. To be a member of my kingdom is nine ninety-five dollars for the first week, four dollars of which are tax deductible—" The wizard king's voice trailed off into the absurdity of backyard economics.
'Nine ninety-five?' I thought incredulously, my eyebrows arching behind my makeshift mage hood. 'For this... elaborate farce?'
"ALARM, ALARM, ALARM!" Butters burst through the cardboard door, his armor clanking like a tin symphony gone awry. His eyes were wide with panic, or was it excitement? It's hard to distinguish in these games of pretend peril.
'An alarm?' I mused silently, observing Butters' frantic pantomime.
The wizard king spun on his heel, his cape swirling dramatically around him as Butters skidded to a halt, gasping for air like a fish plucked from its bowl. "What is it, my knight?" the wizard king demanded. "Speak!"
"Elves!" Butters wheezed, teetering on the edge of over-dramatized collapse. "They're coming! They've found us!"
"Ready yourself, Douchebag!" the wizard king commanded, thrusting an outstretched hand toward me, the shadow of his girth casting an imposing silhouette against the glow of the stick. "We must defend the Stick of Truth!"
I glanced at the piece of driftwood enshrined before me, wondering how many splinters one could suffer in the name of neighborhood supremacy. I sighed, the kind that comes from the depths of a soul resigned to the ridiculousness of its circumstances.
I took a step outside back into the sun.
"Remember, your dues!" he called after me, but I was already striding towards the impending conflict, the echo of my father's voice about the importance of making friends ringing in my ears. Little did he know, this was one friendship ritual I could do without.
