Tim the Tracker's Turn at Talking

"So," I asked as casually as I could, which is pretty difficult when you're a two-headed magician with a new left hand, "Whatever ended up happening to this Edgar the Fascinating character? I assume a relatively simple cure to his condition was quickly found, resulting in a quick resolution that everybody laughed about afterwards, when things were back to normal?"
"Oh, no!" My new neck-sharer replied enthusiastically, "'Long Distance Relationship' is a rather stubborn and irrational spell, and it wasn't willing to let go without a fight! In fact, in another humorous twist, Sneebly's former body wasted away in his bed for ages without anybody noticing and now his skeleton is on display in the Moderately Priced Museum of Somewhat Interesting Old Things as the only skeleton in the world, at least that we know of, without a head or a left hand!"
"But, I thought you said they were only attached for months?" I stammered.
"Yes, but nobody thought to check on poor Sneebly's body, so when the spell finally let go of those two morons, Sneebly lived the rest of his days as a disembodied head and a disarmed hand - hilarious at parties, but useless in a marathon or high-jumping contest!"
"I imagine so..." I muttered, a cold panic gripping my insides as I thought of what the next few months had in store for both myself and Melvin. Not for the first time, I wondered how I had gotten into this situation, as my adventure had started off so well as a relatively interesting journey involving my and my highly enlightened thoughts. How did things get so... ridiculous? I wasn't sure, but I was certain someone called Karl had something to do with it. Damn the Karls of this world!
"So, what exactly was the spell you cast to get us in this situation?" Melvin's head asked, "I assume there is a relatively simple cure to it which will result in a quick resolution that everybody will laugh about afterwards?"
"Ah, not exactly..." I quickly confessed to Melvin my mistake.

For the next few minutes, there was a lot of swearing.

Once Melvin had calmed down, I broached the crucial question; "So, Melvin - is soup a meal or a drink?"
"What?" Melvin asked incredulously, "Surely while you've got me here you want to get me to perform The Spell That Makes The Thing Which I Now Say, not comment on the ontology of soup?!"
"Oh, yeah - that." I stammered, again cursing myself for my own stupidity, which had increased a lot recently, strange given that I was, in fact, a genius.
"Well, let's get on with it th-
Melvin was cut off mid-sentence, possibly due to the fact that for the first time he had thought of the serious and very important ramifications of the soup question, but more likely because the tracker's hunting knife was currently being held high and steady up against his neck. The tracker, who was in fact the one holding the knife, was looking at the two of us with a crazed expression on his face, his right eye twitching, although his hand was frighteningly steady.
"What is the meaning of this outrage?" I said, in what I thought sounded like a commanding and authoritative voice, though due to my chronic fear of knives it came out several octaves higher than normal and I sounded more like a singer at a Mika covers gig.
The tracker's command of vocabulary and phrasing was understandably, ah, shall we say... lower class. "Dang two-faced migs scarin' us simple folk." (For those not in the know, "migs" is a folk term given to magicians, witches, or indeed anyone with fashion sense, by the lower classes.)
"My good man," I said in a more level tone, "Lower your sabre and let's discuss this like gentlemen."
The tracker sneered at me. "So's youse can jis hook me in the snozz agin? Nowt."

What a difficult situation.

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