Myron The Magnificent's Machiavellian Moment
There it was, lying liquidly in the bottom of the cauldron - the final potion. I had made it - both literally and figuratively - and now I was, finally, a fully fledged magician.
I allowed myself a moment's modest reflection on the significance of this event.
"WAHOO! I DID IT! HAHA HA! STUFF YOU MYRON YOU DEAD OLD FOOL! I'M A MAGICIAN... YESSSS!!!"
I allowed myself a moment's modest victory dance about the cauldron before returning to my state of reflection. Krulnor and Balthazar lent in beside me as we each peered into the cauldron and wondered what the purple gloppy stuff's function might be.
"Maybe it's an invisibility potion?" Krulnor offered. "I'm pretty sure nobody's invented that yet."
I sighed. "It's on page 93 of my spell book Krulnor - 'Makes The Drinker Disappear'. And plus, whatever this is, it has to be somehow better than Melvin's spell - and come on, what could possibly be better than a spell that lets you make whatever you want? Melvin was Myron's greatest rival - but word had it, Myron was the superior of the two. That's why I went to learn from him, you know. That, and Melvin had a five year waiting list at the time and Mum couldn't afford the textbooks."
Balthazar picked up his lute and offered a tuneful thought;
"Perhaps the brew doth make the drinker live,
Eternal life might be this potion's gift?
Though if so it seems odd that Myron did,
Ne'er drink of it himself and death's grip rid!"
"Yeah - that can't be it." I realised Bal was right. "Myron was too selfish to not consider drinking himself into immortality if he'd had the chance."
"Well," Krulnor pondered, "Seeing as I'm owed half, I'll take my share now and drink it first. Whatever it is, it can't lead to anything worse than the adventure I was last involved in."
Carefully we poured half of the potion out of the cauldron and into one of Krulnor's empty water flasks. Once the flask was full, Krulnor poured the entire mix down his throat in one full swig - impressive!
BANG!
FIZZ!
POP!
AFRO-CUBAN HIP-HOP/JAZZ FUSION!
POW!
***
If there was ever a greater hero than Krulnor, history does not recall it. Single-handedly Krulnor defeated the leviathan of Scree, raided the toxic barns of the three handed barbarians, took out the garbage of Desmond the disgusting, and defeated the 46 Very Annoying Hedgehogs of Dleifekaw; yet none of these tasks compared in any way to the task that was about to unfold before him, the task for which his name would go down in history, the task for which epic poems would be composed in his honour, the task for which his mother would gloat to all of her friends about how her son was better than all of their sons and how she always knew he would achieve something in life and how he was such a good boy and he always remembered her birthday and last year he got her such a lovely card and sent her flowers.
Well, maybe not that last bit, because, as it turned out, cunning old Myron had the last laugh this time. 'Soul Transfer' - the ingenious highlight of his magical career. Although he had not let on at the time, Myron had seen something special in young Omric - though of course, he still did his best to forget his name, for form's sake if nothing else. But he had been fairly optimistic that the stubborn young apprentice would work his way to the end of the book, so a few days before he died, Myron swigged back his share of his carefully kept bottle of 'Soul Transfer'. He cackled to himself as he lay in bed that evening while Omric shovelled snow outside in his bare feet - whoever drank the next bottle of this stuff would switch bodies with him - dead or alive! Omric only looked to be in his late teens - plenty of life left in the lad with which he could further humiliate that idiot Melvin.
Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled feature.
***
"Krulnor" flexed his muscles and looked around as if new to the area. His eyes settled on me. "Ah, Omric my lad! Good work! Thought you'd make it through the book! 'Sure Farts for at Least Seventeen Minutes' is a laugh, isn't it! And now look - I'm back for a second lifetime! Haha! This body is great!"
"M..m..Myron?!?" I spluttered.
"Yes that's right! Soul Transfer - highlight of a brilliant career, if I do say so myself!"
"But - where's... Krulnor!"
"Wherever you buried me, my lad! And dead as a doornail, don't you worry! Won't be any weird hand through the soil stuff happening up around the old cottage scaring the fieldmice! Anywho - I'm off for a beer! Being dead whips up a hell of a thirst in a man, let me tell you!"
And with that, Krulnor/Myron headed off down the road.
Ah, crap.
THE END
What Happened Before. **** (But Wait! Where Does this link go?)
I allowed myself a moment's modest reflection on the significance of this event.
"WAHOO! I DID IT! HAHA HA! STUFF YOU MYRON YOU DEAD OLD FOOL! I'M A MAGICIAN... YESSSS!!!"
I allowed myself a moment's modest victory dance about the cauldron before returning to my state of reflection. Krulnor and Balthazar lent in beside me as we each peered into the cauldron and wondered what the purple gloppy stuff's function might be.
"Maybe it's an invisibility potion?" Krulnor offered. "I'm pretty sure nobody's invented that yet."
I sighed. "It's on page 93 of my spell book Krulnor - 'Makes The Drinker Disappear'. And plus, whatever this is, it has to be somehow better than Melvin's spell - and come on, what could possibly be better than a spell that lets you make whatever you want? Melvin was Myron's greatest rival - but word had it, Myron was the superior of the two. That's why I went to learn from him, you know. That, and Melvin had a five year waiting list at the time and Mum couldn't afford the textbooks."
Balthazar picked up his lute and offered a tuneful thought;
"Perhaps the brew doth make the drinker live,
Eternal life might be this potion's gift?
Though if so it seems odd that Myron did,
Ne'er drink of it himself and death's grip rid!"
"Yeah - that can't be it." I realised Bal was right. "Myron was too selfish to not consider drinking himself into immortality if he'd had the chance."
"Well," Krulnor pondered, "Seeing as I'm owed half, I'll take my share now and drink it first. Whatever it is, it can't lead to anything worse than the adventure I was last involved in."
Carefully we poured half of the potion out of the cauldron and into one of Krulnor's empty water flasks. Once the flask was full, Krulnor poured the entire mix down his throat in one full swig - impressive!
BANG!
FIZZ!
POP!
AFRO-CUBAN HIP-HOP/JAZZ FUSION!
POW!
***
If there was ever a greater hero than Krulnor, history does not recall it. Single-handedly Krulnor defeated the leviathan of Scree, raided the toxic barns of the three handed barbarians, took out the garbage of Desmond the disgusting, and defeated the 46 Very Annoying Hedgehogs of Dleifekaw; yet none of these tasks compared in any way to the task that was about to unfold before him, the task for which his name would go down in history, the task for which epic poems would be composed in his honour, the task for which his mother would gloat to all of her friends about how her son was better than all of their sons and how she always knew he would achieve something in life and how he was such a good boy and he always remembered her birthday and last year he got her such a lovely card and sent her flowers.
Well, maybe not that last bit, because, as it turned out, cunning old Myron had the last laugh this time. 'Soul Transfer' - the ingenious highlight of his magical career. Although he had not let on at the time, Myron had seen something special in young Omric - though of course, he still did his best to forget his name, for form's sake if nothing else. But he had been fairly optimistic that the stubborn young apprentice would work his way to the end of the book, so a few days before he died, Myron swigged back his share of his carefully kept bottle of 'Soul Transfer'. He cackled to himself as he lay in bed that evening while Omric shovelled snow outside in his bare feet - whoever drank the next bottle of this stuff would switch bodies with him - dead or alive! Omric only looked to be in his late teens - plenty of life left in the lad with which he could further humiliate that idiot Melvin.
Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled feature.
***
"Krulnor" flexed his muscles and looked around as if new to the area. His eyes settled on me. "Ah, Omric my lad! Good work! Thought you'd make it through the book! 'Sure Farts for at Least Seventeen Minutes' is a laugh, isn't it! And now look - I'm back for a second lifetime! Haha! This body is great!"
"M..m..Myron?!?" I spluttered.
"Yes that's right! Soul Transfer - highlight of a brilliant career, if I do say so myself!"
"But - where's... Krulnor!"
"Wherever you buried me, my lad! And dead as a doornail, don't you worry! Won't be any weird hand through the soil stuff happening up around the old cottage scaring the fieldmice! Anywho - I'm off for a beer! Being dead whips up a hell of a thirst in a man, let me tell you!"
And with that, Krulnor/Myron headed off down the road.
Ah, crap.
THE END
What Happened Before. **** (But Wait! Where Does this link go?)
posted by Musings | 12:39 AM
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