Visit the Alley

One thing Xabar regrets is that he did not stock up on magical artifacts before being unceremoniously expelled. Now that he is no longer a wizardry student and has no prospects of graduation, if there is to be any magic in his future, it’s going to be the illicit kind. That’s exactly what he hopes to find in the back alley.

As he walks toward the alley, it briefly flickers through his mind that it is highly illegal for him to purchase or possess magical artifacts. He dismisses that thought, however, reasoning that such laws were merely suggestions. “It’s like ‘Dry Clean Only,’” he tells himself.

He steps into the alley. The rancid smell and seedy ambiance are the same as he remembers. The merchant who is currently setting up shop is a different fellow than the one he and Hager visited. Xabar is pleased by this, since that means it is likely he will find new trinkets that might fit his needs.

“Is there something in particular you’re fancying, young man?” asks the chap standing behind a makeshift table. “A bit of gelled incubus pituitary gland to woo the ladies? Perhaps this glove, charmed by Graphon the Globular himself? It’s guaranteed to trigger screaming hemorrhoids for any enemy whose hand you shake with it. I dare say a healthy young buck like you has no need for Rocktite; you probably never lack for lead in the pencil when romancing the lasses, but maybe you would want some as a gift for your grandfather?” Xabar is nearly knocked over by the man’s fetid breath and weapons-grade body odor. He steadies himself and focuses on breathing through his mouth as he looks over the items on display.

“I’m just browsing,” he responds, picking up a bottle and studying the peculiar creatures swimming inside. They appear to be massive white tadpoles, about 4 or 5 inches in length. The man smiles and says, “So you’ve noticed the sperm of the Squalled Serpent of Scoville! Very rare and difficult to procure, to be sure! Put one of those beauties in the love canal, and even your great-great-grandmother will be giving birth in a fortnight.”

Xabar examines the swimming spermatozoa curiously. “I’ve heard of these. Don’t most of the babies come out with tentacles and an insatiable hunger for human flesh?”

The man shrugs. “You’ll have a bit of that now and then, but every family has some difficulty with a problem child.”

Xabar is about to inquire about how the man procured the sperm. If memory serves, the Squalled Serpent of Scoville has a penis that could wrap itself around a small building. Whatever it took to jack the creature off must be quite a story. He is distracted from his question, however, when he sees a metal box with elvish runes on the top. Xabar’s command of the language is not what it should be. The classroom was directly across from the girls’ changing room outside the gymnasium. From his desk, he was treated to some of the finest scenery any teenage boy could hope for. For that reason, he could be excused for not paying careful attention to the lessons. He remembers enough of the class, however, to recognize the elvish words “truth” and “compulsion.”

He picks up the box and asks, “What is this?”

The man’s eyes light up with excitement. “Oh, you have an eye for quality items, that’s for sure! I just acquired this piece this morning. It contains pollen from the Veritas Violet of Vuvaville. Just sprinkle a pinch of the powder into a person’s food or drink, and they will spill their deepest secrets for you.

“Fascinating,” Xabar thinks, as he examines the box and runs his fingers over the runes. “Imagine the possibilities!” His mind is immediately filled with thoughts of learning secrets that could lead to profitable extortion, access to hidden wealth, and ways to finagle himself into the homes — and panties — of the wealthiest socialites in the kingdom.

“How much pollen is in here?” he asks as he lifts the small latch and opens the box. At that moment, a sudden breeze sweeps through the alley, circulating the foul-smelling air. It also sends a small amount of the pollen airborne, directly into Xabar’s face. He pulls his head back and sneezes violently.

“Here now!” the man sternly warns, snatching the box from Xabar’s hands. “That’s 100 gold pieces of merchandise that you’re manhandling.”

“100 gold pieces!” exclaims Xabar. “That’s highway robbery!”

“Perhaps,” replies the man, somewhat less enthusiastically than before. “But that’s the price. Now, are you in a paying mood, or are you just going to stand there and touch the merchandise?”

Ironically, those are almost exactly the same words Xabar recently heard one night when he snuck out of the school to visit a neighborhood brothel. His response that night earned him a slap in the face and resulted in his being thrown on his ass onto the street. He decides to be a little more circumspect in his answer tonight.

“I might be interested in some of these items, but if those are the prices you charge, I’m going to have to figure out a way to steal them. Of course, as stupid as you appear to be, I could probably con you into giving them to me for —“

He slaps his hand over his mouth to stop the words from coming out. “What the FUCK?” he thinks. “Why did I just say that?” **** tends to loosen his lips and remove the filter between his brain and his tongue, but Xabar has slept off the **** he drank several hours ago and doesn’t feel the least bit tipsy.

“Oh that’s how it is, is it?” the man says evenly. “I look stupid, do I?”

“You really do, but in your defense, that’s probably just the result of some idiot inbred villager knocking up your mother while she was whoring for pennies.”

Again, Xabar slaps his hand over his mouth. Again, he thinks, “What the FUCK? I mean, what the fuckety fuck fuck FUCK?” His eyes drop down to the metal box with the elvish runes. He remembers sneezing when the wind kicked up some of the pollen. With horror, he realizes he must have breathed in some of the truth-compelling magical substance.

“My MOTHER?!!!” exclaims the man, picking up a club and raising it above his head. “What did you say about my mother?”

“I said that she was a prostitute — and if your looks are anything to go by, she wasn’t a very successful one — and that your genetics are a quaint and curious cocktail of inbreeding, herpes, and cleft palates. In other words, you are a sentient STD, but only barely sentient.”

He doesn’t even bother trying to cover his mouth. Xabar’s immediate concern is grabbing his satchel and darting from the alley before the enraged merchant can close the distance between them.

Several minutes later, an out-of-breath Xabar is squatting behind a wall, listening as the steps of the angry man fade in the distance. As he tries to get his heart rate under control, he reflects on his situation.

“I seem to be unable to stop myself from saying what comes to my mind,” he thinks. He soberly realizes he wouldn’t have lived to see his teenage years if he had been unable to stop himself from saying all the things he thought. On a positive note, he knows he couldn’t have inhaled much of the pollen. On the other hand, the merchant said that the stuff was supposed to be eaten or drunk. There’s no telling what the effect of inhaling it would be or how long it would be until the side effects passed.

The chimes of a clock cause him to look up, and he sees that he is looking at the clock tower in front of St. Althea’s Academy. It is 9:00 p.m. He — or Professor Flaccidocius Willowby, anyway — is supposed to begin teaching there in the morning, and no doubt someone is awaiting his arrival at this very minute. Being unable to control himself as he goes into a situation that depends entirely on his ability to be convincingly deceptive is a recipe for disaster. Perhaps he should come up with another plan or, at least, wait until morning to show up in hopes that the pollen’s hold on him will wear off.