“Hi, you’ve reached Spencer. Sorry I can’t answer my phone right now. My mental anguish is too great. Hopefully wrongs will be righted and I’ll be able to resume living a normal life. Please leave a message so I can get back to you once that happens.”

The Wizard smiles, preparing to leave a very happy and upbeat message.

“This user’s mailbox is full.”

A frown ruins The Wizard’s previously jovial demeanor. He hangs up and drops the phone to the floor of his tent. Shoulders slumped, The Wizard surveys the state of his temporary abode. That state would be messy – extremely messy. With a swift kick, the lid to his cooler is opened.

He gasps. Our view zooms in to reveal a singular bottle of water floating around the mostly melted ice. This simply won’t due. A man in The Wizard’s depressed state cannot survive on water and oxygen. He needs booze. A constant stream of booze.

Edward Mof stands outside The Wizard’s tent. A menthol cigarette burns to the filter. He tosses it aside and lights another. “Son of a bitch,” he utters, checking his investment portfolio, hoping to find an extra stash of cash.

“MOF!” The Wizard yells, announcing his emergence. His booming voice slams Ed’s ear canal. Mof staggers, dropping his phone while covering his ear. “Oh, there you are,” an unaware Wizard observes. “Can you go grab me some more beer? I’m all out.”

Doubled over and sporting a look that could, at the very least, injure, Mof refuses to reply.

“Oh, you dropped this,” The Wizard picks Mof’s phone up. He catches a quick glimpse at the screen, “Eddie! Your investments are all down!”

Edward rips the phone from The Wizard’s giant, soft hand, “Give me that!” He storms off without a verbal explanation. His body language should tell the story. Too bad The Wizard is physically deaf.

“Great,” our titular character’s voice is thick with sarcasm, “now who’s going to buy me beer?”

The crew scatters. Realizing he’ll have to run this errand himself, The Wizard re-enters his tent, looking for his phone. He bends over to pick it up and, in doing so, comes face-to-face with a not-so-decently hidden poster featuring his marquee match against Robert Main from nearly a year ago.

---

The seven dwarfs are buzzing with excitement. They’ve reached the precipice of pleasured pandemonium. Universal Studios is within eyesight. A short walk away.

Warrick takes a quick detour to purchase a beer at a nearby stand. He’s more like his brother than he’d care to admit. He returns, taking a sip of what appears to be your run-of-the-mill light beer.

“Alright...so how about we head this way.” Warrick points toward the original Universal Studios park. A far more family-themed venue. Slower rides. Activities for people of all shapes and sizes.

The metallic roar combined by enjoy filled screams pull the dwarfs away from Warrick’s desired destination. It’s the Incredible Hulk coaster...a premiere attraction strategically placed near the park’s entrance to persuade patrons on purchasing a pass.

“Let’s go there!” the grumpy little man exclaims. The rest of his buddies hop around, totally behind this notion.

Warrick sighs, taking a sip of his beer, “Fine.”

Three credit cards and a couple of weird glances later and the group enters into the park. Warrick powers through the turn style, finishing what remains of his beer. Each of the seven dwarfs struggles with the turn style, pushing it forward with their arms. But, they make it.

“Alright, this way!” Warrick attempts to lead.

“No, this way!” the grumpy diminutive dude shouts, leading his pals to the left, toward THE HULK.

“Damnit,” Warrick curses, walking at a brisk pace to return to the head of the pack. It seemed to be fate. The Incredible Hulk is where they were headed.

ABOUT AN HOUR LATER

“What?!” Warrick pleads with the ENRAGED tiny people.

“You knew this would happen.”

Warrick’s mouth opens. It shuts. He hesitates. “Ya know what? This was your idea, man. Not mine. I wanted to put you guys on some lame shit like ET’s Adventure or Shrek or whatever. But NO, you just had to head for The Hulk.”

Grumpy man’s eyes narrow, “Are you blaming us for this egregious act of little person hate?”

“Well, if not you guys then who? It certainly isn’t my fault. I’d have let you fuckers roll the dice and ride the lightning.” Warrick feels like he might be making some head way, “In fact, let’s blame this place. Fuck this place, am I right?”

“Maybe so…” the grumpy little man’s voice trails, leading us into a flashback.

Warrick steps right through the check point to get in line for the mammoth coaster. He waits, watching with slight anxiety as the dwarfs step forward. The employee pulls out his measuring stick and starts to measure each one eventually reaching the realization that none of the seven are tall enough to ride.

“But, if you’re fault free, as you claim,” the grumpy tiny man’s voice sounds out over our flashback, “then why didn’t you protest and leave alongside us?”

Our flashback reveals that Warrick gave a half-hearted ‘sorry’ shrug before turning around and getting in line to ride. We cut back to current time.

“Well, I mean,” Warrick vacillates, he stumbles over his words, he finally extends his arms, “we’re here, aren’t we? It’d be criminal if I didn’t ride at least ONE ride given all the money we shelled out.” He nods, confident that he’s solidified his argument.

“Be that as it may…”

We return to our flashback. Warrick exits the ride, pumping his fist and slapping a fellow ride goer on the back, talking about how awesome the experience was.

“You wanna go again, bro?” the ride goer asks Warrick. Warrick’s eyes locate the seven angry dwarfs seated on a tiny cement wall erected around some trees. Their tiny legs dangle above the ground.

The grumpy little man’s voice speaks over our flashback, “Then why did you ride it AGAIN?”

Our focus returns to the flashback. Warrick has to decide whether or not to ride again. “Uhh…” Warrick hears THE HULK roaring above his head, “Sure, why the fuck not. Let’s go!”

Back in real time, Warrick runs his fingers through his thick, curly, dirty blonde hair. He stares at the ground, hoping to find an excuse written in the pavement. His eyes move upward, locating the tapping foot of an angry little person eager to hear Warrick’s explanation.

“Dude, it’s like this...so the front of the coaster is like WAY better than the middle. I got stuck in the middle that first go around. So I HAD to get the front car, just to experience it. That’s all, man. An opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

The grumpy little man turns to his friends. None of them seem to understand this concept. The hazards of being too short to ride. So, they can’t really dispute it. What they CAN dispute, however…

“Alright, we’ll let that second ride go. But, how can you explain…”

MORE FLASHBACKS. Warrick comes bouding out of the ride's exit, more fired up than before. His previous ride partner gives him a high five. “Yea man, the front car is totally wicked!” Warrick nods with a ‘see, told ya’ affirmation. His ride partner leaves, saying something lame about a wife and kids. This leaves Warrick alone, standing at the front of the entrance.

He looks at the dwarfs. They start to get up, ready to leave. The MIGHTY HULK roars above his head once again. The dwarfs wave him their way. Warrick looks at the line...it’s the shortest he’s seen it.

The grumpy little man’s voice speaks, “How can you explain riding it a THIRD time.”

Warrick bolts, sprinting through the entrance and back in line. We cut back to current time.

“Well,” Warrick stops. “You see,” he pauses. “The thing is,” he halts. “The line was like really, really short.”

The little people gasp.

“Hey, you know what? At least you guys got a photo with Wolverine, your favorite superhero. And, who took that photo? I did! I didn’t even get a photo with a superhero. So, we’re even.”

The grumpy little man makes an angry fist, “First of all, we don’t even LIKE Wolverine. We were hoping to catch Spider-Man. And second…”

He makes his way toward Warrick, pulling up the photo and showing it to him. Warrick leans in, narrowing his eyes for clearer vision. He sees Wolverine and the tops of seven heads.

“Oh…”

“Yea, oh.” The grumpy midget pulls his phone back and returns to his group.

There really isn’t much to say and even less to defend. So, the dwarfs march past Warrick, through the park exit.

He turns around, “Wait, so are you guys heading back to the set? Technically I held up my end of the bargain!”

The little people come to a stop and, in unison, they bend over and pull their pants down, mooning Warrick while showing him their tiny middle fingers. Warrick recoils.

---

It’s evening within the Woods of Elderdom. Everyone has gone home to enjoy their relatively stress free lives, capable of leaving the burden of a failing movie project behind.

Save for these three individuals: Edward Mof, Warrick Hill, and The Wizard.

The same three individuals who poke and prod at a dwindling fire while consuming cheap beer and munching on off-brand jalapeno potato chips.

“So, they’re gone?” Mof asks.

Warrick crushes a can of light beer, tossing it over his shoulder, “Yep, those little bastards mooned me and everything. It was fuckin gross.”

“I guess we should have figured they couldn’t get on the adult rides.”

“I guess so,” Warrick sighs, cracking open another beer.

The Wizard is ominously quiet, rubbing his fake beard, staring into the flame.

“Hey!” Warrick throws a kick at his little brother, trying to get a reaction. “What about that emergency financier? I think it’s time we get him involved because this is quite the fuckin emergency.”

“Yea, we can’t make a medieval film without any dwarfs.”

“He’s not answering my calls and his voicemail is full,” The Wizard’s regretful voice reveals.

Warrick chuckles, “Well that’s just GREAT.”

Mof doesn’t take the news as hard, “So? If he won’t answer his phone, we’ll make sure he answers the door.”

“What about returning to the ring? I could make some decent money doing that,” The Wizard’s mouth speaks what’s been on his mind the past few days. He finally looks up, eyes filled with emotion and hope.

A shared look between his two desperate companions results in laughter.

“You serious? You ran away like a bitch. They won’t take you back.”

“C’mon, kid. We’re adults here. This is an adult situation. Only serious answers, please.”

Angry and his pride molested, The Wizard stands and storms into his tent, toting what remains of an opened case of cheap light beer.

---

You learn something new everyday. Like, yesterday I learned that cherry flavored condoms actually taste like strawberry.

*quick cut to The Wizard chewing on a cherry flavored condom out of boredom laced curiosity*

What was today’s lesson? Rhabdophobia or whatever. As taught to me by a War Criminal from, I think, the bad Korea. I can’t ever remember which is which. Turns out the schooling over there is top notch...that or they are just really into learning their youth about all the things in life you should fear.

But, yea, Rhabdophobia or whatever is apparently the term for an irrational (or totally rational, if you’re a scaredy cat) fear of wizards. Seems kinda weird. I’d have thought it would have stood for a fear of Rabbis.

Or maybe rabbits.

But probably Rabbis. Rabbis are, after all, quite serious despite their goofy hairstyles. A frightening physical dichotomy.

So, since the war criminal from one of the Koreas was so kind as to teach me a really cool word. I’m going to return the favor.

Inclusiphobia. What is Inclusiphobia, you ask? Well, for starters, it’s a totally real and not-at-all made up word that can be found in very rare but elite dictionaries.

What does it mean? Quite simply it means the fear of including outsiders in on your insider references. A person may not even realize they have Inclusiphobia...to them, they are just telling tales familiar to those who matter. However, when others listen to or read the tales, they’re left totally fuckin confused.

Like, for starters. I’m facing Mark Flynn. A man who is LIKE REALLY CRAZY.

Great. We’ll do the cold open and run through this dude’s bio as a nice appetizer before digging into the main course.

Only for the main course to arrive and be totally confusing. I ordered steak and you guys served me sushi. Not hating on sushi, it’s fuckin great. But when a man wants steak, you give him steak.

When a man orders Mark Flynn, you give him Mark Flynn...not a war criminal from probably the bad Korea. Not some slack jawed hick from Kentucky named Dolly. And not...whoever the other people were...Corey, Jim, and others...starting to sound like a shitty band with all these first names. Mark, Dolly, Corey, Jim, and The War Criminal.

But, maybe it’s my fault. Maybe it’s my fault for expecting clarity from a man who openly admits he’s LIKE LEGIT CRAZY.

After all, I am sorta jumping into this film halfway through. It’s probably selfish of me to expect the theater to hit pause and give me an abbreviated version of where we are to catch me up on all the characters and their motivations.

Which is fine because after having witnessed the back half of this production, it became clear that any background information was not necessary. Not because I understood what I’d just witnessed. But because I’d learned that I had zero interest in learning anything further about the players involved.

Some guy named Corey is dying. Might be from a suicide attempt...a guess on my part, anyway. I’d probably off myself if I spent enough time around the LEGIT CRAZY Mark Flynn and his war criminal from the maybe bad Korea sidekick.

And then there’s a girl named Dolly. Because, why not? Everybody needs a dolly in their life. Especially when they’re tasked with moving and too broke to pay College Hunks to do the deed.

So, once again, with things as clear as a glass of stout beer, I’m left to muse upon my own machinations. Never a bad thing, for true inspiration should come form within. Relying on others to provide a spark is the genesis of a capricious career.

I shall not be capricious.

My back is against the wall. As you probably witnessed, the emergency financier for my film project is avoiding my calls. Unlike LEGIT CRAZY Flynn’s friend, Dolly...my pal’s voice mailbox was full. You ever try to reach somebody with a full mailbox? It’s like screaming into the void. Maddening.

Relying on this guy to come through with the unconfirmed amount of money at his disposal to help us hire a new band of dwarfs so we can continue to make The Wizard’s Quill seems bleak, at best.

A return to the ring is a more reliable pay check. And, while my suggestion drew amusement around the campfire, the money my return to the ring earns will be no laughing matter. Sometimes all it takes is to feel your back hit the wall. To reside five and a half feet under. For the end to be in sight. Sometimes all a person, such as myself, needs is a near death experience to muster up the motivation to succeed.

I think we’ve reached that point.

Mark Flynn, I’m no actual wizard. If I were, I’d snap my fingers and, like the coherence of your latest promo, make all my financial problems disappear.

Sadly, I cannot. For the only magic that resides within these bones is via the imagination of those willing to believe. And, if you’ve met any sort of financier, bill collector, or accountant...then you know imagination, unlike Inclusiphobia, does not exist within their lexicon.

But you, Flynn. You do seem to have some type of imagination. Even if it is a LEGIT CRAZY creative mind at work. An unhinged imagination that will go unquestioned while you continue act as though an actual wizard is stepping between those ropes on Wednesday at Warfare.

Keep believing. That’s where my power lies. The belief that I am more than the normalized, standard human parts issued during my nine months of internal creation.

If you believe hard enough. If you get LEGIT CRAZY enough. Then you will meet an actual Wizard inside the ring at Warfare.

I will teleport my ass into that ring. I will stare you down, making you piss yourself with my magical gaze. I shall snap my mythical fingers, snapping both of your LEGIT CRAZY legs. My mystical eyebrows will wiggle, sending you unconscious for the true pain that follows. Certain, undeniable defeat.

Your belief will breathe truth into your words. All I’ll have to do is sit back and accept the power you’re throwing my way. No problem there. As you can probably tell, I’m totally cool with laying back and letting others do the heavy lifting.

I am a benevolent man, though. As previously stated, my weakness is kindness. A general affable attitude toward all attackers.

When you hand me the power I need to vanquish you in front of the XWF people you seem so eager to name drop and hang out with, I will return the favor by shaking my majestic hips and restoring a full bill of health to your ailing friend, Corey something or another.

There will be no need to thank me. You needn’t take a stab at buying some contrived ‘thank you’ card from the shelves of Target as a friendly gesture. I seek one thing and one thing only.

Cold hard cash. The cold hard cash I will have earned from pinning you at Warfare. And, the cold hard cash I will earn when you purchase a copy of my soon-to-be released straight to streaming film “The Wizard’s Quill.”


Please and thank you.

We’re due to speak once more before the time for earning begins.

So, until then please continue to

Bask in My Aura