Never Get A Wizard Peeved

A wizard, draped in white robes and sporting a long grey beard, was walking down a deserted road in the heart of a dark and tangled forest. He paused for a moment to admire the colorful wild flowers growing by the wayside when there was a sudden flash and boom on the track before him. A cloud of noxious yellow smoke billowed and roiled where before there had been nothing. Coughing and retching noises emanated from within as the fumes were slowly dissipated on the breeze. At last the figure of another wizard, this one dressed in black robes and a tall pointy hat, was revealed, wildly flailing his arms to clear the air. When the new comer realized that the smoke had cleared away enough for him to be seen he hastily cleared his throat, and raising his arms above his head, let out an evil cackle.

The white wizard nodded in appreciation, clapping. "I say, that was jolly impressive, old chap!"

The black wizard bowed in return to the praise. "Why thank you! You were truly shocked by my sudden appearance then?"

"No question of it! Why, I nearly dropped my pipe!" He put it into his mouth and puffed out a row of smoke rings as if to prove his point.

The other wizard was eyeing him from head to toe with great interest. "White robes...a rather rumpled and good-natured appearance...you smoke an pipe...am I right in assuming that you are a wizard of light?"

"That's right. Glaxo the Good at your service." He drew himself upright and gave a small bow.

The dark wizard nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent! My evil spies were right for once, the incompetent louts..."

Glaxo's professional interest was piqued. "You have trouble with your minions of darkness then? Bats, ravens, demons, that sort of thing?"

"That's right. It's getting harder and harder to find good help these days...if you'll forgive the pun. Do you find your thralls as troublesome?"

"We wizards of light don't enslave minions. We train familiars."

The dark wizard stroked his greasy black beard in interest. "What kind of familiars?"

"Oh, you know. Owls, cats, white mice, that sort of thing."

"How quaint! I suppose they don't ever try to devour your soul then, or demand blood sacrifices on the full moon?"

Glaxo opened his mouth to answer then suddenly shook his head. "Look here, dear sir, I don't wish to be rude, but I have a long way to travel. Was there something that you wanted?"

The other wizard gave a start. "Oh! Yes! Yes! I completely forgot. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Zanthor the Bad, the evil wizard in these parts. I have come to destroy you and your sniveling love of good and purity! Mwahahahaha! No offense meant."

The white wizard waved away the comment airily. "None taken! I understand completely! So then, shall we lay waste to the countryside in a life and death struggle?"

Zanthor nodded eagerly. "It would be my pleasure!"

Glaxo knocked the ashes from his pipe against his boot and slipped it up his sleeve. "Any time you are ready.", he said.

"All right then. Here I go!"

The black wizard shouted some strange words and hopped in a circle. A fireball the size of his head zapped into existence and bounded across the ground towards where Glaxo stood, trailing smoke and embers. Suddenly, it splashed down into a mud puddle in the middle of the road and fizzled out with a flash and a hiss.

"Tough luck, old chap!" Glaxo shook his head in sympathy. "These cross breezes can wreak havoc on pyrotechnics."

Zanthor shrugged the mishap off. "It is nothing. I believe it is your turn."

"Right then." Clearing his throat, Glaxo pushed up his sleeves and called a name composed of 17 syllables into the air, then pointed at Zanthor. "Over there...no, no...a little to your left...that looks good...go ahead."

The black wizard was squinting with curiosity at the empty sky which his opponent was addressing.

"I can't quite make out what you are talking to, Glaxo..." He jumped a foot in the air as a lightning bolt suddenly speared down from the blue sky and reduced a tree to his left into a million smoldering toothpicks. "Oh, splendid, Glaxo! An air elemental! I have one too! Look there!"

Following the outstretched finger, Glaxo saw a whirlwind of massive proportions making its way through the forest towards where they stood. Trees and everything else in its path were torn from the ground and sucked violently into the spinning funnel. A stampede of terrified woodland creatures came thundering out of the forests edge fleeing the approaching apocalypse. A frothing moose shouldered past Zanthor knocking him to the muddy ground. Glaxo hurriedly pulled him to his feet just before a herd of bunnies trampled him.

The black wizard shoved his rescuer away, waving his hands madly in a shooing gesture. "No! No! You must stand over there or it won't destroy you!"

"Oh, dear! Terribly sorry!", Glaxo cried, scrambling back to his former position.

The tornado loomed at the edge of the trees, carrying a spinning load of wooden shrapnel and other debris. Suddenly, with an audible groan, it tumbled to the ground and faded away leaving nothing but a twisted pile of scrap wood.

Zanthor stomped his foot in rage. "Blast and Hellfire! If I've told it once, I've told it a thousand times: don't put everything you find in your mouth! It is worse than a baby!"

"Would you like another try?", Glaxo inquired, kindly.

"No, no", Zanthor replied, regaining his composure. "Fair is fair. It's your turn now."

The white wizard shook out his robes, then waved his right hand in a complicated pattern, sprinkling a mysterious powder about. Finishing the complex gesture, he nodded in satisfaction and reached deep into his pocket. His face suddenly took on a frown of alarm.

"Blast!", he shouted. "I'm all out of powdered tree sloth! Well, that's torn it!"

"I have some bat wing if you would like to use it", offered Zanthor.

"No, no. I'm beastly allergic to the stuff. It makes me all puffy and itchy. Would you happen to have any pickled manroot with you?"

"None to spare I'm afraid." Zanthor shrugged helplessly. "I was planning on dismembering you with the Invisible Tentacles From Another Dimension spell soon."

Glaxo paced back and forth tugging irritably at his long grey beard. Finally, he threw up his hands in despair and disgust. "This ruins everything! I can't cast anything of worth without it!"

"Well, I suppose it's my turn then", the black wizard said, raising his hands.

Glaxo stopped him with a shout. "Here now! It's still my turn, Zanthor!"

"But, you said yourself that you have no spells to cast! It is my turn by forfeit!"

The white wizard looked as if he was going to have a stroke. His mouth opened and closed as he stared around him desperately. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

"A rock!", he cried. "I shall throw a rock at you!"

Zanthor stared at him in shocked disbelief. "A rock!? Are you mad? Someone might get hurt!"

"Well, we are laying waste to the countryside and all that rot, aren't we?", Glaxo snapped peevishly. He bent down and pried a stone the size of his fist out of the dirt. "I have every right to throw a rock!"

"You're mad!"

"Am I? Or am I absolutely brilliant?"

Before Zanthor could reply, Glaxo lobbed the stone at him. The man's girlish shriek of terror turned into a grunt of expelled air as the projectile struck him dead in the stomach with a dull thump. Staggering back, he tripped over his black robes and sat down heavily in the mud.

Glaxo stared, suddenly aghast at what he had done. Snapping out of his horror, he rushed to the fallen wizard's side.

"Zanthor! Speak to me, old boy! Are you all right?"

The black wizard waved away any attempt to aid him as he climbed painfully to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs, glaring at Glaxo, arms clutching his midsection.

"Zanthor, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!", the white wizard pleaded with outstretched hands.

Icily, the dark wizard stalked past him to the roadside. Deliberately looking Glaxo straight in the eye, he raised his curly toed shoe, and stomped on the wild flowers that the white wizard had admired so much. Then, with a hoarse HA!, he disappeared in a flash of green light.

Glaxo the Good sighed, looking at the crumpled blossoms in the mud. Then, shrugging his shoulders pragmatically, he straightened his robes and continued on  his way.

How disappointing to have made an enemy of my arch-nemesis so quickly!, he thought.


Moral of the Story:

Peasants stay home with their plow
While knights ride off to seek glory.
I suppose that I should tell you now
That this poem has nothing to do with the story.