"Mars Mountain and the Grootslang of Richtersveld" originally appeared in Tevun-Krus #22: Best of 2015.

Note from MadMikeMarsbergen, the author: Possibly one of my purest comedies, this one was written in 2015 and is a prequel story to my unwritten Mars Mountain series. If you're a Harry Potter fan—and who isn't, really?—you might notice the references and obvious inspiration. This tale uses a fourth-wall-breaking narration style I adopt every so often, especially for the Mars Mountain stories. Though I do think my writing has improved since this one, after giving it another edit recently, I think it's still a successful comedy. I hope you get a laugh out of this one. Just one laugh, that's all I ask.

Note from OutrageousOllo, who selected this story: I had to pick a MadMike tale from the Best-Ofs, because every MadMike tale shows the best of TK. This guy's a fuckin' machine. Keep "phoning it in." ;)

Mars Mountain and the Grootslang of Richtersveld

by MadMikeMarsbergen

A NOTE FROM THE NARRATOR (ME)

The following has been translated from the olde-est of Ye Olde Englische, as spoken by the entire psychomagikal world, circa 10th century CE. Well, it technically wasn't called "Ye Olde Englische" back then, as the language had yet to be mockingly titled as such. It was actually called Elhulu, and it was the tongue of a sentient, far-too-intelligent-for-their-own-good race of singular-sexed aliens—the Elhu—who hailed from the now-destroyed, previously fifth planet of the Sol System. You know the Asteroid Belt? Yeah, that used to be their planet. Anyway, we speak their language without realizing it. Enjoy.

1: LETTER TO START THE SHOW

October 31st

964

Yo, Salazar,

Happy birthday, kid! How's your dad doin'? Whippin' up some crazy-ass potions and creating strange new devices that would boggle my mind and change the lives of Psychomagi everywhere? Haha! Probably, right?

Anyway, I'm just shooting you this letter on your birthday to let you know I've been organizing an expedition down to—what will one day be known as—South Africa. I was super-duper-hoping you and your old man would tag along with me. You will!? Great!

It would be good for you two to get out of the dungeon, too. It's not good to be cooped up in there for too long, y'know? And besides, your dear mum died not too long ago, so I'm sure you're bruisin' on the inside. Time for Unkie Mannelich to clear the sight of her lifeless corpse out of your skull! Haha!

Anyway, I'll be swinging by your pad a few minutes after you finish reading this letter, so be ready. Oh, and let your dad know, okay, champ?

Lookin' forward to seein' you! We've got a wicked journey ahead of us, Sally!

From your Pretend Uncle,

On this day of your birth,

Mannelich Aertsen Hippokoor Marsbergen

2: A HERO'S ENTRANCE

Salazar Sikkerwihn dried his eyes and then proceeded to roll them.

Laaaaame, he thought. His unrelated uncle was soooo laaaaame. Not a very nice thing to say about non-family, I know, but that's what the boy was thinking just then. He tossed the letter aside, where it fluttered down beside the smiley face–plastered envelope it had arrived in. He shooed away the packrat that had delivered the letter. It was gnawing at the walls, gathering bits of wood for its nest and demanding a tip. "No tip for you!" Salazar barked, aiming a kick well away from the animal. It scurried off, but not before urinating on the boy's shoe and swearing at him in angry-sounding squeaks.

And the bit about his dead mother was quite a low blow, even for Mannelich. But, knowing Mannelich Marsbergen the way I do—and I do, believe me—he certainly wasn't aware of how his words of whimsy would affect young Salazar.

"Why's he gotta come here, anyway?" he asked himself, collapsing on his bed and staring out his window at the dreary English countryside. Two Wandwalkers stood on the other side of a ditch and took turns cursing each other, until one turned the other into a plump chicken, grabbed him and sprinted home to tell his wife what he'd caught for dinner. Salazar sighed. "All I want to do is sit in the dark and brood. No cheery Unkie Mannelich. No Dad, trying to tell me all about the new gadgets he's built. No nothing. Nobody but me. And Mum..." He sighed again, closing his eyes and reliving the day she died at the hands of the Normals. Ripped apart by those savages. Right in front of him. She died protecting him.

He wished he'd taken her place.

Oh, but don't get depressed, dearest readers. I'm not intending for this to be a story to slash your wrists to— Woah! At least, I hope it won't be! Salazar was just in his "tenebrous teens," let's say. You know how it is, I'm sure. Everyone's lame, nothing's funny or amusing, and all you want to do is sob in an out-of-the-way bathroom in the mall by yourself with the lights off, listening to that one song by Blink-182 on repeat. You know the one.

"Where are you!" Salazar cried out to his room. "I'm so sorry!" He was talking to his mother's ghost, not—ahem, I repeat—not singing copyrighted song lyrics. Never that. A lawsuit just isn't funny, believe me.

His father Slimerius poked his head into the room. "Who are you shouting at, my boy? Are those two polecats chittering outside your window again? Be gone, you damn fiends!" He shook his fist. "Be gone, or I will create a device which will send you chittering to another realm of space–time!"

"It's nothing, Dad."

"You sure? Well, okay." He made to leave, then swung himself back around. "Oh, oh, oh! Did I tell you about my latest invention, my boy? It will revolutionize interplanetary travel as we know it! Mind you, it is still in its earliest stages, but I can assure you it will work! I've been in contact with the Elhu and we've been sending ideas back and forth. I'm using an old book I discovered in my father's possessions as influence for the technology." Slimerius had taken to pacing the room while he rambled. "Truthfully, the book has been passed down from generation to generation of Sikkerwihn. But the language is unknown. I've been working on cracking the code, you see, and I've discovered preliminary schematics for this new invention of mine! It will revolutionize— Hey, what's this?" Distracted, he bent down and picked up the letter. He quickly read it over, smiled. "Your uncle is coming to take us on an adventure! What a surprise, and on your birthday, even! My, my, this will be like the old days! Oh, I wonder when he will arrive..."

Suddenly—because that's how things work in this story—the shiny silver tip of a just-waxed sword stabbed through the wall of Salazar's room. The blade retracted, stabbed in again, withdrew itself, stabbed once more. An armoured fist punched through the wall and a hand gripped some of the splintered wood. Whoever was responsible for the damage decided to do a little more. They broke the wall down, piece by weak, waterlogged piece.

A helmeted head intruded, looked at the two faces staring back. The visor squeaked up, revealing deranged electric-blue eyes that brought to mind a severe and debilitating psychosis. The man grinned a wide mouth of teeth so white and perfect that many a jealous, early European man had unsuccessfully tried to bash them from his skull—in hopes of grinding them down into a fine aphrodisiac aka "boner pills." "Yo, Sikker... WHAMS!" The intruder punctuated the twist of the name by punching out more of the room's ever-dwindling walls, then finally climbed inside. The rest of the house collapsed around him.

"Mannelich!" Slimerius opened his arms and embraced the big oaf he called his best friend. "Quite an entrance, as always!"

"Yo, Slimey! I thought about comin' in through the roof, but I didn't wanna bring the wind and rain in here! Haha! Lovin' the crappy English weather, chums! Or is it 'mates'?" He scratched his black chin-stubble, lost in deep thought.

Salazar rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, my room's still a mess. Godrean!"

Slimerius shook his head. "Don't swear, my son!"

Frowning, Mannelich said, "Easily fixed, little Sally." He waved his long sword, which had an enormous red ruby set into its hilt, just above the grip. This was his Psych Stone—his manipulator and potentiator of what is scientifically known as psychedelic magik, or colloquially as psychomagik.

With the wave of the sword a spell was woven into existence. Like time itself was reversing, bits of wood levitated into the air, piecing themselves back together, and drifted back into the damaged walls. They looked as good as new—better than new, even. Like the LEGO blocks we all played with as children, something substantial was built from practically nothing. In this case it was a whole house that used to be there before it was broken for no reason at all—other than to serve as a flashy entrance and humourous introduction to a character I hope you love as much as I do.

"Ta-da!" Mannelich bowed—or tried to, anyway. His squeaking suit of armour got in the way and gave him a stabbing sensation in his chest. Possibly a hole in one of his lungs.

Salazar clapped slowly and sarcastically. "Thank you so much," he said in a low, monotone voice. "Whatever would I do if you weren't here to destroy my room for no reason and then magikally repair it."

"Gee, I dunno, kid, but you're welcome!"

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed. If he kept that up, his eyes would roll right out of his skull, and then he'd be really melancholic—like, an unbearable, perpetual bummer, man.

"So, Manny," Slimerius said, grinning his yellowed grin, "what's on the agenda down in South Africa? You know, I've been developing technology that will harness psychomagik and make it so the harsh African summer isn't so harsh! It's true!"

Patting his best bud on the shoulder—and making him hunch from the sheer weight of the pat—Mannelich shook his head. "Not now, dudes. We've gotta scoot. You got your bags all packed? No? Well, too bad! Haha! Let's bolt! I'll tell you all about what we're doin' down there. On the ship! Follow me, team! Forward! March!" The dimwitted knight in shining armour punched down the wall again and charged through the fresh destruction.

Salazar sighed and looked at his dad.

Slimerius shrugged and gave him a look that said, What can you do, my boy? That's Uncle Mannelich for you. Now come along. We've got some fun ahead of us!

Returning a different look, Salazar's said, We're all gonna die. Godrean!

3: MEET THE DOOS

Abba Doo watched from the shadows as her brother Dabba stepped into his suit of psychomagikally enhanced armour. She snorted when he tried to slide his head into the helmet, finding it too small a fit for his noggin. Little did he know she'd taken advantage of his narcolepsy to play a little practical joke on him. Dabba obviously didn't find it funny. He kicked and swore and shouted curses. A deadly—and dazzling to the eye—array of spells went whizzing around the cavern, ricocheting off the rock walls, exploding into multicoloured showers of sparks. It's a wonder Dabba wasn't hit by his own magik.

The Doo siblings lived together in an island cave, six kilometres off the southern coast of what is now known as Madagascar. They lived together, but—before you ask, and I know you will; don't worry, it's only natural—they weren't... Um, how do I put this? They weren't... intimate, if you know what I mean. That's just weird. Abba may have been craving rooster, but her incessant need for it didn't extend as far as banging her own bro. That's what the stalagmites were for.

Anywho, the Doos were gearing up for an adventure. Dabba had it on good authority that somewhere in South Africa there was a magikal creature called the grootslang, sealed away in an enormous cave. Legend said it was created by the Elhu themselves, as a sort of prototypical hybrid for two other animals that now walked the Earth separately.

"Ready to go, Slave?"

Abba blinked and shook the thoughts out of her head. She'd been daydreaming about what she wanted to do to the rock formation rising before her eyes. "What did you say, Lord Dabba?"

Dabba backhanded her with magik—which hurts more than when you do it with your hand, and it doesn't leave bruises or break the skin. Very popular in the physical-abuse industry. "I TOLD YOU THAT WE'RE READY TO GO!" Dabba screamed. "Now come along, or I won't hesitate to drag you by your steaming, fecal-spewing entrails." He marched out of their island cave, his armour squeaking with every stride. In his frustration he'd left the helmet behind.

Meekly, Abba followed in her master's wake.

The dreaded Lord Dabba Doo, the Tri-Island area's very own Harbinger of Hate. And his wimpy slave/little sister. What a pair they made.

4: JUST BUMP HIS FIST

"And that's what we're gonna be doin' down there in San Africana, homie sapiens. Haha! Can you dig it, dudes? It's gonna be so totally EXTREME! SOMEONE GIMME A FIST-BUMP!"

Salazar stared blankly at Mannelich. Dad was too busy grinning. He sighed, planted his back against the hull of the ship, and said: "So let me see if I have this straight, Uncle Mannelich. You want to find this incredibly dangerous magikal creature that supposedly exists, and you want to catch it and raise it as a pet and give it belly-rubs."

Nodding like he was being electrocuted, Mannelich put out a fist. "That's right, Sally. Give Unkie Mannelich some skin for bein' so damn smart!"

The boy looked at the silver gauntlet in front of him and rolled his eyes. "I'll pass on your skin." He snorted at his own rudeness.

Mannelich's grin faltered, then it faded completely. He frowned. His lower lip trembled slightly, quivered severely, and then he wept, tears pouring from his too-blue eyes. "B-B-B-But why!? WHY CAN'T YOU JUST B-BUMP MY F-F-FIST!"

Slimerius started to whistle above the din. The wailing grew louder. The whistling matched the volume of the wails, then overtook it. He wandered off to go, ahem, look at the ship's thrusters. Yeah, that's what he was doing. Not wandering away to avoid the awkwardness. No, sir. No way. Thrusters, man. Must be about a gazillion magikal horsepower in those babies.

"A-A-A-All I w-w-w-wanted was to b-be your p-p-p-p-pal, Sally! I th-th-thought you were s-suh-such a c-cool k-kid..." Mannelich tried to wipe his eye but ended up poking it with his sword. "Ow!"

Salazar tugged at his collar. This hadn't been his intent. When he was deliberately being mean he hadn't realized feelings would get hurt. That sort of took the fun out of being a bully. You might call him stupid, but he was only fourteen. Give him a break. We all did stupid things back then. Hell, when I was his age I actually thought monkeys had wings like in The Wizard of Oz. Man, was I in for a surprise when Bobo plummetted to the cold, hard concrete. What a mess that made. They still don't know I did it, either, so keep it quiet.

Or else.

The crying knight looked like a shaking metal boulder. Salazar reached out, drew back, then reached out again. His hand touched the pauldron of Uncle Mannelich, patted it. "It's okay. I'm sorry. I'll bump your fist if you want me to."

Mannelich looked up, eyes drier than a desert during a drought, beaming like he'd just won a free trip to a three-day buffet. "You will! Thanks!" He slammed his gauntlet into Salazar's hand, possibly breaking all of the boy's fingers. He ran over to Slimerius and patted him hard on the back, knocking the wind out of him. "Come on, Slimey! We've got a ship to fly! Off to South Africa we go! In search of fame and fortune!" He suddenly looked serious. "And women. All the women." He raced up the gangplank and disappeared from sight.

"He really shuffles through those emotions fast," Salazar said to his father.

"I think he has some sort of brain illness, possibly due to the numerous head injuries he's received over the years. I'm working on a technology that will allow him to experience a lesser degree of rapid emotional changes, but he claims to feel fine the way he is. One day I shall persuade him to be my guinea pig." Slimerius began boarding the ship. He turned around. "Coming, my boy?"

"Yeah, in a minute."

Slimerius nodded and headed up.

The ship—an Entourage-IV Mark-6 V-7 Falconbridge-VIII Overkill-2 X-Series-11, codenamed Alphahorn Echo—was quite a vehicular monstrosity. Sprawled out from nose to thrusters, it occupied the majority of the neighbour's field. The cows had all been ushered away, and all that remained of them were their fresh brown pies. Psychedelic mushrooms grew from the creamy swirls.

Alphahorn Echo stood twenty-five feet tall, was coloured various shades of red and was based on Elhu technomagik. The nose curved like a hawk's beak, with the pilot's seat positioned behind a thick pane of solidified magik, just above where the hawk's nostrils would be—if it were a real, giant bird, of course. The sides possessed retractable wings, though they were just for show—all flash and no value, as the psychomagik took care of any issues involved with staying airborne. The thrusters at the back fired up, emitting an odour that brought to mind both ozone and farts. This was the fuel: magik.

Done with his inspection of the ship—for both my benefit and yours—Salazar nodded for no reason he could think of and stepped aboard. He found his seat up near the nose, beside Dad and Mannelich, and away they went.

5: COUNT TO TEN, LORD DABBA

Sunlight rocked the almost-Madagascar— Madagascarian? Madagascan? Malagasy? Man, I don't even know which to choose. Which one is right? All of the above? Whatever. Let's just pick one and start over.

Sunlight rocked the almost-Madagascan coast. Abba had to squint to keep the tears from forming too quickly in her eyes. Light sensitivity is a serious issue when you spend all your days hidden away within a gloomy cave. Her brother Dabba was already getting into their little rowboat, clumsily knocking the oars into the water with his bulky suit of armour. He swore and slapped at the clear green-blue water. Trying to make things worse, she guessed.

Abba walked across the hot white sand, past odd-angled palm trees with their roots reaching out of the ground. She stood before Dabba and the rowboat. "Need some help, Lord Dabba?"

Dabba looked up,