Dr. Krumbunculus awoke, not feeling particularly proud of himself, on a cold cobblestone floor. He felt his eyes weighing heavily. Maybe he’d even managed to slightly age himself through the ordeal. He stood up, and a reeling headache kept him deliriously off-balance. A sure sign he’d overdone it at the choose-your-own-adventure hotel, and not prioritized sleeping as much as he ought to have.
He checked his pockets, finding the sac of chickensfeed. Correction. The sac was empty.
“Cock hamnit!” Dr. Krumbuncukus threw the sac asunder and kicked dust up into the air, flailing in frustration. As he wandered out of the choose-your-own-adventure hotel, feeling haggard and indeed unable to remember what all had taken place in his adventure (surely a side effect of going to that winery to escape the mercenaries), Dr. Krumbunculus groaned. He figured he’d probably found some choose-your-own-hookers in the adventure and blown all his money, but it was frustrating to not even remember such pleasures. The suns were just rising above the whoreizon, and it felt like their luminosity was cutting deep into his soul.
If he’d been just a little older, and a little more magical, Dr. Krumbunculus would’ve just cast a spell to remove his hangover. Or, indeed, a spell to make him impervious to hangovers. He remembered he’d done that, back when he was a ripe, old age. Hamned curse. Now his hangover would just go away on its own in about five more minutes. The trials of the youthful.
Dr. Krumbunculus leand against the side of a building that blocked out the suns’ shine, sighing with relief as he attempted to remember, well, anything. He seemed to have an inkling of an idea that someone the day before had told him how he might remove his terrible curse of youthfulness. And yet, his alcohol-infused brain did not seem able to recall.
Then, he thought again. Perhaps last night had aged him enough that Dr. Krumbunculus could use a memory spell. That is, if he could even remember how to cast one. Tricky thing, memory spells.
Dr. Krumbunculus attempted to dig his left pointer finger deep into his right ear. This felt surely like part of a memory spell. Then, he pulled his nose, and after that, he dug through his belly button for lint.
Nothing. That is, there was no lint to dig through. However, what Dr. Krumbunculus did find is that his mind seemed to be slowly reshaping itself. He could feel a strong tingling sensation at the back of his head.
He remembered last night. Indeed, wine and fantasy hookers aplenty. Though, some of them were not necessarily up to his ‘standards,’ and Dr. Krumbunculus found himself growing very sad, as he’d ended up asking one of the choose-your-own-hookers to pretend to be the tall, buff witch he’d met earlier that day. Feeling an immense wave of shame, Dr. Krumbunculus found himself wishing he’d never cast the memory spell. Worse, it didn’t serve its intended purpose—he still couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do to remove his curse.
“Clucking hen,” Dr. Krumbunculus shook his head at himself and walked down the street, sticking to the shadows.
As he walked by various shops, he saw another tall, imposing woman, though this lady did not inspire attraction in his mind—only fear. She was clad in thicc Royal Gourd armor, and was standing outside a mounted animal maintenance facility with an armored hippopotamus.
“Heyllo there, missirrah,” said the shop attendant, who seemed to be a bit of a bumpkin, “What cayn we do ya for?”
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“My hippopotamus needs to have its ears rotated, its blood re-transfused, and its iron feet replaced—they’re low on tread.”
“Are yew a member?”
“Yes.”
“Okey-dokey, what’s yer name?”
“Dorma. Dorma the Emasculator.”
Dr. Krumbunculus’ eavesdropping blood ran cold. He’d heard about Dorma the Emasculator. From his perspective, her title said everything you needed to know.
The man did a slight double take, “Okey-dokey, okey-dokey, lemme jus’ take some look-sees here at yer hippow,” the man smiled, revealing his lack of teeth, as he sauntered over and began inspecting the hippopotamus. First he checked its ears, then its mouth, then he went to check its rear end. This did not end up well, for as soon as he pushed the hippo’s tail aside it kicked him perfectly in the crotch.
“Shit. Sorry about that,” Dorma caught the man as he began to crumble, “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Probably just a little insecure.”
“N-no problem, miyssirah,” the man jabbered, “Here, whah don’t yew get yerself intuh the waitin’ rum n’ a’ll geyt this hippuh ah yars all sq-squared away, huh?”
“Actually, I have some people to wrongfully incriminate. Can I just drop her off for, say, four hours or so?”
“Y-yea, that should be m-mighty fahne.”
Dorma nodded, smiled grimly, and walked off, looking around for suspicious characters. Unfortunately, Dr. Krumbunculus looked at this moment rather suspicious himself.
“Hey, you there, young guy!” she bellowed in Krumbunculus’ direction, all the strength of fifty blue oxen behind every syllable.
Of course, he was still not used to being referred to as such. Dr. Krumbunculus was much more partial to being called ‘gramps,’ or ‘old guy,’ or ‘old fart,’ or ‘foagie,’ or thereabouts, at this point in his life. So he did not respond.
“Hey! Young man! Why do you look so strung out? Why aren’t you answering my authority? Are you on fantasy drugs or something?”
Dr. Krumbunculus chuckled to himself. Some young burnout was just about to get the scolding of his life.
“Young man, if you don’t turn around and listen to me right this instance, I’m going to antagonize the living shit out of you!”
Dr. Krumbcunculus just kept on walking. Which, unfortunately enough for himself, cemented the absence of any doubt in Dorma’s mind that he was anything but an unruly young miscreant with no respect for his elders or authority in general.
“Alright, that’s clucking it!” Dorma screeched as she stormed over to Dr. Krumbunculus and grabbed him by the shoulder.
It felt like a metal vice grip was quickly tightening over the side of his neck. Dr. Krumbunculus felt his adrenaline system go haywire, almost jumping in the air as he was forcefully swiveled around to face his formidable pursuer. This in itself was surprising, he hadn’t felt adrenaline in over fifty years.
“Just what exactly is the matter with you, kid? You think you can just ignore the Royal Gourd? Do you realize you’re living in Caldonia, young man? Has no one taught you how to behave?”
Dr. Krumbunculus, still forgetting himself and his current situation, reacted in the only way that felt presently available. That is to say, he burst out in raucous laughter.
“What? Are you shitting me right now? What the cluck is so funny? Do you clucking think I’m joking?”
In fact, Dr. Krumbunculus had convinced himself that she was. Something about the inherent suprisingness of the situation had allowed his mind to vacate the information confirming his youthfulness, as in, he had completely ceased to think in terms of his curse and was thinking only in terms of his usual, elderly self. That considered, Dorma’s standoffishness and general vitrol came off to him as some absurd in-joke, and only made him laugh even harder.
“This is clucking ridiculous. You must be high. And, of course, you know what that means. The choakie.”
Dr. Krumbunculus felt a blood vessel burst in his eye and his lungs grow sore from sheer force of laughter.
“Alright then, you clucking miscreant,” Dorma huffed, whipping out handcuffs and locking them over Dr. Krumbunculus’ wrists, “You’re coming with me.”
And this was how, with a wide smile and bright eyes, Dr. Krumbunculus was arrested by Dorma of the Royal Gourd and hauled off to the choakie for an initially indeterminate amount of time.