The Reality Register has finally given me an assignment worthy of my skills. This story brought me on a journey so confusing that I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to seriously reevaluate the way I perceive reality.
It all began when I went to the Reality Register Headquarters above the local house of pizza, looking for an assignment from the editor. He wasn’t there, but he left a note that simply read: “Follow up on an old story, ANYTHING BUT DOGMAN.” I was confused, since Dogman is the greatest cryptid of all time, but orders are orders, so I went down to the local library and pointed my trusty Microsoft Edge browser to https://therealityregister.com/tag/archives/.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! There were hundreds of articles there, written by a dozen different writers! News stories, interviews, horoscopes, features by a nerd named Hiram, book reviews, and a gossip column called Reality Rumors. There were items written by at least two different ghosts! I focused on the rumors, looking for salacious details. There were thinly veiled stories about various female pop stars like Taylor Swift, Britney Spears, and Beyoncé, political commentary masquerading as blind gossip items, and hidden details about stories that we had already published as full articles at therealityregister.com.
The political stories were the most interesting to me, since the Register has always been militantly apolitical, and as a result, any rumors about the ruling class had the musk of truth hanging heavily over them. These stories seemed to be perfectly balanced, airing the dirty laundry of both sides with equal vigor, without coming off as despicably centrist. One item in particular called out to me, entitled “Necromancers and Political Shenanigans.”
The rumor itself seemed to be obviously true, the idea that evil wizards have seized control of the walking corpses that inhabit Washington, D.C., through a process called pre-animation, in order to usher in a necromancy, or rule by the dead. I started researching Necromancy, and over and over again, I found sources calling it “black magic.” Needless to say, my interest was piqued, as I feel particularly suited to that particular skill set.
I looked around for a local magic school, and after attending several collectible card game tournaments, I finally found a teacher. A former druid, this nameless mage claimed to be a master of the dark arts, even though he was suspiciously pale. Black magic should be taught by black wizards! That little problem could be dealt with after I became a master necromancer, which I figured would take a week at most, and then I could open a proper black magic school.
Day one started out promising enough. An old guy who looked like Gandalf brought me into a candlelit cave, ordered me to sit by candlelight and read an ancient book. The dusty tome felt like it crackled with the ancient energy of eons past; I could already imagine myself using its knowledge to harness the very lifeblood of the universe, to bend nature to my own whims and purposes! Soon, my many enemies would be enslaved or destroyed, whichever I saw fit!
According to the inside jacket, the book had been published in 2022, hardly a relic of lost empires, and the table of contents said nothing about harnessing lightning or reanimating corpses. All the chapters were about the solstice or equinox, or about something called the planes of being. There was nothing about laying waste to cities, seizing control of feeble minds, or making deals with demons, only to double-cross them at the last minute! It was all about positive thinking and meditation. Who cares about that crap!?
Furious, I told my teacher that I needed real magic, the kind that you can use to hurt people. He chuckled and told me that if I touch dark magic, it touches me. Obviously! Why else would I do it!? While he was blathering on about some rule of threefold return, I interrupted and told him that if he didn’t teach me some actual offensive magic, I would give him a negative review online and dispute the tuition charges with my credit card company. Terrified of losing the $49.99 I had sent him for 2 lessons, he finally agreed to show me how to create a simulacrum of my greatest enemies that would allow me to harm others from afar. He gave me a list of items to collect, and told me to come back the next day if I really wanted to delve into the dark side of magic.
Furious at the wait, I stormed out, but I was intrigued by his offer and showed up at his cave the next day. Upon his instruction, I brought one of Stan Dirkson’s hairs with me, which was easy enough to find on the floor of the office. The wizard brought out an old wicker chest, and when he opened it, I was shocked to see colorful thread and needles and yarn! This man brought a sewing kit to teach me necromancy? He must have been a skilled emotional dowser because he sensed my anger, and soothed me with a description of the day’s project: a voodoo doll.
I relaxed and we got to sewing some cursed burlap to be stuffed with the hair of drowned stray cats, which I had procured earlier in the day from some friends at the Humane Society. Whistling while I worked, the doll came together quickly, and embedded with Dirkson’s greasy, stinking strands, I could feel the power emanating from my first magical working. Soon enough, my skills would be strong enough to make my own amulet to replace the one that was stolen from me. But first, first things.
Leaving at the stroke of midnight, I hit “Publish” on a 1-star review and called my credit card company to tell them that my card had been stolen and that there were some strange charges on there. Hardly able to contain myself, I ran over the homunculus with my Durango, and ground it into the dirt with my heel. Upon arriving back at the motel, I tortured that doll in every way I could imagine, and then with some other methods I found online. There wasn’t much left, but what fabric remained I brought over to some friends nearby that were keeping a fire going.
As I cast the magical remains into the rusty barrel, I could only imagine what Stan Dirkson must be going through. I imagined the agony of a phantom burn, the aching muscles that were crushed under my heel, or perhaps even a spontaneous combustion. I dared to dream of an aneurysm, allowed myself to indulge in a fantasy of organ failure. Sleep came to me like a cloud, and I slipped into a dreamless state of bliss.
The next day, I swung by the office, and the Editor in Chief of the greatest news site of all time was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and seemed healthier than ever! Flabbergasted, I submitted a summary of this very article, which he eagerly approved, and then dismissed me! He didn’t seem to notice the actual content in the least bit.
Anyway, it turns out my magic teacher wasn’t very good.
Mohammed Sinclair
