MMMM Chapter 4: News Flash

The scry-screen flickered, then snapped into perfect clarity with a lute riff, three sparkles, and one small, polite explosion. The bar quieted just enough for the voice to cut through, though not so quiet that anyone actually stopped drinking. There was a rhythm to these nightly broadcasts, a kind of communal anticipation. No one really watched for the news. They watched for the mess.

"Good evening, darlings," purred Pepper Papers, her lips glossy, her gaze sharpened by a glamor charm designed to melt lies on contact. Her throne-like desk of enchanted mirrors reflected her from every angle. "I’m Pepper Papers, and this is Scandal Scry, your nightly spellcast of heat, gossip, and dangerously caffeinated truth magic. Let’s get this steaming."

Behind her, the runes swirled, shifting into a golden crustacean with diamond rings on every claw.

"Hot and spicy as always, Lobster Mobster Don Dadon Don Da has been caught sleeping with the fishes... and not the metaphorical kind."

A few patrons in Drunk ’n’ Profit leaned forward, mugs forgotten, elbows on the tables. A couple others kept dealing cards, but with slower hands. Spell dancing highlights had better gossip, but this would do.

"Sources close to the kelp say the notorious crustacean crime lord was spotted in a scandalously entangled embrace with a musically inclined jellyfish with legs. His wife, and mother of the singer Pearl, is reportedly devastated by the salty affair. No official statement yet, but enchanted teacups at the estate have been flinging themselves dramatically off shelves in protest."

The image shifted again: a clam wearing sunglasses.

"More on this story at seven, including an exclusive psychic interview with a clam who claims to have seen everything."

Brodin snorted into his mug. "Clams don't lie, bro."

Laughter snuck through the bar, brief and easy.

Before the next headline could begin, the screen shimmered and split. A second broadcast window bloomed to the right of Pepper’s scandal desk, revealing a much more austere figure.

"Thank you, Pepper," came the voice of Patent Papers, crisp, professional, and aggressively serious. He wore no glamor, just an iron-creased suit, runic newsfeeds scrolling behind him in blue. His broadcast was dimmer, quieter, and notably devoid of glitter. The kind of voice that made tax code sound thrilling.

"In tonight’s headlines: the Mage Mangler is still at large. Witnesses continue to report erratic behavior, squawking, and unusually long hair concealed beneath suspicious headwear. Officials urge caution."

No one in the bar reacted. Patty kept polishing mugs. Brodin took a long sip of his drink. A nearby leprechaun flipped a coin to decide whether to raise or fold. Someone near the back yelled at the dartboard for cheating. It wasn’t that the description didn’t match Melman, it absolutely did. But everyone here knew him, and more importantly, no one cared. They were waiting for the ads to end so the next round of competition could start.

Patent droned on. "Reports suggest the individual is likely wearing a robe of some sort, unusually squeaky, and in possession of suspiciously luscious hair. Citizens are advised to remain alert and report any sightings to the appropriate magical authorities."

Melman, oblivious, picked at a crumb on his sleeve. The only response came from the enchanted dartboard lighting up in protest at someone trying to score during a commercial break.

The screen flicked back to Pepper, who sparkled just a little brighter beside her father’s grayscale broadcast.

"This just in," she announced with theatrical delight, "The Sultana of the Fairy Kingdom has successfully arranged the engagement of Princess Prune to none other than Hero Hiro of the Kingdom of Light."

The rune behind her flared, showing a painfully handsome man holding a cat, a walking stick, and a smile made of overly confident teeth.

"Though it’s been centuries since the last war, Hiro insists the war is, and I quote, 'on its way. Probably. I can feel it in my calves.'"

"Why the calves?" Melman muttered, mostly to himself.

"This historic alliance follows a flurry of heroism: saving a tree from a cat, helping an old lady cross the road, and returning a chick to the turkey that owned it in the county of Chicken, although there are rumors of fowl play, as no living chicken has been seen outside the Chicken Finger Factory in Chicken for more than a decade."

The laughter that followed was louder this time. Someone banged a mug on a table. A bard hiccupped and clapped.

From somewhere in the bar, someone yelled, "THAT’S MY GODS DAMN CHICKEN!"

"Coming up next," Pepper continued without missing a beat, "Are brooms finally outdated? Rumors swirl as enchanted rumba transport sweeps the realm. Ten signs we might be looking at a new shift in the market, as even the cyclone producers are scared of this new wave in magical transport. This and more at 8."

She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "I’m Pepper Papers."

Patent Papers’ voice joined hers from the split screen, steady and grave. "And I’m Patent Papers."

Together, they said in perfect unison: "And if it’s news, glamorous, grim, or deeply questionable, we’ll bring it to you before it brings itself."

The broadcast ended with a swirl of glitter and static. The bar immediately burst back to life, the crowd shifting as someone dragged a table toward the viewing circle for the next round of spell dancing replays.

The lights dimmed slightly. A few magical spotlights rotated over the center platform. The scoreboard flared to life.

Patty rolled her eyes and tossed her rag over her shoulder. "Finally. Back to something that matters."

The room tensed as the announcer voice boomed over the speakers: "Tonight’s exhibition, Blue Steel."

Melman slumped in his seat, still nibbling something that might once have been toast.

Brodin leaned over. "They’re attemptin' Blue Steel tonight. No crying this time."

Melman muttered, "I’m not the one who cries."

Brodin, eyes still on the screen, replied without missing a beat. "I was talking to meself."

A bell rang. The stage pulsed with arcane energy. Spell dancers burst onto the floor in coordinated chaos.

And just like that, the real show began.

Melman was sloshed like he hadn’t been in years. Not a gentle buzz, not a pleasant warm glow, no, this was full-on, stagger-through-your-own-thoughts drunk. He’d drunk way more than he should have, but the show had been emotional. Spell dancing always got to him, and tonight? One of his favorite dancers had pulled off a brand-new move, Magnum. It was breathtaking. Flawless. The crowd had screamed. He had screamed. He might have cried. Who knew?

Also, he had passed his three-drink limit. Way passed it. He’d stopped counting after seven. Normally, three was the cutoff, three drinks, no more, no less. A pact with his liver. But he hadn’t even felt the first few, which should have been a warning sign. He hadn’t drunk this much since his college days with Brodin, and well, Brodin was finally getting married. That was worth breaking the rule for.

But damn, his head hurt.

He wondered, briefly and with great suspicion, if Patty had watered down the first few drinks to lull him into false security. It felt like the kind of trick she’d pull. But after number seven hit like a meteor wrapped in static, he knew the error was his. All his.

Still, at least he had a new cauldron waiting at home. That meant he could brew his old hangover cure, if he could remember it. It had been years since he last needed the recipe, but he was pretty sure he still had all the ingredients somewhere. Possibly. Maybe. Hopefully.

When he finally reached his house, he paused in the overgrown yard, squinting at the structure in front of him. Was it his imagination, or did the giant pumpkin look a bit... mushy? The walls had always been slightly squishy, but this was different. Squishier. Wetter. It was starting to slump in places like it had given up.

He’d need to cast more preservation spells. Maybe ten. And a freshness spell. Or twenty. The thing was getting ripe.

But that was future Melman’s problem.

Current Melman stumbled through the cellar door around back, dragging his feet down the steps into the basement. He nearly fell twice, cursed once, and finally made it to the cauldron. It sat in the center of the room like a smug iron prize, bigger than he remembered and heavy-looking in a way that promised sore muscles if he tried to move it without help.

He opened his mouth to call for Xander, then paused. Betty had mentioned something about rules.

Instead of yelling, he shuffled over and grabbed the lid off the cauldron. Sure enough, there was a list taped to the underside:

1st Do not let it get wet.

2nd Do not expose it to direct sunlight.

3rd Do not feed it after midnight.

Melman stared.

“What in the actual hells is this?”

No water? It was a cauldron. It was supposed to get wet. That was its thing. And feed it? Feed it what? It was cookware, not a bloody pet.

Sure, the sunlight rule he could understand. Maybe. It was already in a basement, so that one took care of itself. But still, this couldn’t be the real maintenance list. This had to be a joke.

He sighed, rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out of his skull, and muttered, "I'll get the real cleaning instructions tomorrow."

Then, wobbling only slightly, he began prepping the ingredients for his hangover cure.

It was going to be a long night. But not nearly as long as the one coming after.