MMMM Chapter 2 Melman's Meandering Market March

Melman tried to go up to his room, but the staircase was a bit more moist than was strictly safe. Moisture had a way of collecting in certain corners of the house, especially after last week’s ill-fated attempt to enchant the plumbing to self-clean. Now the steps shimmered ominously, slick with questionable condensation. He eyed the glistening incline, sighed deeply enough to wheeze, and decided to forgo the climb altogether.

After all, he was an old man. Most people didn’t give a second glance to an elderly fellow in a bathrobe wandering the streets. In fact, many actively looked away, as if uncertain whether acknowledging him would commit them to helping. It was one of the few perks of being ancient and underestimated: invisibility with optional muttering.

Before leaving, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called down into the pumpkin's squishy depths, his voice hoarse from age, potion residue, and seasonal allergies. "Fugeos! Clean up the mess, will you?"

Fugeos, a neon green, vibrating, semi-nuclear industrial cleaner slime, slurped his way out of the bathroom sink like a caffeinated slug with a megaphone. He twisted his jiggling mass into a vaguely serpentine shape and hurled himself gleefully down the stairs, leaving a faint trail of ozone, steam, and scorched tiles in his wake.

"PUT IT IN MY MOUTH!" he screamed joyously, echoing off the walls like a very enthusiastic garbage disposal possessed by a frat demon.

Melman had received numerous official warnings over the years regarding that particular model of cleaner slime. The notices were usually written in frantic red ink and included words like recall, defective morality processor, void of ethical structure, and apocalyptic risk classification: spicy. Each came with a new legal threat and a polite suggestion to incinerate Fugeos immediately. Melman, of course, had paid them no mind. He had grown fond of the little monster and appreciated his reliable work ethic and unwavering dedication to screaming.

Instead, he focused on trying to tame his newly luscious curls, which had taken on a will of their own. They bounced with suspicious vigor. They shimmered under the faint magical glow of the bathroom lights. He couldn’t help but preen a little.

That’s when it hit him: he should be more careful. The world was full of desperate, balding sorcerers and potion amateurs who would kill to get their hands on a working hair restoration formula. There were potion pirates, black market baldness rings, and unscrupulous wigmakers who wouldn't hesitate to filch a follicle. He needed to hide the evidence. No one could know he had cured baldness. Not yet.

He shuffled over to Julie’s side of the bathroom vanity, a space he hadn’t dared disturb in years, and gently opened a drawer lined with floral paper and old bobby pins. From it, he retrieved one of her legendary wig caps, the kind designed to contain a hydra’s hairdo during hurricane season. You could stuff an elephant into one of those and no one would notice. With reverence and a bit of static cling, he pulled it down over his glorious mane until it was buried beneath beige mesh and nostalgic fabric softener.

In the mirror, he looked younger. Far younger. It must’ve been the hair, shaving decades off his face like magic with a marketing budget. Almost like he had in his early twenties, back when his robes didn’t come with safety pins and he still thought time travel was a fun afternoon hobby. If he had to say so himself: a gorgeous specimen. Maybe even dangerous, in a "might charm your grandmother out of her teeth" sort of way.

He thought nothing more of it. With practiced absent-mindedness, he tugged the bathrobe tighter around his waist, slipped on his bunny slippers, one of which still squeaked thanks to an immortal toy, and stepped out of the pumpkin-house with the pace of an old man on a mission.

Which is to say: not very fast. But determined. And squeaky.

Melman walked down the street, head low, bathrobe fluttering slightly in the breeze. At first, he thought it was a pleasant morning stroll, the kind of meandering, unbothered shuffle reserved for retirees, drifters, and those who had given up on punctuality as a concept. But something felt off. Very off.

It started with a glance. Then another. Then a whole wave of them.

Women looked at him like they wanted to talk. Not the friendly old-man kind of talk either. The curious, eyebrow-raising, lip-biting, do-you-have-a-potion-for-that kind of talk. The kind of look that made Melman deeply uncomfortable in a very specific, spine-prickling way.

Men, meanwhile, gave him the kind of glare usually reserved for raccoons caught rifling through picnic baskets. Suspicious. Judgmental. One man, holding a half-eaten hotdog and an armful of laundry, muttered, "Disgraceful," while shaking his head slowly, as if Melman had personally insulted the entire institution of public decency.

Melman picked up speed. Or tried to. If he thought his left knee wouldn’t give out like a collapsing card table soaked in regret, he might’ve run. As it was, he hobbled with increasing urgency, bunny slippers squeaking out a rapid-fire protest with every slap of pavement.

He weaved past street vendors, a mime having a very real argument with a sandwich, and a priestess trying to cast holy water on a low-flying imp swarm. By the time he reached the cobbled corner where Betty’s Bits and Bobs crouched like a soot-stained treasure chest, Melman was panting like a woodwind in a hurricane.

The sign above the shop hung by one rusted chain and read "Betty’s Bits and Bobs and Probably Legal Magical Repairs." The windows were fogged with a mix of grease, enchantment residue, and a film of dust that might have achieved sentience. The scent of burnt copper, mildew, and what he hoped was mystery soup lingered in the air like a bad memory.

He pushed open the door with the strength of a man one wheeze away from collapsing. A shrill bell above the frame screamed like a banshee getting its tail stepped on.

The interior was chaos. Glorious, ever-changing, borderline-lawless chaos. Gremlins, as every decent alchemist knew, were the best tinkers around, brilliant, erratic, and usually covered in soot. You never said that to a gnome, though. Unless, of course, you wanted to start a generational blood feud fueled by sabotage, poetry duels, and explosive fruit baskets.

Betty, a ten-inch-tall male gremlin with oil-stained goggles and six pens stuck behind one ear, stood atop a precarious pile of what could have been junk, product, art, or weaponized furniture. Possibly all four. He was busily rearranging enchanted trinkets, gears, potion components, and something that looked suspiciously like a cursed ferret with a monocle and a monocle-sized top hat.

When Melman entered, Betty looked up and grinned. "How can I help you, sir or madam?" he chirped, in a voice that could rattle a windowpane.

Melman blinked. Betty hadn’t forgotten his name in weeks. Then again, gremlins didn’t always sleep. Not because they didn’t need to, but because they often became obsessed with projects that blurred the line between invention and divine madness. Sleep was optional when you were welding ideas together with caffeine and hope magic.

Melman approached the counter and cleared his throat, still winded. "Do you have any more reinforced cauldrons? Mine sort of... shattered."

"Fresh out," Betty replied without missing a beat. "Some high-strung maniac came by just this morning and bought out my whole stock."

Melman slumped, defeated by timing and possibly fate.

"I do have one cauldron left," Betty added, scratching behind one pointy ear, sparks flying off his claws, "but it's got... rather specific cleaning instructions."

Melman squinted. "Can I see it?"

"Sure, just give me a second." He turned and bellowed toward the back. "Thud! Get the cauldron out! Some idiot wants to buy it!"

There was a rumble, followed by a groan, and then the curtain in the back was flung aside as a massive pile of sentient trash lumbered out. Thud, a semi-organized heap of enchanted refuse, broken furniture, and highly opinionated scraps of parchment, dragged itself forward. A pair of mannequin legs served as feet. Its arms were made from mop handles and old luggage. It clutched the cauldron in its massive, grimy, trash-bag limbs like a prize.

With a sound like a landslide of hubcaps and shame, Thud dropped the cauldron in front of Melman with a grunt that smelled like expired chili.

Melman leaned in. The cauldron was dented, soot-streaked, and suspiciously warm to the touch, but otherwise perfect.

"I’ll take it," he said without hesitation.

"Great," Betty said with a grease-stained thumbs-up. "Where to?"

"Just drop it off at 1337 Vegetable Lane. Round back by the tickling willow."

Thud burped sparks in acknowledgment, shuffled off, and muttered something in Trashlish about overtime pay.

Transaction complete, Melman turned toward the door, clutching the receipt like it might bite him. He was already dreading the return walk. Not because it was far, but because he now understood the truth:

The wig cap wasn’t hiding anything.

His hair was just that magnificent.