MMMM Chapter 1: Big Bad Bob The Benevolent

In a dark, foreboding castle perched on the jagged cliffs of somewhere impressively inconvenient and perpetually stormy, a figure cloaked in flowing black robes stood beneath a chandelier made entirely of jawbones. (Well, jawbone-shaped candleholders. Ceramic. Handcrafted. And scented, apple cinnamon, if one were close enough to sniff.) One skeletal hand extended forward with practiced drama, beckoning with all the menace of a well-aged crone pointing to a misplaced coupon.

Before him stood two striking women, both painted in the rich shadows cast by flickering candelight. One might have been a vampire, a dominatrix, or both, it was hard to tell with all the leather, dramatic eyeliner, and glinting fangs. The other looked like she’d just come from teaching fourth grade remedial arithmetic, down to the cardigan and the scowl that could silence a roomful of rowdy goblins.

The cloaked figure rasped, his voice an unsteady mix of theatrical menace and slightly out-of-breath muttering. “Evilin... gather the greatest wizards. It is time to fulfill the pact... with the Chuthulu.”

Evilin blinked. “Chuthulu?”

He might’ve said Kidthulu. It was hard to hear over the ambient thunder and constant crescendo of ominous pipe organ music (which no one was playing, the enchanted gramophone simply had a flair for the dramatic). Evilin tried not to think too hard about it. Surely Bob the Betrayer, no, wait, Bob the Butcher, couldn’t mean Kidthulu. That would be ridiculous. Wouldn't it?

“I shall gather them, my lord,” she said with practiced flair, one hand dramatically on her hip. “By any means necessary.” Then she turned into a swarm of bats and whooshed out the window with a gust of perfumed wind. So... yes. Vampire. Or possibly a sentient cloud of bats in vaguely human form. She wouldn’t be the first bat swarm he had hired. They were surprisingly efficient when it came to inter-office memos.

Bob turned to the second woman, who had, at some point during the conversation, produced a clipboard covered in kitten stickers and glitter pen annotations. She was diligently checking off the word “Pact” written in bubble letters, using a red pen with a fuzzy pom-pom topper.

“Hellen,” he said, his tone dropping from doom to domestic, “Would you be so kind as to draw me a warm bath? I must be presentable for all my wizard friends. And my bones... well, they’re not what they used to be. They make this dreadful creaking sound when I sit down too fast. Or blink.”

He lowered his hood.

Not a lich. Not a terrifying skeletal monster. Just... an insanely old man. Like Death and he had once finger-painted together in preschool. Like he probably owed arthritis alimony and had been issued a restraining order by his own spine. His robe, once black, had faded into a soft charcoal grey and was embroidered with tiny cartoon ducks playing tiny cartoon banjos. It smelled faintly of lavender foot balm and slightly burnt toast.

Big Bad Bob the Benevolent, legendary for his peppermint cookies, oversized tea collection, and once winning “Best Grandpa Beard” three centuries in a row, shuffled off in his bunny slippers toward the nearest bath chamber. The fate of wizardkind was at hand. Probably. If he didn’t forget why he’d called them all here. Again. Also, he’d forgotten to invite his apprentice, Melman, which was especially tragic, considering he loved peppermint cookies.

Somewhere, in a moderately enchanted pumpkin, possibly rotting, possibly just a little too moist, Melman the Magnificent sneezed and knocked over his latest experiment. Again. The pumpkin creaked ominously, not from magic, but because pumpkins were never meant to be homes. Especially ones with indoor plumbing, questionable roof tiles, and a really pissed-off, dog-sized golden dragon who had signed a magical contract to serve the Chosen Hero. Unfortunately, Melman was not particularly heroic. Or chosen. The contract prevented the dragon from harming him directly, so instead he spent most of his time building increasingly elaborate machines trying to commit bestfriendacide by 'accidentally' removing Melman from existence, preferably with style, fire, and a bit of sarcasm.

Melman was an old man, almost eighty years old, and looked every minute of it. He would’ve been bald if not for the heroic effort of a single, stubborn comb-over that clung to the top of his head like a desperate squirrel in a wind tunnel. His beard, thick and wildly unkempt, hung like a half-feral mop that had lost a fight with a soup ladle. His eyebrows were enormous, tufts of wiry chaos that twitched when he frowned, something he did often. He wore a pink fuzzy bathrobe and matching bunny slippers, both of which had been gifted to him by his master, many decades ago. The robe was worn thin in places, patched with mismatched cloth squares that had long since stopped pretending to match. The bunny slippers squeaked when he moved, not due to age, but because one of them still contained a squeaky toy that no spell could quite remove. He was always cold, the kind of cold that crawled in under the skin and made a permanent home between the bones.

His house didn’t help. He lived in a magical pumpkin. Yes, a pumpkin. Enchanted, of course, but enchantments only slowed the natural rot of gourd architecture. The walls were soft in places. The roof had sprouted a mushroom colony that wouldn’t stop singing show tunes. His furniture had opinions. His wardrobe gave unsolicited fashion advice.

As if summoned by name, Melman sneezed, a sharp, wet sneeze that bounced off the pumpkin walls like a sneezy thunderclap. The force of it startled him just enough that his hand slipped, dumping a full handful of gold dust into the cauldron at his feet. Not a pinch. Not a spoonful. A full, glittering avalanche of powdered gold, the magical equivalent of yelling "YOLO" at a chemistry set.

He was trying to cure his baldness. And maybe the chill. Possibly both. He’d been working on the formula for weeks, maybe months, it was hard to keep track. Potions were, sadly, the only branch of magic in which Melman had any real talent. The rest, spells, enchantments, sigils, he understood in theory. He could lecture for hours about proper mana flow, chant structure, and reagent balance. On paper, he was a scholar. In action? He was a disaster.

The moment someone watched him cast, his fingers fumbled. His voice cracked. His confidence shattered like a teacup under a warhammer. Candles exploded. Walls wept sap. On one occasion, he accidentally turned his shoes into soup. Tomato.

He’d failed the B.A.M. exam (Bureau of Arcane Magics) three times. The first time, he froze up and accidentally cast a silence spell on the entire testing chamber. The second time, he got nervous and summoned six fainting goats. The third time, he blanked so completely that he forgot the difference between a fire rune and a lunch order. After that, he gave up on being a proper wizard and instead became a parlor magician, bringing joy to children and mild confusion to adults through sleight of hand and illusion spells that mostly worked.

And truthfully, he was good at it. His stage shows were chaotic but beloved. His favorite trick was pulling infinite scarves from his nose, though that had once caused a medical emergency. Still, it was safer than real spellcasting. And far less likely to summon bees.

Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated Melman’s pivot to performance art. The small, dog-sized golden dragon that lived with him certainly didn’t. Xander, his best friend and magically bonded companion, had spent the last few decades trying, unsuccessfully, to kill Melman. Not from hatred, but from contractual disappointment. A witch, long ago, had prophesied that Melman was destined to become the greatest wizard in history, when he turned eight. She choked halfway through, asked for tea, and then died of a heart attack before finishing the rest. But the binding spell had already taken hold. Xander was locked in.

And Xander hated being laughed at by all the other dragons, dragons who had formed proud, glorious bonds with world-shaking sorcerers, fire-wielding battle mages, and terrifying archwitches. Wizards who became important. Famous. Feared. Not a single one of them had been stuck with a nervous stage magician who couldn't summon a breeze in public without fainting.

Melman’s eyes went wide as the gold dust vanished into the cauldron’s brew. The color shifted. The bubbles hissed. The air shimmered with unstable magic.

“This is going to explode,” he muttered.

He dove behind the nearest bookshelf, knocking over a stack of enchanted maps and a grumpy jar of sassafras. The grimoires on the shelf groaned. One of them, a spellbook named Biter, sprouted stubby arms and flipped him off. Again.

But the explosion didn’t come.

When Melman finally peeked over the shelf and looked at the cauldron, he saw a thin, shimmering crack spiraling down its side. No flames. No detonation. Just... damage.

“Well,” he sniffled, “guess I’ll need a new one. Again.”

But the potion inside, it looked stable. Almost too stable. The surface sparkled faintly, like it was trying to wink at him. And as every experienced potion enthusiast would say: if a potion looks stable, you try the potion.

Most potion enthusiasts, it should be noted, were either dead or filthy rich. Occasionally both, depending on undeath and all.

Melman reached for his favorite cat mug, the one his dear, departed Julie had given him on their twentieth anniversary. The faded inscription read: I love you more than naps. He held it with reverence, dipped it into the glowing mixture, and with the confidence of a man who had clearly learned nothing from past mistakes, took a large swig.

He passed out instantly.

When he awoke, it was to a furious, rhythmic slapping against his cheeks. Wet. Furry. Possibly sentient.

“Mel, is that you?”

Melman groaned. Something small and warm was perched on his chest, smacking him with a determined paw.

He opened one eye. A golden blur. Two tiny wings. Teeth. Fire-colored scales. A grudge.

Xander.

“Why, of course it’s me, buddy,” Melman croaked. “Who else would it be?”

Xander squinted. “Mel... you have hair.”

Melman blinked. “What? What did you say?”

“You have hair, Mel! You did it!”

The dragon bounced in place. “We’re going to be rich! Finally! This is it! You’re going to save the world! Or at least the receding hairline population. You might actually be the hero after all!”

He paused, then added thoughtfully, “Maybe I won’t have to kill you now.”

Melman touched his scalp. It was... thick. Lush. Flowing. Like a shampoo commercial had exploded on his head.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

“Oh yes,” Xander grinned. “We’re in business, baby. Heroism, haircare, and probably lawsuits. Let’s go.”