I am out on a smoke break with a co-worker, and she begins to speak…

*“I have a cousin who is so very beautiful, like snow white with her china doll complexion, raven black hair, and generous red lips. She is insane. Not the kind of insane that people call you for being strange, witty, or irreverent, but the kind of insane that makes the government pay you to stay in your house.

Her name is Joy.

Joy lives in constant fear of her enemy. Her enemy has wealth and resources far beyond that of the neighbor who lets his dog shit in your yard and steals your Sunday paper. Her enemy has tapped her telephone, and sends threatening letters written on flash paper that burst into flame when she finishes reading them. Her enemy has forced her to install a security fence resplendent with razor wire, and to purchase two Military trained Doberman pincers ready to kill anyone but Joy. The enemy of Joy will stop at nothing.

Her enemy’s name?

Bob Dylan.

Joy’s mother was understandably concerned, but learned long ago that there was nothing she could do for her daughter but let her be stunningly beautiful and stark raving mad. Joy’s mother is a perfect sphere of a woman.

Her name is Dot.

Dot decided to hold Thanksgiving dinner at Joy’s house. Because of her daughter’s rampant paranoia, she decided that herself and her son would be the only ones to attend. These were the only people that Joy could be certain were not minions of the dread Bob Dylan. Dot wrote Joy a letter, telling her of the holiday plan, as Joy would no longer answer the phone due to the mass of recording equipment that her enemy had at his disposal. The letter never arrived.

Joy has a theory

Dot put in a call to her son, who is a very successful Saab dealer in central Ohio. Selling Swedish cars was not his true calling however. Dot’s son believed him self to be a powerful mage, and merely used his fortune to purchase dusty tomes and obscure components for his study. This warlock draped in black, walked with the air of someone who was a conduit for forces beyond the comprehension of mortal men.

His name is Remmel.

Remmel agreed to fly up for the meal, (using united airlines as opposed to his arcane powers lest he be discovered) and did so a day in advance, as he could do pretty much what he pleased whenever. Upon arrival, he decided to pay Joy a surprise visit for he found his sister a fascinating person, and wanted to talk to her about things their mother would never understand, magic things.

Remmel rapped ever so lightly on the door, as he believed his presence was so tangible that it could be felt within a quarter mile radius. Joy was within, napping in the safety of her fortress. She had decided to leave the gate unlocked because she had decided that it be better to let Bob Dylan be torn to shreds by the dogs, than to be kept out and alive to continue his tortuous ways. She awoke to the sound of canine fury and the unashamed shrieking of a man in fear for his life. It seems that the light rapping combined with the wizard’s unmistakable presence was enough to draw the dogs to that which they trained for. Joy called off the dogs and an ambulance when she discovered that it was her brother being torn apart and not Mr. Dylan.

The injuries as assessed by the first paramedics on the scene, were so severe that a helicopter was needed to rush Remmel to the hospital, Dot arrived to see a bloody sorcerer being loaded into a chopper in front of her daughter’s house.

It was a scarred, scabbed and bandaged Remmel at Christmas time that told me this story, and between bouts of uncontrollable laughter, I gathered enough air to ask
“Why didn’t you just cast a spell?”

*This narrative was (of course) subjected to the lawnjart wordsmith and is not verbatim.

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