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In the heart of Intra-Zone, a sprawling giga-city at the center of the Omniverse, lived a wizard named Dale. Unlike the robe-clad, staff-wielding mages of old Intra-Zone, Dale drew his powers from an unconventional source: the sacred herb, the glorious ganja, the wonderous weed, sweet cannabis. Each puff from his expertly rolled joints
fueled his magical prowess, sharpening his mind and granting him glorious power. His study, a cluttered den of arcane tomes, glowing crystals, and half-eaten bags of chips, was his sanctuary: a place where he could toke in peace and let his mind wander. A small radio in the corner was quietly playing some old punk music, giving Dale
something to hear aside from his own thoughts.
On this particular evening, Dale paced the hardwood floor of the study, barefoot and bare-assed, his lanky frame moving with a restless energy. A thick joint dangled from his lips, its tip glowing like a tiny star as he inhaled deeply. The smoke curled around him, mingling with the faint shimmer of magical wards that protected his home.
His long, skinny, cock flopped around with each step: He was average sized and had a huge foreskin. Dale didn’t care about nudity for he was a wizard, damn it, and wizards did what they pleased.
The shrill ring of his cell phone shattered the hazy tranquility of his room. Dale groaned, exhaling a plume of smoke that briefly formed the shape of a middle finger before dissipating. “Fuckin...” he muttered, snatching the phone from atop a pile of spellbooks. The screen flashed with the name “Marv,” his oldest friend and occasional
partner-in-crime. Marv was a Serpalier, a species that had come to Intra-Zone when their world was destroyed by a mad warlord, some years prior. Dale tapped the answer button, holding the joint in one hand and the phone in the other.
“Yo, Marv, this better be good...” Dale growled, taking another hit.
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Marv’s voice crackled through the speaker, laced with his usual mix of amusement and urgency. “Dale, my man, I’m comin’ over. Got some big news. And for the love of the gods, put some pants on. Before I get there, I mean.”
Dale glanced down at himself, his gaze settling on his exposed manhood. He chuckled, unbothered. “Yeah, yeah, fine. I’ll cover the goods. What’s this news?”
“You’ll see when I get there. Be there in ten. Pants, Dale. Pants.” Marv hung up before Dale could retort.
“Prude, hipocrite. He doesn't even wear pants...” Dale muttered, tossing the phone onto a nearby cushion. He took one last drag from the joint, letting the smoke fuel a quick spell to locate his discarded pants. A faint glow pulsed in the corner of the room, where a pair of crumpled cargo pants lay tangled with a
pile of old pizza boxes. Dale stumbled over, his bare feet sticking slightly to the floor, and yanked the pants free. Getting them on was a struggle—his lanky legs caught in the fabric, and he nearly toppled into a shelf of enchanted dildae. After a brief tussle, he managed to pull them up.
Satisfied, Dale shuffled to the kitchen, his stomach rumbling. He fixed himself a peanut butter sandwich, slathering the bread with a generous glob of that good creamy brown shit, and poured a tall glass of chocolate fucking milk. The sandwich was half-eaten, and the milk was leaving a dirty sanchez on his upper lip
when he flopped onto the couch and flicked on the TV. The news blared to life, showing President Ronald Bump standing on a wooden box behind a podium, his tiny frame barely visible above the microphones and barely even within the shot. Dale snorted, nearly choking on his sandwich. “Short fucker,” he mumbled, grinning
as Bump adjusted his tie and began his briefing.
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“Folks, folks, listen up, okay? Tremendous people of Intra-Zone, the best people, nobody loves you more than me, believe me. We’ve got a situation here, a big league situation, and it’s bad, really bad. These lightning storms, they’re hitting our beautiful cities, zapping our fantastic infrastructure — nobody builds
infrastructure like Intra-Zone, by the way, nobody. But these storms, they’re not natural, folks. Not at all. They’re caused by a wizard, a rogue wizard, and let me tell you, he’s a loser. A total loser. His name’s Aloysius Crenshaw — terrible name, by the way, nobody likes it. Sounds like a low-energy hedge-wizard,
which he is, okay?
This guy, Aloysius, he’s out there causing havoc, making a mess, and frankly, it’s disgusting. Dis-gus-ting. He’s zapping our cities, scaring our tremendous citizens, and I’m not gonna stand for it. Nobody handles crises better than me, nobody. I’ve got the best wizards, the top wizards, working on this right now.
We’re gonna find this guy, lock him up—lock him up, folks! He escaped prison, can you believe it? Weak prison system, very weak, but we’re fixing that, making Intra-Zone great again.
These storms? They’re fake magic, folks. Not the good stuff, not like the magic I’d do if I were a wizard, which I’d be the best at, by the way. Aloysius is a disgrace to wizards everywhere, a total disaster. We’re gonna stop him, we’re gonna zap him right back, and we’re gonna make Intra-Zone safe and beautiful again.
Tremendous, just tremendous. Thank you, Intra-Zone, I love you!”
Dale’s grin vanished. The crowd on TV started going wild and losing their dicks over Bump's briefing. Dale's sandwich dropped to the plate, and he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Aloysius,” he spat, his voice dripping with anger. That was his brother’s name, the black sheep of their family, a bitch-ass who’d turned to
dark magic and landed himself in prison. Six weeks ago, Aloysius had broken out, leaving a trail of chaos in his wake. Now, it seemed, he was behind the lightning storms tearing through Intra-Zone. Dale scoffed, slamming the remote down to shut off the TV. “Always gotta make us look bad, you prick.”
The doorbell chimed, cutting through his anger. Dale stood, brushing crumbs from his pants, and strode to the door. He took a deep breath, the faint buzz of his last joint still humming in his brain and his balls and his asscheeks, then opened the door to face whatever news Marv was bringing with him.
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Standing on the threshold was Marv, a towering Serpalier — one of the last of his kind. His long arms hung down past his knees, his pale blue skin shimmered faintly under the yellow porch light. His lipless mouth curved into a grin as he stepped inside, quietly shutting the door behind him. Marv’s massive frame filled
the entryway, his presence as imposing as ever, though his lack of clothing was immediately noticeable. “Thanks for putting on pants, Dale,” Marv said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Your weird human parts aren't the nicest to look at.”
Dale smirked, eyeing Marv’s bare lower half. “Yeah, well... Where are your pants, then? What’s with the double standard?”
Marv shrugged, his long arms swaying. “Privilege of a male with internal genitals. Nobody will complain about what they can’t see.” He flashed a toothy grin, revealing rows of sharp, needle-like teeth.
"Yeah, but like if you drop something and bend over to grab it, everyone's gonna see your asshole." Dale argued.
"If they're looking at my asshole, that's on them."
Dale scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Whatever, man. What’s this big news? Better be worth killin’ my vibe.”
Marv’s grin faded, and he leaned against the wall, his orange eyes narrowing. “It’s about your brother, Aloysius. Word on the street is he’s holed up in the Far East District of Intra-Zone. It’s a fuckin’ zoo over there. Political nutjobs, criminals... Perfect spot for a rogue wizard to lay low and keep stirrin’ up shit
with those lightning storms, which we still don't quite understand the purpose of.” Yeah, Dale knew all about the eastern parts of Intra-Zone. It was a haven for criminals, with drugs and prostitutes everywhere. Usually, Dale wouldn't mind that though. Aside from that, sometimes writers and other artists would travel there
to seek inspiration for their work. It was an interesting place, where species of all kinds mingled.
Dale growled, his fist slamming into the wall with a dull thud, sending a faint ripple of magical energy through the room and a bit of pain through his arm. “That bastard’s killin’ my high, Marv. Six weeks out of prison, and he’s already fuckin’ up everything! What else you got?” Marv raised his hands, palms out, his orange eyes darting back and forth.
“Easy, don’t shoot the messenger. There’s more. Islam Inc. is callin’ all wizards back to their headquarters. Reginald Islam himself — the CEO, big shot with a bald head, you know the guy — is handin’ out orders. They’re gearin’ up to take Aloysius down, and they want every mage in the city on board.”
Dale sighed, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Fuckin’ great. More fightin’. You know I ain’t about that shit, Marv. I just wanna smoke and chill, not play hero for some corporate asshole.” He shook his head, the buzz in his veins souring. “Anything else?”
“Nah, that’s it,” Marv said, his eyes drifting toward the kitchen. “So, you got any leftovers? I’m starving.”
Dale waved a hand toward the fridge. “Help yourself, man. Peanut butter and chocolate milk in there if you want it.”
Marv nodded and lumbered toward the kitchen, his long arms swinging as Dale sank back onto the couch, his mind already racing with thoughts of his brother and the fight he wanted no part of.