Magic is Bull💩

James did not consider himself a failed actor; just an undiscovered talent who needed a temporary job from time to time. Between failed pilots and missed breaks, he followed a sort of standard protocol: upload a semi-factual resume to every site that would take it, get a bunch of spam emails from pyramid schemes looking for charismatic-but-impressionable young talent, and eventually return to the same restaurant he’d passionately quit several times before.

As time went on and his agent called less and less, James took up the habit of answering any call bold enough to light up his phone with ten unrecognized digits. And so it was that, at 11:49 pm on a Thursday in August, he stepped behind a dumpster at Paco’s Fine Mexican Cuisine and answered the phone call that would change his life forever.

“James Walton?” someone growled.

“That’s me.”

“My name is Armnur Boulderfist,” the voice grumbled, rough as a dirt road. “I work for OfficeOgre.com. We spotted your resume and thought you could use a little help finding work more suited to your… skillset.”

“Always nice to be recognized,” he said, beaming. “What’s the role?”

“Well, you’re written that you’re ‘A Wizard with Excel Spreadsheets.’ We’ve got a few clients looking for Technomancers at the moment. Would you be interested in a temp position? We’ve got a strong track record of turning those into Professions.”

James was so taken aback by the offer of any job (which didn’t involve lying about the quality of fajita meat) that his mind leaped completely over the fact that ‘Technomancer’ was neither an acting gig nor something any sane person would say aloud. He never expected an exaggeration of basic computer knowledge to land him much of anything, and was so giddy that he accepted the offer without any follow-up.

“That’s the ticket,” Armnur growled. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. Just follow the link.”

James felt his phone buzz and, peeling it away from his ear, was shocked to find that it had downloaded an app and was now flashing a bright green button at him with all the patience of a caffeinated five-year-old. An animated Ogre stood next to the button, offering a cartoonish thumbs-up along with a lopsided smile that showed off more gaps than teeth. The Ogre waved at him, then pointed at the button with sluggish enthusiasm building toward fury. The longer James stared without pressing the button, the more feverish and irate the Ogre became.

Unfazed, James hurried inside to show his peers and supervisors an array of different fingers. The manager vowed never to let him back into the restaurant but called him “John” in the process, which lessened the sting of the threat considerably. He went home in such a thunderously good mood that he completely forgot to press the button and woke the next morning to discover a dozen new cracks in the screen of his phone, through which the Ogre could be seen throwing a silent tantrum.

“Sorry about that,” James mumbled, poking at the pulverized screen until he managed to activate the link.

A disembodied slurp followed, accompanied by a weird pressure that ballooned out from his finger and made him feel unpleasantly like a children’s science experiment. A phantom kindergartner squeezed and manipulated his body until it defied any traditional category of modern physics and then cast him aside. He landed, clad only in his undergarments and a loose bathrobe, in what appeared to be the waiting room for a high-budget Renaissance Fair. A quick, nervous pat-down revealed that neither his wallet nor his keys had made the trip, but he’d somehow managed to smuggle a damp toothbrush in the pocket of his robe.

Across from him, a sentient cloud of brightly colored lights whispered with excitement. To the left, a squat woman in a dingy brown suit transformed into a toad and back again with a series of hiccups. James was fairly certain that he could hear the clip-clopping of hooves behind the administrator's desk every time he moved.

“Walton! James!” the centaur called. As James shuffled forward, the bureaucrat pushed a slip of aging parchment across the desk with disdain. “You’re late. It’ll take you twenty minutes to read through the agreement and you were due in Secretary Elhorn’s office half an hour ago.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I belong here,” James pleaded. “Can I go home?”

“You can wait here for the next available dimensional shift or you can simply complete your interview and be sent back. In the former case, you’ll be charged 3 gold pieces.”

“I don’t just carry gold around!”

“Looks like you’re interviewing, then, doesn’t it?”

James scoffed as he picked up what was clearly an 8.5x11-inch piece of novelty paper, covered in a tidy scrawl that couldn’t have taken up more than half its face. He scanned the first two paragraphs, eyes fogging over at words like “blood-oath,” “Golbin Anti-Discrimination Act of 1794,” and “hold harmless for any and all Dragon-related injuries.”

To his dismay, more words appeared at the foot of the page as he read. The document began to stretch, its top edge curling away from him as he slid his hands down to reveal the next paragraph. He skimmed as fast as he could, but that only seemed to make the top of the page curl over more quickly. Soon, the parchment tickled his toes.

Under pressure from the centaur’s knowing glare, James tossed the paper in the air and grabbed it by the bottom corners, whereupon it tripled in length and a signatory line materialized. He seized a feather quill from the desk with a triumphant smirk and signed without reading any of the new words that blossomed onto the page.

“Wizards,” the centaur muttered, then buzzed him through into a long hallway lit by floating jars of bioluminescent insects. Identical wooden doors and cobblestone stretched forward endlessly, so impossibly close together that James couldn’t imagine a single door led anywhere other than a broom closet.

“Right,” he wondered aloud. “How do I find Secretary Elhorn’s office?”

The floor rippled, a mound of stone sweeping toward him as the entire hallway contorted like a rope being lifted and dropped. He turned to run, but the mound caught him almost immediately, lifting him up in the air and then throwing him forward with a petulant snap. He sailed through the semi-darkness, silently wishing he’d tied his robe more tightly around his faded boxers, until the hallway contorted again and he found himself suddenly on a collision course with a sealed doorway.

It swung open as he approached, allowing him to crash in an undignified mess onto the wine-red carpet in front of Secretary Elhorn’s desk, his bare feet pointed toward the ceiling. Her expression shifted from shock to judgemental dismay in the time it took him to scramble into one of her overstuffed chairs and brush his hair back into place. She stared at him, cold and calculating, from behind a pair of carved wooden spectacles.

“James Walton,” he said, offering a hand.

“I assumed,” she quipped, leaving the handshake unrequited. “You’re the Excel Wizard? I expected more formal robes for someone of your rank.”

“Ah, well… I’m afraid I didn’t have much time to prepare this morning.”

“Is that your wand?” she said, pointing to his toothbrush.

“This? Oh, this is…” he fumbled for a lie but found the initial premise so unbelievable that it couldn’t be topped. “Sure.”

He gave the toothbrush a few enthusiastic flicks, misting Secretary Elhorn’s glasses with spittle. She cleared her throat politely and reached into a desk drawer. Without breaking eye contact, she snatched a wooden bull talisman from the depths and hung it around his neck without asking permission and with no small amount of pleasure.

“Let’s just check on your credentials, shall we?” she said, conjuring his resume with a wave of her slender hand. “Did you or did you not study alchemy under Professor Cornelius Figg at Salem Apothecary in Massachusetts?”

“What?” he said, tugging at the necklace. “Salem Apothecary was an Essential Oils company at the mall near my house. I worked there when I was sixteen.”

“Oh, dear. Well, then, I shall have to rethink your placement. Have you any experience with Potions or Artifacts? Or is the Excel discipline more focused on Conjuration?”

“I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake…”

“Please, Mr. Walton, I don’t have time for games. Need I remind you that you signed our Anti-Deception Agreement not five minutes ago? I’d prefer not to soil the carpet.”

“Do what to the who now?”

“Surely you’ve signed an ADA before? You’re familiar with the Bovinian Bowel Hex?” she plied, increasingly desperate as his face gave him away. “Do you have any idea what I’ve just hung around your neck?”

“Of course I do!” he said, and a massive bull popped into existence beside him. It looked at him, snorted angrily, and then relieved itself in a stinking pile on the Secretary’s otherwise immaculate carpet.

“The Bovinian Bowel Hex, Mr. Walton!” she cried, voice modulated by the fingers now pinching her nose shut. “You’re a Human; surely you’re at least familiar with the more colorful shorthand? Even the Mundane use it.”

“Are you telling me that thing is going to materialize and take a dump any time I lie?”

“Yes!” she shouted, waving frantically at a dustpan in the corner until it sprang into action. “And if anyone lies to you. That’s how we ensure quality placements.”

“I didn’t sign up for that!” James protested, eliciting a fresh deluge from the bull.

“Now, really! You signed the contract. What did you think the totem was for?”

“That’s what this does?!” James yanked the necklace again, but it only tightened around his neck. “How do I get rid of it?”

“It’s a binding contract, Mr. Walton. You must wear that totem until you and an employer settle on terms of service. I had you slated for interviews with Gorlak & Brood, Pelor Protective Systems, and the Pathfinder Enclave, but I don’t think we can afford to soil those relationships. Have you ever wrangled a Manticore?”

“I… well…” James fumbled for words but stopped himself as the bull moaned and released a squealing cloud of gas that did nothing to cut the tension in the room. “What if I go back to my - what did you call it? - my Mundane job? Would that break the curse?”

“I suppose,” the Secretary said, trying to pinch her nose and stroke her chin at the same time. “But I’d caution against it. Especially if you’d be anywhere near a Singles bar or a political office. Bovinian Bowel Hexes tend to get particularly nasty in those settings.”

“...has this happened before?”

“Of course not!” she said, and the bull snorted at her in disbelief before unloading again.

“Well, we seem to be in a bit of a pickle,” James said, choking on the noxious air. “Because I’m not going to be able to get a job with this thing around my neck, and it doesn't sound like you'll be able to find anyone who will take me on.”

“Calm down, Mr. Walton. I know unemployment can be hard but I promise we’ll get you an offer.”

“How?!” he shouted. “I don’t have a single magical bone in my body!”

And then, in a grotesque miracle, the bull unleashed the most impressive load yet.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Secretary Elhorn enthused, before leaning over to speak into a seashell at the edge of her desk. “Please ask the Inquisitors to set up a bullpen. We’ve got another skills assessment to run. Unless you’d prefer to leave, Mr. Walton?”

“You know, I think I’d love an assessment,” James replied, clutching his toothbrush tighter than ever before.