Sunday, February 2, 2014

The Magic Shop

I... don’t quite remember how I got here. In fact, I’m not entirely sure where “here” is. All I know is that a few minutes ago I was standing in some shop and now I’m in some dungeon. I can feel cold rocks on my side. I think I hear a dragon.

I should back up a bit - as far as I can recall, it had been an average St. Patrick’s Day. The local pub was packed - as expected - and the shot girls were out in force. Did I have a few shots? Sure. I don’t think I got that crazy, but the next thing I remember is stumbling along the street, watching the bricks on the walls blur past.

I remember seeing cops; my first thought was to hide. I ducked into some sort of shop of wonders - you know the type. Surrounded by wizard’s cloaks, magic carpets, and ancient trinkets of gold and silver, I did my best to find the back door. I knew better than to stick around a place like that. Stumbling through the shop, knocking over several racks of courtly apparel in my haste, I saw my goal - a way out! I distinctly recall the feel of the doorknob just before my world went white and I was transported to this new dimension.

Covered in some sort of strange time-travel fluid, I painfully rolled onto my belly to try and push myself up. As I do, someone speaks in a strange language. I freeze.

“Hey. Get up.”


Squinting, I look up to get a better view of my jailer and see, to my surprise, one of Philly’s Finest.

Oh. Oh shit. Drunk tank.

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