Kotzenburg Ch.6

The Teenage Mall Goth Magician’s Sandwich

By Chris Wunderlich

                The library at South Spucken High, Kotzenburg’s north-end middle-school, was neither well-stocked nor well-staffed. When Stu Spratt, unpopular teenage mall goth, asked the librarian for a cookbook, she half-heartedly handed him an ancient German tome. It could have been a cookbook, for all she knew. Half the books in the school were old German texts. Poor funding, indifference and a general malaise ensured that few Kotzenburg kids wanted to read, anyways. But Stu, perpetually alone (unless he caught his father between shifts at the microwave factory), was hungry. He wanted to know how to make a sandwich.

                Stu spent most of his time at the Kotzenburg Mall—which, even in the heyday of malls, was fairly pathetic. He spent his time walking back and forth, from end to end, nodding to the other teenagers he’d pass, pretending he had some place to be. He dyed his hair black, wore black pants, black shirts, and black whatever else he could manage. All his musical heroes wore black—and he’d hoped his style would attract at least a passing interesting from his peers. Stu was the archetypical lonely mall-goth teen, passing the sad clothing outlets, failed food-court and dried up fountains again and again. It beat staying at home, though, where the television reception was poor, the food sat uncooked, and one couldn’t pretend to be social.

                When Stu brought the “cookbook” home, he knew immediately that it wasn’t what he’d asked for. Sure, there were lists and measurements, but not a single picture of a potato, cabbage, or sausage. He tried to sound the words out anyways, perhaps out of sheer boredom, and found his hands quite unexpectedly engulfed in flames. After running around the house, screaming, not knowing where exactly to put his fiery fingers, he came to the realization that he felt no pain. His slapstick routine came to halt and he examined his hands closely. The flames died down. No pain, no damage. He repeated the “recipe” as before.

                It didn’t take Stu long to figure out he’d been reading a spell-book, not a cookbook. The next day, he borrowed a German-to-English dictionary (of which there were many) from his school. And just like that, Stu had found a hobby more interesting than endless mall pacing. He carefully translated what text he could and discovered all sorts of spells. He could summon eldritch bindings and stop things dead in their tracks. He could make objects change color, shape, and size. He even learned how to make himself float—though feared the flight spells might send him, out of control, straight into space. After weeks of practice, Stu took his skills to the street.

                Busking hadn’t been uncommon in the downtown core of Kotzenburg, but things seemed to be changing. Before, you could catch a hippie strumming his guitar, or a group of teens breakdancing. Now, it seemed, the downtown was transformed. Stu set himself up on the street corner and hoped people would pass by. He read his book and made little flowers grow from his hands. He formed ice crystals out of thin air. A few elderly folk passed, paying little attention, and Stu’s heart sank. One particularly crotchety woman scolded him for what she perceived to be panhandling. But just as Stu was about to pack up, a boy, about his age, approached. He watched with keen intent and nodded happily as Stu snapped his fingers to create little flames. When Stu tried to ask the boy his name, the boy took off, charging straight to the crotchety old woman. The boy then dropped his pants, shouted with laughter, and caused the woman to scream in horror. Perhaps it was an acquaintance best avoided, after all.

                When Stu moved his act to the entrance of the mall, he hoped his new talents would finally catch the eyes of his peers. But before he could snap a fire or spring a flower, the mall’s security guard advanced. He shooed Stu away, just as a group of young girls made their way to the entrance. Peeved, Stu flicked a flame, singeing the guard’s lapel. The girls noticed, giggled, and moved on. Stu ran away, happy as he’d ever been.

                At school, Stu used his tricks to great effect. He waved his hands at his teacher’s mug of coffee and told the boys to watch. When the coffee came out, one solid ice cube, he’d won their favor. In full view of pretty girls, he’d wink and point to the least popular students in school, forcing them to trip with invisible, magical bands. He became mean and, whenever he could earn the slightest bit of attention, played his pranks to great effect. Changing the stuck-up math teacher’s gray dress to an embarrassing tie-die poncho earned him a truly legendary reputation.

                But school had been changing, much like the town of Kotzenburg itself. Kids were less into sports and more into setting fires, which suited Stu just fine. He followed his new friends to the after-school music program, where they’d told their teacher all about his now-famous pranks. But when the man in the wheelchair suggested it’d be hilarious to burn the library down, Stu thought it best to avoid him. Fire stunts were growing thin. Stu had bigger tricks up his sleeve.

                He had almost everything he’d ever wanted. He now had violent friends to walk the mall with, as they egged each other on, committing petty vandalism and theft. He scared the security guard away with but a glance. He spoke to girls with little hesitation. But he knew, to get really over-the-top, to cement himself in the social circles he’d formed and get more than just a little attention, he’d need to perform a truly revolutionary spell. Stu studied the German book, front to back, until he found it—changing water into beer.

                Sitting at home, alone as always, Stu practiced his pronunciation, making sure to get his vowels just right, and not confuse his W’s with V’s. He poured himself a glass of water and read carefully, chanting the words that would fulfill his destiny. At first, nothing. He tried again. Tiny bubbles appeared. A third time and the water became yellow. With all his might he conjured the spell a fourth time and felt the grip of powerful fists around his wrists—but the water had changed! It was the most beautifully effervescent glass of brew one could lay their eyes on.

                Stu knew, when this day finally came and he’d mastered the mystic art of alcohol, he’d have to treat himself. He’d been saving a specific spell for just such an occasion, and upon tasting the glass of beer, he knew it was time. He flipped the book to its opening chapters, licked his lips, and recited the words he’d been waiting so long to say. He was finally ready for the ultimate spell—the one that would materialize for him the most perfect sandwich ever made.

                But as soon as the spell was cast, Stu didn’t feel right. He felt the grip of fingers on his wrists yet again, and his arms began to move on their own. No sandwich materialized, and instead he was yanked from his seat and dragged into the kitchen by forces unseen. His hands snatched at slices of bread, then mayonnaise, then cheese. He struggled against the force—he wanted a sandwich, but not at the cost of becoming a puppet! When his fingers made their way to the butterknife, he finally saw the evidence of his controller. Long, sharp fingers, purple shiny skin and bulging, hideous knuckles covered hands that seem to reach out from another dimension to grip his wrists. A demon was manipulating him, in an attempt to make a perfect sandwich, and Stu panicked. The claws of the demon thrashed as Stu squirmed, scratching his flesh raw. And just as Stu had thought himself free, the demon retaliated! A claw flew from the purple skinned hand and jammed up Stu’s nose. He screamed in pain and launched backwards, knocking over his glass of beer. The ordeal left him shaking. He was playing with dark arts, and there were clearly consequences.

                After the harrowing demonic encounter, Stu found he’d permanently lost his sense of smell. When he finally mustered the courage to make his own sandwich, he barely tasted it. From then on, Stu swore off of magic. His “friends” drifted away, for the best it seemed, given their criminal tendencies. And as Stu grew older, he ditched the black gear and donned less stylish clothing. He tried to maintain the confidence he’d had as a teenage trickster but found it difficult to grab the attention of anyone. That is, until he finished school, and pursued a different sort of magic. Stu bought a food truck, parked just outside the microwaved factory, and proudly served his father a handmade sandwich every lunch hour. It didn’t take long before lines formed around the block. They say his corned beef was out of this world.