Chapter 2: The Trouble with Art School Jocks (And How To Get Into It)

On cue, The Nameless One’s underlings flanked me. The tallest one of the bunch, JR, grabbed my backpack and rifled through it.

“So, did you steal more than one sea cow to take home and feel up?” As the lackey continued to invade the privacy of my backpack, his face became pale and emotionless.

It was such a stark change that I wondered what soul-sucking, emotionally blackmailing item I had left in there—or if I even had something on that level—and in a blink, my thoughts envisioned a hard yes.

“Give me that!” The Nameless One snatched my bag like it was his own and pulled out something curious, something I had never seen in my life.

Rules of the Black Arts for Advanced Users.

My first thought sped to Gene, then to Myles. One of them had stowed this obscenely old-fashioned book into my backpack.

Maybe it’s a subset rule guide for The Lords of Omni?

“Oh no. Maybe we should back off before Billy curses us or rips out our souls.”

I was too lost in my thinking to pinpoint which goon blurted out those words, but I saw RJ speaking the follow-up scoff.

“Is that right, Gates? Will you hex us, stick pins in a doll and cause us pain?”

Pins. Pins! I couldn’t stop my internal diatribe from bubbling out. “Pins! No! That would typically be a voodoo practitioner. I am a 100-level druid archmage necromancer. We cast fireballs, unleash and command the armies of the undead. And yes, like one of you idiots aptly called out, I am a soul reaper. But, you failed to mention the more than one hundred spells at my disposal for kicking bad guys’ asses.”

Looking back on that moment, I don’t know if the trio was slightly terrified by my commanding words or shocked that I even said them.

“Are you threatening us, loser?” The Nameless One grabbed my hoodie and pushed me to the wall. The flunkies circled me on either side to mask their anointed leader’s actions. The Nameless One then pushed his snarling face toward mine, but I wasn’t backing down.

Was I?

The following words squeaked out of my mouth: “No! I am a white mage. I live to destroy evil. Are you evil?”

“I’m not evil, nerd, but I am about to unleash a wicked ass-kicking.” The Nameless One balled his mighty hand, and I prepared myself for the beatdown his fist promised to unleash.

Whenever I fought in a dream, my body reacted like I was moving underwater. Now, I finally understood why. Time appeared frozen. I needed my hand gestures to comply with my thoughts, but I involuntarily tensed and barely mustered any movement in my fingers to align with the words of my powerful dissuading spell.

“Pro’ elium h’t.”

The Nameless One and his bullies erupted into laughter. Ever since high school, I’ve tried to ignore, avoid, or wish them out of existence. Yet, incidents like this one seemed to happen with an annoying regularity. It was a price I paid for our families continued intertwined history.

I stood trapped in a bubble of guffaws echoing in slow motion as The Nameless One suspended his fist in the air. I had no doubt my magic locked it in place.

“You! Take your hands off Billy!”

The Nameless One’s powerful arm dropped as his eagle eyes alerted him to Gene and Myles running in our direction.

Another save chalked up to my magic. My spells worked in mysterious ways but had always come through. “Nudged Synchronicity” was what I called it. The Nameless One’s hesitation allowed Gene and Myles time to arrive.

They placed themselves in front of me. Unfortunately for Gene, The Nameless One was a beast that quickly sniffed out fear.

“Or what, Gene?”

Gene’s Captain Save-A-Friend body language switched to full-on panic. He served as a cleric in The Lords of Omni; physical confrontation was not his forte in the game or in real life. But as Gene stepped aside, Myles pressed forward.

“Let me handle this.”

Myles, cunning Myles, went to work. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

“Or I will call campus security. See right here, saved in my top five. Some words of warning: all security issues are logged in the school newspaper. Are you sure you want the bad press, champ?”

The Nameless One’s aggressive posturing did not wane. Instead, he edged toward us, but RJ, the most sensible of the trio, laid his hand on The Nameless One’s shoulder.

“Come on, Dane. Let’s drop this. Bad press! The coach will kill us.”

“RJ’s right. Too many witnesses, and Coach was very serious about no trouble.” JR redirected The Nameless One’s attention to the surrounding students. Honestly, no one had even acknowledged our dramatic little scene, too wrapped up in their oblivious, bee-like routines. I’d wager the spirit of indifference that ruled my campus would have made them blind to my battered body on the sidewalk.

Unfortunately, I could tell The Nameless One had the same sentiment—a devilish expression twisted across his face.

“You dorks think the campus would turn on me? They love me. They would gladly do anything for me because I’m their champion. I don’t give a crap if your family owns our grounds, buildings, or the staff, Gates. The hearts of everyone here are mine.”

Not one of us responded to The Nameless One’s crazed words. We knew he was right. At that moment, we all resigned ourselves to a three-way ass-whooping.

But surprisingly, the Nameless One backed down. He postured like a bully, making a final threat when an adult had their head turned. He whispered in a low, monotone voice, “Your little lapse in judgment has earned you a world of humiliation, Gates. You have it coming.”

The Nameless One and his crew strutted off and blended into the crowd of bees. Even though his presence had faded from sight, his threat lingered.

What was coming? And why was he whispering?

“Billy.”

What was coming? The words kept spinning.

“Billy.”

What was coming? The thought froze me.

“Billy!” Gene’s emphasis finally penetrated my worry, but I only acknowledged him with a glance.

He handed me my backpack, which The Nameless One had violated and thrown to the ground. I took it and instinctively slid it over my shoulder.

“Dude. They’re gone.”

“Yeah,” I muttered in relief.

“So what the hell happened?” Myles had genuine concern in his expression.

“What always happens: Billy’s mouth.” Gene’s response immediately wiped the inquisitive look off Myles’ face. They both knew about my lack of filter.

Although I was not a fan of Gene’s tact, I had to admit his deductive skills were legendary. At times, damn near supernatural. Or maybe, in this instance, my behavior was way too predictable.

“Walk and talk?” I filled my friends in on the sordid details of the confrontation as we walked to our following classes.

“So your dissuading spell saved the day. You used that one to save our hunting party’s ass against Nikki’s horde of Dark Azul Orcs.”

An unexpected, self-aggrandizing smirk betrayed my inner feelings. I found recognition for my talents, especially from my best friends, increased my connection to the magic.

“Myles, don’t feed into his delusions.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have included Gene in my sentiment.

“Billy, it’s cool around us, but you should save the wizard talk for the game table.”

“No way. I am a 100-level druid archmage necromancer,” I proclaimed in a stern, unyielding tone.

“That’s no joke. In real life and on the table, Billy is a phenom with dice and magic.”

“Thank you, Myles. If people like The Nameless One can brag about being a champion quarterback in a sports game, why can’t I brag about being a powerful wizard in a strategy game? And to that point, Myles is a dark elf rogue in the game. And, Gene, I don’t hear you complain when he uses his talent to steal you a six-pack of Iron Brew from Millicent Square.”

Almost on cue, Myles sprang into action. Keeping a relaxed stride, he slyly poached the next two passersby. His innocent looks allowed him to be labeled a non-threat, so even with our eyes sternly fixed on him, Gene and I saw no thievery. As Myles approached us, he whisked a wallet and a pack of gum before him. We both clamored like fanboys. It was as if Myles had willed the items into his hand.

“Does anyone want a piece of gum?”

We happily partook in the Strawberry Rush Lovable Bubblegum loot.

“Wait a minute, guys.” Myles had fumbled through the wallet and discovered printed mini photos of kids. I guess the sentiment got to him. He quickly jogged back to one of the marks.

From a distance, Gene and I saw Myles pointing to the ground. He feigned as if the wallet had fallen from the guy’s pocket.

“Our Myles is a cunning but gentlemanly rogue.”

I redirected my attention back to Gene. “Like I was saying. Now tell me why I should separate myself from my accomplishments. No one else does.”

“Okay, Billy. I could note some pronounced differences, but I concede to your core argument. True skill and talent are worthy of praise.”

“Ha. I knew you would come around, Gene.”

Myles rejoined us. He flashed a wicked smile. “Don’t you…?”

“Raincheck on that question,” Gene chimed in, cutting off Myles’ ask. “I have one for you, Myles. What is a master kleptomaniac like you doing with campus security in his top five?”

“A good thief knows making friends with the authorities is crucial for career mobility.”

We all laughed.

Gene was thoroughly impressed with Myles’ insight. “Choice philosophy. Now we know who to lean on in cases of emergencies. So, what were you asking, Myles?”

“Billy and I are proud to say who we are. What about you?”

“Hell yeah. Everyone who needs to know already knows that I am an investigative cleric in The Lords of Omni.”

“I still think it’s crazy that you have an illustrious career as a cleric, and you are agnostic.”

“How many times do I have to clarify for you, Billy? Agnostic theist, so I am perfect for my role.”

I can personally vouch that he took his mantle 100% seriously. His small loft contained hundreds of jam-packed binders, each with typed and handwritten entries detailing his cleric’s dogma—a system based on secret knowledge encoded in every kind of storytelling. Myths, religions, movies, and games are pathways to the greater mysteries. No medium that involved reciting a tale was excluded. Yes, even the crappy, bad stories fit into his web. In our circle, he took on the distinguished title of Cleric of the Stories.

“Which reminds me, I’ve deciphered another passage of the Bramwell-Gates legend, and it coincides with the annual Moondog happening at the end of the month. This is the year of the massacre.”

“Come on, Gene. Not again. Wasn’t it last year and the year before that? They call it a legend for a reason. It’s a tall tale, an urban myth.”

Lost in conversation, we accidentally waltzed into undesirable campus territory. We would have bypassed the whole scene if we had been paying attention.

Thwap, followed by a loud and pain-releasing ugh from Gene, broke our little huddle.

“What the ever-loving hell?!” Gene’s voice rumbled as he looked down to see the origin of his pain: a baseball.

He reached down, picked up the ball, and turned, charged with venom. Then, not knowing who was responsible, he shouted, “You stupid bastards. This hit me!”

A small group of women baseball players approached us. They were wearing matching uniforms, white V-neck varsity tees with red sleeves. The white trim on their red shorts matched the white trim on their red tube socks.

Hearing Gene’s words killed their apologetic body language. There was just no staying out of trouble with the art school jocks.