Goodbye Mooks

“-make it easy on yerselves,” one of the seedy little characters was saying. “And start with liftin’ those robes and givin’ us a good look at yer little-”

“Excuse me,” I called, trying not to step in anything revolting. Keeping my boots clean was going to be my biggest challenge of the night, I thought. “I should let you know that I’m not terribly fond of mooks. And you all look very much like mooks to me. So, it’s probably best for your continued existence on this plane if you vacate the alley with more than a little haste.”

“Wot?” One of the larger mooks turned to face me with a puzzled expression struggling to make it across his face. “Who you callin’ a mook?”

“Well, you to start with.” I waved a hand at the others. “Them to end with, I suppose.”

The mooks looked at each other, clearly trying to summon a thought between them. That’s the problem with mooks. Once you interrupt their verbal flow by questioning their power, their brains scatter for cover like an army of rats and it takes a while for them to get the courage up to form a coherent thought again.

It’s why they often resort to violence first. Because violence is instinctive and when you have no ability to reason, you rely heavily on instinct.

That’s my theory, anyway. I’m writing a paper on it.

One of the mooks, thinking the other three would handle things, reached out to pluck and paw at one of the girls by her sleeve.

And that’s when this all began. What this? THIS. All of THIS. THIS was the moment where my life changed forever.

Because she let out a cute little squeak.

Did I say cute?

I meant adorable to the point of feeling like an angel’s spear had been thrust right into one of my ears and straight out the other. My eyebrows lifted so high at the sound that if they’d gone any higher, they’d have taken my head with it, and I’d have been able to see clearly over the nearby rooftops all the way to my tower.

I admit that I also felt a sudden twist in my chest which was a most unusual experience. But there was no time to ponder the mysteries of biological responses to auditory stimuli.

There were mooks to be dealt with.

So, I lifted my head, puffed out my chest, and gave them a good hard glare in the eyes. “Your behaviour,” I informed them through my teeth. “Is intolerable. I won’t stand for it. Now, unhand the ladies and be on your way before things get very uncomfortable for you indeed.”

One of the other girls tried to jerk her friend away from the grasping mook. His expression twisted into an ugly little leer as he engaged in a ridiculous tug of war with two girls half his size.

I didn’t think it would end very well for the girls.

Which made my blood boil a little, I tell you. What kind of man, even a mook, would tug on a woman’s arm knowing it might spill her to the ground in an alley with rancid little puddles like this one? It’s disrespectful AND rude. It’s certainly not very gentlemanly, but I’ve come to learn that’s about what you can expect from most mooks.

The girl being pulled both ways also let out a cry, the sound of which made me stagger a little to the left and one step back. I can’t really describe it to you. Not in a way which would make you understand. It’s a bit like trying to describe the taste of chocolate.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

How do you tell someone that chocolate tastes much like chocolate? You end up sort of trailing off and trying to change the topic to something else. Like the weather.

Or some sportsball result you heard from Mrs Teasdale while sipping your gin and tonic in her little tavern of Mopps Street.

All I can say is that her cry was high-pitched, but not sharp. As such, it didn’t stab me in the heart so much as dip into it like a spoon sliding into the creamiest of icecream.

Decadent.

Smooth.

Sweet.

“Help! Oh, please help!”

Shocked by my unusual train of thoughts, I blinked myself out of my stupor and gave my head a bit of a shake to clear the cobwebs.

The mooks took this for a lack of courage and two of them charged at me like a pair of very excited bulls who’d spotted a red flag, while the remaining two expected to get things started in the unwrapping stage of their criminal activities for the night. This drew a few more adorable squeaks of protest and fear, but I tuned those out or I’d have melted onto the pavement and been no good to anybody.

I was about to open a few portals into the void, when I realised there were ladies present. I’ve learned over the years that it’s not polite to open a crack between planes when ladies are present. I clicked my tongue. Ladies in particular can get very upset about I portals into the unknowable.

The grisly sound of living men, even men such as mooks, being gnashed between the Old Twit’s maw is something ladies are much too delicate to endure. It’s also a little too easy for them to unintentionally peer into the dark beyond and see things the human mind isn’t meant to see.

One glimpse of the Old Twit is enough to drive most sane people quite insane.

“Bloody inconvenient,” I muttered, low enough that my words would not be detected by feminine hearing.

Which means it was even less than the whisper of a gnat’s delicate humming wings.

Luckily, a Void Mage isn’t just about opening portals into the Old Twit’s disturbing little universe and dumping bodies into it. No, there’s a lot more to it than that, I assure you.

It’s just that when you get used to using one or two spells all the time, it takes a moment to think of a third option.

Experienced enough not to let my mind wander too far, I smacked my lips as an idea quickly surfaced and gave the approaching mooks a bit of a sneer. It’s not normally a nice thing to sneer at one’s opponents. In fact, it’s not very gentlemanly at all.

However, these were mooks. And, as such, they deserve no respect at all. The gloves, as they say, must come off when dealing with mooks.

Any mage worth his robe will tell you that one of the life’s greatest pleasures is seeing the expressions on a mook’s face change as you cast a spell which affects them personally. The only thing greater than that, is seeing four mooks’ faces change as you cast a spell which affects them all at once.

“K’n Bakku P’rei,” I chanted. As the words flowed over my tongue, I felt something heavy weigh on me for the briefest moment.

It felt as though a great and terrible eye had focused on me and was scouring my homework for grammatical errors. That’s his way of checking I used the correct pronunciation before he allows me to warp and twist reality.

I made my fair share of mistakes when I was a child, for sure, but I was no longer an apprentice. I was a master. I knew very well by now to put my apostrophes in all the right and proper places.

The pressure gave a satisfied squint of its eye and I felt another gentler pressure which I thought of as something of a headpat. Encouraged, I allowed myself a proud little smile and felt a sparkle glint brightly in my eye.

Then, quicker than the mooks could blink, tentacles whipped out of the ground and wrapped them up from the tips of their toes to the tips of their heads. As the spell completed, the tentacles shifted form into what looked like soft purple rope.

Their new bonds seemed delicate and soft like silk. But I assure you they’re made of much sterner stuff than that.

These were void ropes.

And that means they wouldn’t break and couldn’t be unknotted until I said so. Not even with a pair of really good scissors.

The three girls squeaked as one, sending a delightful shiver up my spine. And, before you start thinking repulsive things about my intentions, I should have you know that this is why I chose to start my story here.

Because it was the first time anything had shivered up my spine since I was five years old. It was important to me.

It still is.

I waved at the girls with what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. In some countries, gestures like this can mean other things so I didn’t do it too aggressively just in case they were Sweedeners.

“Come along now,” I said. “Alleys are not a place for young ladies to gather.”