Jackson

  Abandoned Zoo

  2/01/2020

  Jackson wandered leisurely down the quiet path of the abandoned zoo, his head still buzzing pleasantly from whatever weird, dream-induced drunk he was experiencing. Birds chirped softly in the distance, and the empty cages, their doors yawning open, gave the place a surreal, eerie charm.

  He honestly wasn't sure how the hell he got here—but it didn't matter.

  This was the perfect playground to test out this lucid dream shit.

  "Alright," he stretched his fingers theatrically. "Time to go full sandbox mode."

  He stopped abruptly in front of an empty lion enclosure. The place had clearly been hastily abandoned—trash and tools were scattered haphazardly across the ground. It felt almost criminal for it to remain empty. With a dramatic wave of his hand he conjured a lion into existence.

  "Damn," he muttered, eyes wide with delight. "That actually worked. Hell yeah."

  The lion paced in confused circles at first, its massive paws pressing into the dirt. Jackson felt a pang of guilt and quickly conjured a massive slab of prime rib, casually tossing it into the enclosure. The lion's ears perked, its gaze snapping to the fresh meat before it pounced, tearing into the meal with primal enthusiasm.

  "Shit, it's really that easy, huh?" He chuckled, feeling more confident.

  Humming happily to himself, he continued down the path until he reached the penguin exhibit. The cracked tank leaked, its glass splintered and smeared with dirt, the whole place depressingly devoid of life. He frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

  "Can't have penguins without ice and water," he reasoned aloud. Almost instantly, sparkling blue water filled the enclosure, fresh icebergs rising from the depths. Penguins materialized one by one, squawking joyously as they slid across the ice.

  Feeling on top of the world, Jackson decided to up the ante. He grinned wickedly, spreading his hands wide. "You know what this zoo needs? Fucking dragons."

  He closed his eyes, focusing intently, picturing towering, scaled beasts—towering monsters straight out of fantasy. When he snapped his eyes open, ready to feast upon the sight—

  Nothing.

  "Ugh—what the hell?" He rubbed his temples, suddenly feeling a little sore. "Guess that makes sense. Probably can't dream up stuff I haven't seen before. Something something subconscious memory bullshit."

  Kinda pissed at his own limitations, he shoved the thought aside as his stomach grumbled. A nearby concession stand sat abandoned, its countertop overtaken by grime and stray wrappers. Glancing at the menu, he shrugged.

  "One chili dog deluxe, my good stand," he ordered theatrically.

  The stand worked on its own—grill igniting, fryer bubbling, ingredients moving as if unseen hands guided them. In seconds, a perfect chili dog took shape—steaming hot, rich chili, crispy onions, all nestled in a buttery bun. It landed neatly on a pristine paper plate, a divine offering.

  "Oh my God," he groaned dramatically, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. "Best fucking dream ever."

  And so began what was probably the most disgustingly lavish munchie session of his life. Fried food, caviar, absurd wagyu beef burgers—an hour passed, and he had easily eaten thousands of dollars' worth of food, all conjured from thin air.

  As he leaned back, finally full, he felt warm, his mind clearer. The intoxicating buzz from before weakened, fading into a faint background hum. He frowned, raising a hand, attempting another flourish—but only half of what he wanted appeared. A dull strain tugged at his skull.

  "Shit, am I waking up?" Panic flickered through him. "Oh hell no, I was just getting started."

  Desperate, he snatched a full bottle of Fireball whiskey, popped the cap, and downed it hastily. The spicy cinnamon burn roared down his throat, the alcohol hitting his system instantly. Jackson sighed in relief, feeling the intoxicating rush return, the pleasant fuzz settling back into his senses. A deep, satisfying fullness washed over him.

  "Much better," he slurred happily, patting the bottle fondly.

  Brimming with renewed confidence or alcoholic delusion, he turned his attention toward a broken-down kiosk with an outdated TV awkwardly embedded into its side. With a mere thought, the screen flickered to life, displaying an episode of his favorite show.

  "Yo, Mr. White!" Jesse shouted from the screen. Jackson laughed loudly around a mouthful of chili dog.

  Then Jesse looked at him.

  Jackson froze.

  Jesse squinted curiously before, without warning, climbing right out of the television like something straight out of a surreal dream—or nightmare. Jackson just stared.

  "What the hell, man?" he finally sputtered, mouth still half-full. "Are you actually Jesse Pinkman?"

  "Yeah, bitch!" Jesse dusted imaginary dirt off his shoulders. "You wanted some Blue Sky, right?" With a smirk, he pulled out a small baggie filled with familiar crystal-blue meth and extended it.

  Jackson blinked slowly, the absurdity sinking in. Then he shrugged. "I mean, I ain't gonna turn down dream-meth."

  He cautiously took the baggie. Jesse leaned against the stand nonchalantly, glancing around.

  "So, like, you dreaming right now or what?"

  Jackson exhaled heavily, contemplating the existential implications. "Honestly? Either dreaming or tripping absolute balls. Both seem equally plausible."

  Jesse nodded sagely, clearly impressed by this profound wisdom. "Man, that's fucked up. Dream-me handing you dream-meth. Pretty existential, yo."

  Jackson nodded seriously, pinching some blue crystals and tossing them into his mouth. They tasted inexplicably like cotton candy. Which, somehow, made perfect sense. His head spun pleasantly, the world softening around him.

  "Shit's good," Jackson drawled lazily. "Yo, Pinkman, wanna hit the zoo with me?"

  "Nah, man. Gotta bounce before Mr. White flips out again," Jesse replied, waving as he stepped back toward the TV. "Enjoy your existential crisis or whatever."

  Jackson watched, bemused, as Jesse climbed effortlessly back into the television. The buzz in his skull intensified—reality itself twisted and bent around him. He felt invincible. Gazing skyward at the birds circling lazily overhead, a wild idea sparked in his mind.

  "Fuck it," he muttered, popping another pinch of the impossible meth into his mouth. "Always wanted to fly."

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Instantly, gravity ceased to matter. The ground simply fell away.

  Jackson screamed as he soared upward, spiraling effortlessly through the clouds, higher and higher into the vast, endless sky.

  Colonel Robert O'Kelly

  International Center for the Study of Unified Thaumatology

  2/01/2020

  Colonel Robert O'Kelly cursed vividly, ducking sharply as another blade of razor-sharp paper cleaved through the concrete. Another one of those magic fuckers got sliced clean in half, their scream barely registering over the chaos. Acidic saliva dripped down from the ceiling, hissing as it melted through their cover like it was nothing.

  He should've never taken this goddamn job. Secret black ops team, they said. Serve his country, they said. Bullshit.

  He had signed up for the usual gigs—shooting at people, covering covert ops, maybe the occasional hostage rescue. Not fucking monsters spewing super-acid. He barely dodged another glob of the corrosive shit, firing blindly at the massive, mutant fly responsible. The bullet connected, sending the thing spiraling midair before crashing to the ground in a twitching mess.

  He was going to have words with his superiors about this. Very loud, very angry words.

  Not that it would help. The world had clearly gone completely fucking insane.

  "Where's the magic?!" Robert bellowed, hastily throwing another grenade over the ruined barricade. "Speed it the hell up, goddammit!"

  Behind him, a barely college-aged group of so-called mages huddled together, muttering in some incomprehensible language. He barely resisted the urge to kick one of them into gear. Meanwhile, his eyes flicked to the handful of men still standing.

  Reinforcements, his ass.

  When the orders had come in, he'd assumed they were backing up some spec-ops team. No one had said shit about reinforcing Hogwarts.

  "The working's ready!" one of the mages shouted—a kid whose way-too-purple eyes practically glowed..

  "Eyes, ears, tongue—let none with eyes behold my form. Those without, burn with scorn!"

  Robert turned just in time to see the monsters start burning.

  The floating book with its razor-edged pages burst into flames, twisting and shrieking midair. The grotesque flies, spewing gut-churning acid, dropped from the sky, their bodies shriveling in the blaze.

  Finally.

  "Alright, it's time to—"

  The wall exploded.

  A deafening blast of stone and metal shattered through the battlefield as a massive lizard barreled through, its jaws snapping and claws tearing through debris like wet paper. The sheer weight of the creature made the ground quake, its thunderous footsteps crushing what little cover remained.

  Robert barely had time to process what was happening before the beast hit him.

  Pain detonated through his body as he was launched like a ragdoll, crashing through what felt like half a goddamn building before slamming hard onto the pavement.

  His breath hitched as he spat blood, his ribs screaming in protest. His vision blurred for a second, but hell if he was gonna die before getting in at least one last insult.

  "You lizard bastard—"

  The ceiling snapped.

  A deep, groaning shriek of metal. Cracks splintered across the ruins, debris raining down. And then—

  In the most batshit moment of Robert's entire military career—

  A giant, cartoonish anvil plummeted from the heavens like divine judgment and flattened the lizard instantly.

  Robert stared.

  His brain refused to process the sheer absurdity of what he had just seen.

  "...What?" he muttered, jaw slack.

  Then, as if things weren't already insane enough, someone dropped down beside the anvil—not in a tactical, soldier-like way. No. This idiot landed like he'd stumbled off a curb, barely catching himself before straightening up.

  The lunatic's outfit was… something.

  A red S-symbol stretched across his chest, but the rest of his outfit was a bizarre mismatch—yellow and blue fabric clashing with random bits of armor, like someone had started a costume, lost interest halfway, and just threw on whatever was lying around.

  The lunatic grinned.

  "Sup," he slurred, dusting off imaginary dirt from his ridiculous outfit. "Did I nail the landing?"

  Robert felt it then.

  Something was wrong. His mind was still desperately trying to process what the fuck was happening, yet—his mouth moved on its own.

  The words escaped before he could even think.

  "I—uh, yes. Excellent landing, hero. Thanks for your timely arrival."

  The absolute lunatic looked pleased as hell, puffing out his chest like he'd just saved the world. He cracked his knuckles before dramatically punching the air.

  "All in a day's work, mister!" The man grinned wide. "I'm Jackson Von Doom! Superman! Last Son of Viltrum! And I will save the day!"

  Robert's expression remained blank.

  What the actual fuck did he just say?

  He didn't understand a word of that sentence.

  And yet—something forced his lips to keep moving.

  "Please handle the monsters swiftly, hero!" Robert blurted stiffly, his own words pushing out against his will.

  Jackson Von Doom saluted dramatically. "Relax, Colonel. I'm—"

  Then he vomited. Hard. All over the ground.

  Robert just stared.

  Jackson groaned, wiped his mouth, then wobbled back up like a drunk at closing time.

  "Invincible!" he finished proudly.

  A giant tail swung.

  Jackson was launched through a wall.

  Robert stood there. He looked at the big-ass lizard that had just sent the lunatic flying. Then back at the somehow-still-alive idiot buried under rubble.

  He did the only reasonable thing possible.

  "GO, GO, GO! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" he roared, grabbing one of his men and shoving them into motion. The last of his squad didn't hesitate. They bolted, sprinting for dear life in the opposite direction.

  And he absolutely did not question the fact that—

  His entire combat gear suddenly turned into a reporter's suit.

  Complete with a press badge and one of those old-school flash cameras.

  Or the fact that—despite several broken ribs—he was running effortlessly like it was just another Tuesday.

  Nope.

  Not his fucking problem.

  As chaos raged behind them, Robert swore to retire as soon as humanly possible.