Krumbunculus was shaking and shivering. He looked up, hoping to ask the male witch what exactly he’d done to him, but he’d apparently already left. Krumbunculus sighed and wheezed.

“Hey! Hey you!” A cold baton tapped Krumbunculus’ right temple, “Get out of the middle of the road. Go get high somewhere else, you cluckin’ junkie.”

“J-j-junkie?” Krumbunculus shivered, looking up at a member of the Royal Gourd.

“Hood cock, kid,” the man’s face suddenly went soft with pity, “You’ve gotta be too young to already be hooked on fantasy heroin. Come on. Let me help you up.”

In blind confusion, Dr. Krumbunculus lifted a surprisingly unwrinkled arm up to the man, who quickly grasped it and pulled him to his feet. For the first time in fifty years, Krumbunculus’ knees did not feel weak, his feet did not hurt, and his back did not come dangerously close to dislocation.

“What the muddy hen are you doing here?” the Royal Gourd member looked absolutely gutted to see someone in Krumbunculus’ state, “Shouldn’t you be off taking classes or studying trades? Do you just wanna wallow around being middle-poor forever, kid? You know, there’s a lot of upward mobility in society these days, at least, compared to when I was your age. Son, when I was around, if you were born in lower-poor Caldonia, hen, you stayed in lower-poor Caldonia. You know, one of my buddy’s kids right now is twerking in upper-poor Caldonia and he’s looking at a promotion to lower-rich Caldonia. That’s the kind of opportunity you’re throwing away lying in the middle of the road getting ‘clucked up’ on some ‘pure shit.’ Heads up, asshole—it’s never pure. You’re gonna kill yourself one of these days. Hell, you’re gonna kill yourself sooner rather than later, and that’d be a real hamn shame, considering how much of life you’ve got to experience.”

“I-I’m sorry, but, are you talking to me?” Krumbunculus stammered in shock.

“Cock hamn, kid, you see anybody else here for me to talk to? Are you so clucked up you’re hallucinating? Or maybe you’re in withdrawal and your brain’s all clucky. Whatever. What do I care. Kids these days, I clucking swear. Why don’t you just grow some clucking balls and go to rehab, you husk.”

“Husk?”

“Yeah, that’s right, I said it. Husk. Go on, shuffle away. Before you know it, you’ll wake up and you’ll be covered in wrinkles, and aches, and pains…or, hen, will you even stay alive long enough for that?”

“But—”

With a sickened scowl the member of the Royal Gourd stormed off in self-righteous impunity. It was then that Dr. Krumbunculus started to truly inspect his. body, noting how horribly strange everything felt. He took a deep breath, and then he took another. His lungs were surprisingly easy to use. He blinked, focusing on the crowded assortment of shanty apartments nearby. He could see specks of dirt on the side of an abandoned boot from much, much furhter away than he ought to have been able. Then, he stook a step forward. His legs moved perfectly, no aches, no pains—it was like they actually wanted him to use them.

“What in the cluck did that male witch do to me?” Dr. Krumbunclus whispered under his breath, being careful not to say it loud enough that anyone might hear him and assume he was having any ‘hallucinations.’ He approached a malnourished mule and peered into its water bucket, which looked absolutely disgusting and filled with backwash. But still, it served its purpose, for Dr. Krumbunculus could see his reflection. And when he did, he was truly horrified—so horrified that he let loose a scream that sent scavenger birds from some nearby roadkill scattering into the air.

“NOOO!! I’M YOUNG AGAIN!!” tears streamed down his face as he looked into the bucket at his reflection again, “No liver spots! No ear air! No nose hair! Why in the cluck would someone do this to me?!”

He quickly took off his shirt and inspected his torso. He now, inexplicably, had a six pack. There was still some chest hair, but none of it was gray, and there seemed to be nary a liver spot across his entire person.

“Cluck! What the cluck, I look disgusting! This isn’t fair!”

A couple ladies walked by and started whistling at him.

“Hey there, handsome!”

“Agh!” Dr. Krumbunculus put his shirt back on, his face flush as he darted into an alleyway so as to avoid their attention.

“Come on baby, we don’t bite!”

“Unless you want us to…”

Dr. Krumbunculus was torn. On the surface, yes, two interested women who only bit if he wanted them to sounded like quite a nice time. But Dr. Krumbunculus had not been hit on by women that young for decades, and he honestly found the whole matter quite perturbing. He was more comfortable spending time with women only about fifty years younger than him at the absolute most.

Still, as he walked down the street, peeking over his shoulder, they were following him. One of them looked to be salivating. He ducked down an alley, and then down another, catching a few street peddlers pissing on walls. Life was feeling at this point rather grim.

Normally, in such a situation, Dr. Krumbunculus could easily cast an invisibility spell on himself. Or a forgetfulness spell on the ladies. Or any otheer number of appropriate magical obfsucation necessary to protect himself from further entanglement. But it is imporant to understand that the problem he was facing was incredibly physical. That is to say, being made young again had caused many a problem for the old wizard—for Caldonian wizards aged like a fine wine. With each and every wrinkle and freckle and other less than youthful abberation upon a wizard’s person, the stronger their magical powers grew.

So when Dr. Krumbunculus was suddenly made young again, those powers slipped through his fingers. Literally, as he’d stored a lot of magical powers in his fingers. Sure, if he even had his big book of spells, maybe he’d be able to cast a few weaker ones, like turning himself into a woman or something else silly like that. But Dr. Krumbunculus knew that, as magically weak as he was, it would be quite a strain. He hadn’t felt a magical strain in hamn near a century, and he wasn’t about to now. So he focused his perfect vision on the street ahead and singled out a swinging sign about a block away. It had a tall, pointy hat carved into it, and a crescent moon. The witches’ guild.