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Okay, my life’s really weird. I’m the first to admit I’m not the most normal kid. I’m not a superhero or anything quite that cool, but I do know several.

Let’s see. There's Pharaoh, Cool, Scalar, Hex, Yin-Yang, Dirk Claymore of the Clan McJagger, Santa Claus, and, um, Steve.

Pharaoh and Cool are a part of a superhero team called The Evolutants. Pharaoh, also called the Prince of Beasts, is a hyper-evolved lion with dreadlocks for a mane. He’s wicked strong and built like Arnold Schwarzenegger – if Arnold was a lion who walked upright, wore denim coveralls, and spoke like a Rastafarian. That makes sense, right? Cool is an elastic giraffe. When I say elastic, I mean that dude can stretch high enough to high-five a 747! Yeah, that would be dangerous. It would probably frighten the passengers too. Like, who wouldn’t be scared if some cartoon-looking giraffe with a huge Crest toothpaste grin and big shiny horsesh- um, giraffeshoes? Is that a thing? You know, tried to high-five their plane midflight? He’s impressionable, so I won’t suggest it. Cool is hyper-evolved, too. Aside from stretching, he can shape-shift. He’s great at it. I’ve seen him impersonate Elvis, Mr. Rogers, Bob Ross, Batman – the ‘60s version, he even does the funny little vogue dance, and a hundred different animals! It’s amazing, provided you can get past the fact that he’s always yellow with brown spots. Every person, every animal, yellow with brown spots. I will say, a yellow T. rex with brown spots is still freaking terrifying. And he’s scary good at the T. rex thing.

Scalar is also a man-beast sort of dude. He’s a Dwayne Johnson-sized Minotaur, but with the head of a bison instead of a bull. Unlike Pharaoh and Cool, he wasn't hyper-evolved. He’s a human prince, but an evil shaman cursed him more than a thousand years ago for falling in love with the wrong woman. He and Pharaoh have an odd relationship. Not really a bromance, more like some weird high school rivalry. They’re constantly flexing on each other. Honestly, Pharaoh’s stronger, but Scalar’s a natural-born warrior. If they ever really threw down, it would be like the Punisher vs. John Wick. Pop some popcorn and pick a side because it’s anybody’s game!

Hex is a dinosaur from another superhero team called Team-Rex. She’s a Tyrannosaurus-Hex if I understand correctly. Basically, she’s a teenage Tyrannosaur who’s also a witch. She’s also kind of a b- um, blunt speaker. Oddly, her accent makes her sound like she’s from somewhere in New England. Not exactly New York, more like Boston. ‘Pahk the cah in Hahvid Yahd.’ You know?

Hex is an odd bird, but she’s, um, how would she put it? Wikkid powaful. Her feet rarely touch the ground, since she prefers to hover or fly, she can control lightning with her bare hands, make herself and other things invisible, control minds – she calls it chahming, and even bring dead plants back to life. Unfortunately, you can’t reanimate animals. The brain activity becomes an issue. Brain death is forever unless you’re lucky enough to have a backup of the patient’s brain handy. But come on, this is the real world we’re talking about, right?

Fun fact about Hex: her dead grandmother’s spirit follows her everywhere she goes. A time travel experiment gone wrong sucked them both through a tem-portal, and now they’re constantly together. Sounds awkward to me, but whatever. I thought she was nuts at first, hearing her talk to her grandmother like she was there with us. Only she can see or hear her. Who knows? Maybe she really is nuts.

Did I mention we’re on a quest? It’s wild. I feel like that little guy with the Robin Hood hat in the old Zelda game. “Take this sword, ‘cause shit’s about to get real!” And good god, did I ever get a sword! It's called the Sword of Helianthus. The deity of heat and light, Helianthus, blessed the sword, so great job naming it after him. The hilt looks like gold, but unlike everybody's favorite wedding ring material, it’s lightweight and stronger than steel. The crest of Helianthus is engraved on the quillon block – that’s the crosspiece where the blade meets the handle. It’s like a flaming sunflower with a Freemason-looking eye at the center. I’m generally not into flowery crap, but truth be told, it’s pretty badass. I have a chain-mail tee-shirt with a glowing key woven into the chest, a black leather jacket and leather biker pants, a magical water-skin that never goes dry, and black leather boots of levitation. Gotta keep the ensemble consistent, right?

King Solidago Altissima tasked us with the quest. He wasn’t there personally, but Aconitum, his magic advisor, wizard, warlock, whatever you want to call him, was there.

Aconitum was a creepy dude, to say the least. He wore a drab brown robe that concealed most of his face with a monk's hood and was the perfect blend of all the classic villain tropes. His eyes were the color of ash burrowed in deep, leathery sockets, like twin tarantulas lurking in tunnels of flesh-colored webbing. He sported a long wizard hat of a schnoz, ending in a point that would’ve made Pinocchio do a double take. A set of thin, deflated lips that looked like a cocoon after the butterfly flew away framed his sullen mouth. Stringy, graying hair as clean as an old bicycle chain hung loosely around his pale, ghoulish face. His hands were so gnarled, laying them flat appeared to be an impossible task. That was alright because he seemed perfectly content to wring them together repeatedly in classic villain fashion whenever he spoke. His old, leather sandals betrayed filthy, calloused feet ending in long, jagged toenails. When he sneered – smiling obviously wasn’t something Aconitum’s face was accustomed to – it was painfully clear his dental hygiene was worse than his foot care routine. You’d think a wizard could use a little magic to tidy himself up a bit.

Our benefactor found my friends and me celebrating a recent victory at our longstanding tavern of choice, a tiny hole in the wall in the rough and tumble mining village of Artemisia, called The Prancing Peony. Dirk, who happens to be an honest-to-God ninja, was drinking blue agave tequila from one of Scalar’s boots. It’s a long story that ends with something like a bad punchline. You really don’t want to hear it. Anyway, Dirk’s full name is Dirk Claymore McJagger of the Clan McJagger. Yep, he’s as Scottish as Highlands, golf courses, and kilts. His outfit is a sublimely strange blend of Highlander warrior meets ninja. He wears a kilt, wee black ninja booties, and the traditional black pajama top. His hair and beard are a shade of red that, well… Let’s put it this way, he’s basically Hagrid if he was a Weasley. In my opinion, he’s too loud to be a ninja. He carries an old claymore broadsword instead of a katana. He also carries nunchucks. They’re actually a couple of lengths of tree trunk connected by an anchor chain, but they do the trick. His magical bagpipes would blow your freakin’ mind. They’re made from a dragon’s bladder, and alicorns. Those are unicorn horns in case you didn’t know. They sound like Sir Sean Connery after a few tankards of ale. Rest in peace, Sir Connery. Other than their ability to speak, I haven’t been able to figure out what’s particularly magical about them. When I say them, I mean him. His name is Angus. Not that talking bagpipes aren’t freaking magical, but Angus seems to be more of a hindrance than help most of the time. Ninjas are supposed to be stealthy, but whenever Dirk’s sneaking around, Angus either complains like a Scottish C3-P0, or breathes loudly, which sounds like Scalar farting with a harmonica shoved in his butt. Please don’t ask how I know what that sounds like.

Oh, wow! Dirk, Aconitum, quest. Yeah, I squirreled there, didn’t I?

The quest! Dirk was drinking from Scalar’s boot when Aconitum showed up, looking around the room like a frog at a fly convention. Pharaoh noticed him right away. I could see something was up, so I pulled him aside.

“Everything okay,” I asked casually, trying not to be obvious.

Pharaoh raised a bushy eyebrow and nodded in Aconitum’s direction. “Dat mon smell bad.”

“Maybe he’s in a grunge band,” I asked. “He looks old enough.”

Pharaoh isn’t exactly quick on the draw when it comes to humor. He’s not unintelligent, but his wit is dryer than Arizona in the summer. “Nuh. Me mean he smell like a bad mon.”

I nodded. “Yeah, he looks like he’s up to no good.” We watched him through the usual crowd of Friday night patrons, a volatile mixture of miners, farmers, vagabonds, and thieves. “Wanna see what he’s up to,” I asked.

Before Pharaoh could respond, Hex floated towards the cloaked man and blocked our view. “Wah she doing,” Pharaoh wondered, even though she was clearly talking to Aconitum.

~

Fewer than half our party gathered on either side of a long wooden table near the center of the room. Hex was at the bar when Aconitum slunk through the door. Yin-Yang was playing darts with Cool in a dimly lit corner. Santa and Steve were hustling some farmers at a card game known as Black-Eyed Susan.

Dirk and Scalar threw back shots of some God-awful smelling alcohol. Pharaoh and I, as inconspicuously as possible, stared at the back of Hex’s head. We watched for several minutes, waiting for some indication as to where the conversation might be leading. Our patience was rewarded moments later when Hex turned in midair, causing us to avert our gazes guiltily, and brought the conversation directly to our table.

“Suh, how bout di weather,” Pharaoh commented a little too nonchalantly.

“You two can give up the innocent act,” Hex muttered. “I’ve told you before-”

“Yeah, we know,” I interrupted. “Eyes in the back of your head.”

Pharaoh adjusted his seat while Hex and Aconitum sat down across from us, ignoring Dirk and Scalar’s drunken hijinks.

Hex motioned towards her new friend, who hungrily eyed an untouched platter of fried quaker ladies. “Aconitum is here on behalf of King Solidago Altissima. He’s searching for champions to rescue the king’s son from an evil coven of witches known as Noisetier des Sorcières. There’s a substantial reward, and he’ll provide us with gear and a map to guide us.”

“Why doesn’t the king just send his knights to rescue his son,” I asked. To Aconitum, who was still eying the quaker ladies, I said, “Dig in if you’re hungry.”

The warlock pulled the bounty towards him and began to devour the platter’s contents, pausing only to summon Viola, the barmaid, to the table. “Ale,” he ordered through a full mouth. “Tankard!” As she scuttled off to fulfill his request, he shouted, “On their tab!” He motioned around the table with a wild sweeping gesture, and then went back to stuffing his face.

Hex stared at him for a moment, clearly disgusted, but continued. “The queen doesn’t know her son is missing, and the king wants to keep it that way. Sending the king’s guard on such a quest would prompt the queen to ask questions the king would rather not answer.”

I knew better than to ask Aconitum, who hadn’t spoken to anyone other than Hex and Viola, any further questions about the king or the circumstances of the prince’s assumed abduction. The king was a private man. Questions made him less than comfortable. Nobody in their right mind made the king less than comfortable.

I looked at Pharaoh, who nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, Hex. You’ve got our attention. Go on.”

~

Hex’s tail was long, but her tale was short. Get it? Tail? Tale? Oh, God, I’m turning into my dad. Scratch that first line. Forget I said any of it, please.

Hex’s story was a short one, but it was so full of intrigue and betrayal, it could have been a Shakespearean play, or a Mexican soap opera.

Solidago Altissima’s kingdom, the once lovely Candytuft, was in all sorts of agricultural distress. He turned to a coven of witches to resolve his problems. That’s like going to a loan shark to resolve financial troubles, or a crossroads demon for like… anything. The piper always demands payment in the end.

The king apparently made a deal with the twelve witches and their silent partner. Once the witches solved his problems with magic, he arrested them for practicing witchcraft instead of paying up. I’m still not clear on what the agreed payment was. Dick move, if you ask me. All attempts to incarcerate the witches obviously failed, and you can probably guess how the rest went down. Not only did the crops start dying again, but the king’s only son, Prince Ranunculus Goldenrod, vanished as he slept one night. Thirteen deadly flowers were left on his pillow, a clear message as to who took him, and of their intent.

Apparently, the king discovered the flowers. He told Queen Ursinia that their son went on a hunting expedition with Sir Scabiosa Atropurpurea and would be gone for several days. It had been two days since the prince’s abduction. With each passing day, the king knew the likelihood of ever seeing his son alive again grew increasingly unlikely.

Atropurpurea, also known as the Black Knight, or Blackamoor's Beauty to the village maidens, camped out in the swamplands to the south of Candytuft. No one but knights hunting goblins or ogres dared set foot in the swamp, let alone spent a night or more, but there the Black Knight remained, faithfully awaiting word from Aconitum. He would lead whatever party was brave, or perhaps foolish enough, to accept the warlock’s proposal.

Hex finished her story with a sideways glance at the warlock. Absolutely no one could compete with her level of stink-eye. She was the grand master of the craft. “Would you say that was an accurate retelling of your proposal?” Her words dripped more sarcasm than Aconitum dripped drool and God knew what else.

The warlock nodded and involuntarily gagged while mumbling, which ended up sounding something like a cat hacking up a hairball. He was a class act all the way. I had a hard time imagining him in the king’s court.

Hex shook her head ruefully. “So, what do you think? I’m in if you are.”

I looked at Pharaoh, his brows furrowed in deep thought. “What say you, big guy,” I asked.

“Nuh. I tink we should aks di others,” he mused.

I looked around the room at the others. “Dude, Scalar and Dirk aren’t in any condition to make decisions, but they’re always ready for a fight. There’s a reward involved, so Santa and Steve will be in. There’s a child in danger, so Yin-Yang would go regardless of the reward, and Cool would follow you into the twisting depths of Pothos itself. I’d say the three of us can safely make the call.”

Pharaoh shook his head, his dreadlocks swaying disapprovingly. “Nuh mon. We do dis how we always do it. Wit a vote.”

I sighed. Pharaoh was a rules guy through and through. There would be no getting around his lawful good nature. “Fine,” I said after a moment’s consideration. “Hey, Scalar, Dirk!”

The two turned to look at us, bleary-eyed.

“How would you feel about a quest? We’d get to rescue a little boy!”

They stared at us, processing what they’d heard.

“There’s a reward,” I continued.

Still no response. The pair’s eyes were glazed over like bloodshot donut holes.

“And fighting,” I added.

“Oh, aye, a quest would be just GRAND!” Dirk interrupted, throwing his hands in the air, inadvertently tossing his drink into Scalar’s eyes.

Barely fazed, Scalar picked up a dirty bar towel that was cleaner than his face and sopped off the drink before nodding. “Si compadre. A quest.” He seemed ready to say something profound, his eyes taking on a somber cast. “Sure. Why not?”

I turned to Pharaoh triumphantly. “There you have it! Five of nine in favor of the quest. Majority rules, yes?”

Pharaoh narrowed his eyes, looking like Santa and Steve just cheated him at Black-Eyed Susan. “Yuh pull dis crap every time. An me always let yuh git away wit it.” He finally shook his head and shrugged. “Fine. We go rescue di prince. But nuh blame me when dem witches turn yuh inta a toad.”

Dirk turned, a twinkle in his bloodshot eyes. “Have ye laddies ever tried frog’s legs? Almost as yummy as haggis, they are!”

~

We waited a few hours for Dirk and Scalar to sober up, listening to Angus complain about Dirk’s clear intolerance of alcohol. The evening finally ended in a short-lived bar fight with the farmers whom Santa and Steve had apparently cleaned out of every last pachira. Pharaoh ended the fight by buying the farmers drinks, and sending them home happy, still broke, but happy.

Yin-Yang and Cool returned to the table shortly after we made the decision to go on the quest. Cool, as always, was agreeable to whatever Pharaoh thought was best. However, Yin-Yang, the quintessential Gemini, wanted to look at everything from both sides before committing.

Yin-Yang was typically at odds with everything, including himself. When I say him, I mean them. Yin and Yang, a pair of bears whose actual breed I didn’t know, were fraternal twins. They were nearly identical twins, but Yin was as black as pitch, and Yang was as white as newly fallen snow. Yin was a cleric and had mastered the ability to control and blend into shadows. He couldn’t create complete darkness, but he came damned close. Yang, on the other hand, was a monk who could create spiritual lights so bright they could turn your retinas into tiny charcoal briquettes. He, like his brother and his shadows, could become invisible in the midst of his self-generated light. Most surprising was the fact that his light, no matter how bright, generated absolutely zero heat.

Yin and Yang’s third power, or second to each of them I guess, was to combine their body mass to become a much larger black and white bear closely resembling a Giant Panda.

In addition to their mystical abilities, the pair was as stealthy as Dirk believed himself to be. They, like one of Santa’s farts, were silent and deadly. Individually, they were dangerous enough, but when they worked as one, they were a powerful force to be reckoned with. There’s some life lesson in there, but I’m telling a story here, not expounding philosophical insights.

Yin-Yang had one clear weakness. As balanced as his powers were in his combined form, he was a bit indecisive. Left, right, up, down, war, peace. There was always a brief internal debate. Yin and Yang were, for all intents and purposes, polar opposites. I’m doing my best to avoid the obvious polar bear joke. Generally, whatever direction had the moral or ethical high ground, was the direction he gravitated to. Thankfully, both of their respective orders served Helianthus. I can’t imagine the turmoil serving two gods would create.

Yin-Yang sat quietly at our table, meditating as Angus berated Dirk for not having the fortitude of a dragon’s bladder, which, if I understand correctly, can handle alcohol better than any other living being. Considering it’s the liver that processes alcohol, I’m pretty sure Angus is full of crap. Dirk’s the only one obstinate enough to actually carry on a debate with Angus, so I let them banter.

The bear, bears, you know… finally agreed the rescue of a young prince was worth the risks a quest imposed. Deeply nodding with hands together in praise, he was in.

Santa and Steve, as I predicted, were automatically in for the loot. Once Scalar...