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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.</