I wake up with ice in my nose. I roll over. Belly is next to me, M on the other side of him. I shiver. My blanket of whisky must have slipped off in the night. I get up and start jumping to warm my body. A trick my mom taught me at my brother’s soccer games.

It doesn’t help.

I try to click the light. The power is still out. I walk to the kitchen. At least the stove works. I put the kettle on and crawl up onto the counter so my toes can absorb some of the heat. Empty bottles of alcohol liter the table.

I pick up my phone, desperately in search of a hangover cure. It is dead. All the electronics are dead.

“Son of a bitch,” I sigh. The kettle whines, I pour a tea and mix some water of life into a coffee for M. I light a cigarette straight off the lit burner and try to shake myself warm. As the cigarette dies, the drinks cool. I carry them back to the room we’d all slept in to stay warm. I place down the drinks on the dresser and open a drawer in search of a shirt. My top drawer is empty. I frown at it accusingly. I pull open the next one.


“What the hell?” I ask the drawer. I slam it shut and open the bottom one. A single sock lays, blue-checkered and mocking.

I step back and look around. Not a shred of clothing except the pair of boxers keeping me PG-13.

I walk out of the room and into M’s. I tear his dresser apart. Nothing but ash and dust. I stand in the middle of the room and curse myself. We just had to have a drink.

I walk back into the room where M lays dead. I pour the coffee down his throat and shake him.


I slap him. His eyes crack.

“M, we have no power, no keys, no food, and one sock. M, one fucking sock. How did we get drunk and lose everything but a damn sock?”

“Hmm.. sock,” M mutters, “that…socks, hah,” he giggles at his own joke.

I smack him again.

“Hey, hey!” he frowns, “I’ll fix it.” He holds up his hands. I grab them and hold them tight. Not knowing what else to do, I bite them.

“AH!” M cries. “What’d you do that for?”

I pull back, a bit of blood in my mouth.

“We are the unluckiest jackasses alive now cause of your damn magic! The power is gone, all our stuff, jeez.”

M is awake now, “okay, okay, let me go. What do we do?”

“We need to call N. Get him to bring us some clothes, then we need you to stop doing magic.”

M nods, seriously. “Yes, okay. Where is your phone?”

I nod to the dresser.

“It’s dead.”

He sighs, “mine too.”

Then, he smirks, “you know what that means?”

I let go of his hands and sit right onto the floor. I lay back and look at the ceiling.

“Screw it, go ahead,” I groan.

M jumps out of bed, he grabs my phone from the shelf. He snaps his fingers.

The ceiling lamp falls a foot from my face. I leap off the ground onto the bed. Belly barks loudly.

“Shhh,” M says. He points to the phone at his ear.

“It’s ringing,” he says, giving me a thumbs up.

For Part I, click here

For Part II, click here

For Part III, click here


Author Benjamin Davis and artist Nikita Klimov created one story and one picture each day for one year. In May 2018 they published their first book, The King of FU

4 Comment on “M the Master of Magic

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