Poop Mage: Manure Mysteries

Bob stumbled toward the village, his head down and his face burning with shame. The mud had dried on his clothes, and he still stank like the aftermath of his spell. He tried to clean himself up, grabbing handfuls of leaves to wipe off the muck, and even found some old, tattered cloth hanging from a scarecrow to use as a rag. But no matter what he did, the stench stayed strong—hanging around him like a dark, smelly cloud.

The village looked friendly enough—small cottages, cobblestone streets, and a few bustling markets. Bob took a deep breath, trying to look casual, and stepped in. But the moment he crossed the village line, people started to notice.

A nearby baker dropped his loaf of bread in horror, his face twisting like he’d bitten into a rotten lemon. A group of kids playing tag nearby stopped mid-game, pinching their noses.

"Ugh! Who farted?" one of them shouted, pointing directly at Bob.

“No, that’s worse than a fart! He smells like a... like a... toilet!” another kid yelled, waving his hands in front of his face like he was swatting away flies.

A noblewoman walking her little white dog gasped and turned up her nose dramatically. “My heavens!” she cried, holding a scented handkerchief to her face. “What is that awful stench?! I feel faint! Faint, I say!” She stumbled back, looking ready to swoon, while her dog growled at Bob and quickly scurried away.

Bob tried to smile and play it cool, but he could see how badly it was going. Everywhere he went, the people cringed. Some ran, others gagged, and vendors started covering up their fresh fruits and veggies to keep out whatever foul odor was trailing behind him.

“Just keep moving,” he muttered to himself. “Get cleaned up, find new clothes... then no one will know you’re a Poop Mage.”

He spotted what looked like an inn up ahead—a large wooden building with a sign that said “The Sleepy Pig Tavern.” Figuring this was his best bet for a place to clean up, he hurried over and pushed through the door. The inside was warm, busy with the smell of roasting meat, ale, and... as soon as he entered... the overwhelming smell of Bob.

The chatter in the room stopped instantly. All eyes turned to Bob, and a man at a nearby table dropped his mug of beer, which shattered on the floor. The innkeeper, a heavy-set man with a red beard, was wiping down the bar. He looked up, squinted at Bob, and then quickly held a cloth to his nose.

“Uh, welcome to the Sleepy Pig!” the innkeeper said, trying to sound polite but clearly struggling not to gag. “What... um... can I do for ya, sir?”

Bob straightened up, trying to look proud and heroic despite the dried mess on his clothes. “I need a room for the night!” he declared loudly. “For I am a... traveling hero!”

The innkeeper’s eyes watered as the smell reached him. He coughed into his cloth, shaking his head. “Ah, well... a hero, you say? That’s... that’s great,” he mumbled, trying to step back. “But, uh... we’re all full. No rooms left. So sorry.”

“What?” Bob said, leaning on the bar. “Come on, just one room? Or maybe a bath? I can pay!”

The innkeeper recoiled at Bob’s closeness, taking a big step back and bumping into some mugs on the shelf. “No, no, really! We’re... full up! No room! And, uh... bath’s broken! Really sorry, sir. Good luck on your... adventures... somewhere else!”

Bob stood there, dumbfounded. He could see the desperation on the innkeeper’s face, the pleading look of a man who just wanted him gone—preferably far, far away. He felt the eyes of the entire room on him, all judging, all disgusted.

Bob’s desperation to clean up only grew stronger as he faced the glares and gags of everyone in the inn. He couldn’t just leave. He needed to scrub off the stink. He needed a bath—badly.

“Please,” he said, leaning in toward the innkeeper, who cringed and backed up even more. “I’ll pay whatever you want! Just let me use the bath. I can’t go around like this...”

The innkeeper's eyes darted around, clearly hoping someone would come save him from this smelly nightmare, but no one moved. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head. “Fine, fine!” he grumbled, trying to wave away the smell with his cloth. “But not here! There’s an old bathhouse on the far edge of the village—no one uses it, and it’s far from our water supply. Go there, and don’t come back until you’re clean!”

Bob nodded quickly, relieved. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” He held out his hand for a handshake, but the innkeeper just winced and shoved a bar of soap at him instead.

“Take this. Scrub hard,” the innkeeper said, his voice muffled by the cloth over his face. Bob looked down at the soap—a rough, grayish block that looked like it could grate cheese... or skin. It wasn’t going to be a gentle bath, that was for sure.

“Right,” Bob said, clutching the soap. “I’ll be back fresh as a daisy!” He tried to sound cheerful, but the innkeeper only shook his head and pointed to the door. Bob quickly rushed out, holding his breath as the villagers kept whispering and staring.

The bathhouse wasn’t hard to find. It sat right on the edge of the village, a rundown little shack with cracked walls and a crooked door hanging on one hinge. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned... well, ever. Bob gulped but forced himself inside. Anything was better than being the smelliest guy in the village.

The inside of the bathhouse was dark, with spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling and only a tiny, murky pool of water in the middle. Bob didn’t care. He stripped off his filthy clothes and stepped into the pool. The water was cold and slimy, but it was water, and that was good enough for him. He grabbed the soap and started scrubbing furiously, trying to peel off the dried mud, sweat, and, of course, poop.

“Ugh, this isn’t the hero’s life I imagined...” Bob muttered as he scrubbed. He pictured himself in a warm bath with flowers floating on the surface, maybe even being waited on by servants. Instead, he was scratching himself raw with what felt like a brick of sandpaper.

But as Bob tried to relax and soak in the water, a loud ding! rang in his ears. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “No... please, no...”

“P.U.M.A. Daily Spell Practice Reminder!” the cheerful voice chimed in his head. “You haven’t cast any spells today! Remember: Practice makes perfect! Daily Stink Practice: 0/1 Scorching Brown Blast Casts.”

Bob groaned, dunking his head under the water to drown out the voice. But when he came back up for air, the screen was floating right in front of his face, flashing and beeping.

“Seriously?” Bob snapped, trying to swipe the screen away. “Can’t you let me have one peaceful bath? Just one?”

“Friendly Reminder!” P.U.M.A. said, completely ignoring him. “Spell practice is essential for your growth as a Poop Mage! Please cast Scorching Brown Blast to complete today’s practice.”

“Ugh, fine!” Bob finally shouted, throwing up his hands. “I’ll do it, okay? Just shut up!”

He figured maybe if he cast the spell underwater, it would lessen the impact. After all, water dilutes, right? He took a deep breath, pointed his hand to the surface of the pool, and muttered, “Scorching Brown Blast...”

For a second, it seemed to work. A brown swirl began to form in his palm, and Bob braced himself, watching as the spell mixed with the water. But then... the water started bubbling. And not in a good, jacuzzi way. In a... stinky way.

“Uh oh...” Bob mumbled, watching the water froth and foam. The bubbles got bigger and darker, turning the once-clear (well, sort of clear) water into a thick, brown mess. A horrible smell exploded into the air, so strong it almost knocked Bob backward.

The bath had turned into a steaming, bubbling cesspool. Bob waved his hands frantically, trying to calm it down, but it was too late. The spell had done its work—turning the entire bath into a swampy, stinky nightmare.

“Ew! Gross! No, no, no!” Bob yelled, scrambling to get out of the pool. He slipped on the edge, landing face-first in the muck before finally pulling himself out, dripping and gagging. The smell was even worse than before, and the water was now a thick, sludge-like soup.

The screen in front of him flashed, “Daily Practice Complete! Great job!”

“Great job?” Bob hissed. “I ruined the bath!”

But it was more than just the bath. As he looked around, the stench was already spreading, drifting toward the village center in the form of a dark, brownish mist. And it wasn’t long before Bob heard distant shouting... villagers’ voices, sounding worried and panicked.

Bob’s heart sank. He grabbed his clothes, still muddy and wet, and ran out of the bathhouse, knowing this mess was far from over.