Inside a public restroom at a gas station just off 8th Avenue, Mack was shirtless, barefoot, and chanting in broken Latin while scrubbing his robe in the sink with a lemon-scented hand soap.
A trucker walked in, took one look, and walked back out.
Mack dunked his staff in the toilet like a holy relic.
"Let the vile residue be banished, oh vessel of might!" he declared.
The automatic flush responded with a gurgle.
He emerged ten minutes later, robe damp but sparkling. Hair forcibly flattened under a hand dryer. Staff wrapped in a stolen Bounty paper towel, which he called "The Sacred Wrap of Absorption."
He stepped outside and struck a pose.
"Behold," he said to no one, "the Wizard Reborn."
A dog barked in the distance. Mack saluted it.
He walked with renewed purpose now, head held high, robe dripping lemon and latent toilet magic.
That's when he saw it.
A small bank on the corner—Metropolitan Federal Trust.
People milling about outside. Inside, through the glass doors, two men in ski masks waving guns.
Mack gasped.
"Demonic priests... summoning coins of power."
He squinted at the vault.
"The soul cage... they're trying to breach the Vault of Memory! Of course!"
He tightened his grip on his staff.
"This is it," he whispered. "My moment of redemption."
He kicked open the doors with the force of an underfed mallard and bellowed:
"STAND DOWN, THIEVES! THE COSMIC COUNCIL HAS SENT ME TO INTERFERE WITH YOUR FISCAL SINS!"
Everyone turned. Guns paused.
Then one robber screamed, "What the—Is this dude for real?!"
The other shouted, "GET DOWN ON THE GROUND!" while pointing his gun at Mack.
Mack raised his staff, which gave off a faint fizzing noise, like a soda can under stress.
He began walking forward slowly, staff raised in one hand, other hand glowing faintly purple.
The robbers exchanged a glance.
"Backpack. He's got a bag. Yo, is this dude here to rob the place too?"
"Wait—is this, like, a turf war?"
"I think he's trying to one-up us!"
Mack marched toward them with intent.
Intent to disarm them magically.
But to everyone watching, it looked like this deranged homeless sorcerer was trying to steal the spotlight and the money.
Especially when he shouted:
"Hand over the sacred treasure and I'll spare your lives!"
Someone in the corner screamed.
One of the robbers pointed his gun. "Step back, Gandalf!"
Mack responded by whipping out a duffel bag a security guard had dropped and shouted:
"This artifact is mine by right of divine reclamation!"
He didn't notice the massive $ printed on the side of the bag.
He didn't notice that it was full of cash.
He just knew it felt powerful and jingly.
The first robber fired a shot. It hit Mack's staff—which backfired with a burst of energy, knocking the gun out of the man's hand.
The second robber panicked, grabbed a hostage.
Mack gasped.
"No! This innocent is not part of the fiscal combat pact!"
He dove forward dramatically—not to hurt anyone, but to shield the hostage with his body.
Unfortunately, he landed in the wrong direction and knocked her clean out of the robber's grasp.
They both hit the floor. The hostage screamed.
Then Mack scrambled up, dazed, still holding the duffel bag.
He turned and—accidentally elbowed the vault keypad.
BEEP. VAULT UNLOCKED.
The giant door slowly creaked open behind him, like a divine punchline.
Gold bars. Bonds. Cash. Glittering insurance policies, probably.
Everyone stared.
To them, he had:
Entered the bank shouting about treasure,
Grabbed the cash bag.
Disarmed a robber.
Knocked out a hostage.
Opened the vault.
And all while speaking in gibberish and glowing purple.
"Bro," whispered one of the robbers. "He's actually robbing this place."
Outside, police sirens wailed.
A SWAT van had arrived.
Inside, Mack raised his hands toward the treasure and shouted:
"I release these funds from your cursed vault! They are now protected under Magical Rule 87-B!"
He tossed a handful of coins in the air dramatically.
A single security camera captured the moment:Robes flowing. Staff glowing. Cash bag on his shoulder. Vault open behind him.
It looked like a Renaissance painting of Grand Larceny.
Suddenly, the energy around Mack warped.
Purple sparks burst from his staff. His eyes fluttered.
The magic began to spiral—unbalanced, overloaded.
He stumbled backward.
"Whoopsie... I think I overdid it..."
His eyes flickered.The color drained from them.
Purple → static → stone gray.
He stood up slowly. Straighter. Colder. Different.
Now would probably be a great time to mention, Magical Mack was the host of another personality, Whimsical Wally.
He looked around the chaos, expression dead serious.
"This operation is now compromised."
He turned to the nearest hostage.
A middle-aged woman in a pantsuit, mascara halfway down her face, stared up at him like he was a gun wrapped in a riddle.
Wally locked eyes with her.
"…Status?"
She blinked. "I—I think they're knocked out."
He nodded. "Good. You're free to resume hyperventilating."
She obliged.
Wally stood up straighter. Calm. Intentional. A man who had once read a self-help book and took it violently to heart.
He scanned the lobby. Two armed robbers unconscious. Vault door wide open. Money everywhere. Civilians scattered and trembling.
He exhaled slowly.
"This operation is now compromised."
He turned toward the front doors.
Outside, sirens.
Megaphones.
Flashlights dancing.
"FINAL WARNING!" came the voice over the bullhorn. "STEP AWAY FROM THE MONEY AND PLACE YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
Wally opened the doors.
Two dozen weapons clicked in unison, all pointed at the wizard.
Wally raised his hands—but not high. Just... politely.
"Hostiles neutralized. Situation under control."
Someone shouted, "Where's the wizard?!"
Wally didn't flinch. "Contained. Unfortunately."
Inside the bank, he moved from person to person, giving short, clipped instructions:
"Don't touch the vault. It's already a crime scene."
"Put that bag down. That's not your emotional support cash."
"You. Sit up straighter. You look like guilt."
He helped one man off the floor, pausing when the guy flinched.
Wally softened—barely.
"I'm not the crazy one," he muttered. "I'm just the cleanup."
The bank manager crept out from behind the counter.
"You—uh… Are you with them? Or…?"
Wally turned.
"No. I'm with him. And he's not very good at distinguishing heroism from felony."
He walked over to the vault and stared into the mountain of money and bonds.
"Honestly, I don't even think he knows what a bank is."
SWAT began entering the building—slowly, cautiously.
A few hostages screamed. Wally raised one hand calmly.
"Stand down. Situation's stable. Magic has ceased. For now."
An officer stepped forward. "You're not gonna explode?"
Wally looked him dead in the eye.
"Only socially."
Another officer looked at the open vault and the bag of money still slung over Wally's shoulder.
"You realize you're… literally carrying stolen funds?"
Wally sighed.
Then slowly removed the duffel, placed it on the ground, and nudged it forward with his foot.
"Take it. I'm not here to rob the realm. Just keep him from accidentally setting it on fire."
The officers glanced at one another. No one quite knew what to do.
Wally ran a hand through his hair. Then winced.
"Ugh. Mustard. Still. Of course."
He turned to the officers again.
"I'll come quietly. Just... make sure you put me in a room without reflective surfaces."
"Why?"
Wally stared into the middle distance like he was listening to a radio only he could hear.
"Because he comes back when he sees himself."