Poop Mage: Manure Mysteries

Bob sat at his tiny wooden desk, hunched over, staring at his book of runes. The book was huge—each page covered in symbols that twisted and shimmered as if mocking him. He rubbed his temples, trying to concentrate, but it felt like the runes were dancing just to annoy him. He traced a rune with his finger, mumbling, “Flow of Fire... Flow of Fire...”

Five minutes later, he had doodled a stick figure wizard fighting a dragon. And losing. Badly.

Bob sighed. How am I supposed to learn anything?

Ding!

“Daily Spell Practice Reminder! You haven’t cast ‘Scorching Brown Blast’ today! Come on, don’t let your skills rust!” P.U.M.A.'s voice echoed in his head, chipper and way too loud for such a small room.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” Bob muttered, trying to shove the bright blue notification box out of his vision. “I’m busy!” He flicked his finger at the air, swiping at nothing like a man swatting flies that weren’t there.

The glowing box didn't budge.

Bob forced himself to focus on the book again, eyes squinting at a rune shaped like a pretzel. “If I can just... concentrate...”

Ding!

“Prank a Fellow Student for Bonus Stink Points!” P.U.M.A. insisted. “Your stink potential is at an all-time high!”

Bob snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, thanks. Just what every mage dreams of. High. Stink. Potential.” He flipped the book shut with a thud, feeling the frustration climb up his neck like hot lava. What kind of “magic system” cares more about pranks and farts than fire spells? He pushed the book away, barely resisting the urge to chuck it out the window.

Another pop-up.

“Don’t forget to check out the Stink Store! Special offers available now!”

“P.U.M.A., give it a rest!” Bob slapped the air, and to anyone else, it probably looked like he was trying to fight off a swarm of invisible bees. “I’m trying to study!” But the reminders only blinked more urgently. Each one was a bright, glowing poke to his sanity. He could feel his grip on the day slipping, and he grumbled under his breath, “I swear, one more pop-up and I’m gonna—”

Ding!

Bob’s vision filled with massive letters: “WARNING! Prepare for the P.U.N.I.S.H.-ME Protocol!” Below, in smaller text: “Poop Under Negligent Ignorance Scheduling Hazard—Management Enforcement”

“Uh... what?” Bob’s eyes darted around as if the answer would suddenly appear in the room.

Ding!

“Engaging The Reluctant Reliever!” flashed in front of him in big, angry letters. And suddenly, Bob felt it. The pressure hit him hard—his stomach gurgling like a cauldron full of beans. He clutched his gut, feeling the unmistakable, urgent need.

“Oh no... oh no no no!” he yelped, leaping up from his chair. His body lurched as the sensation spread, rising up his spine. “P.U.M.A., turn it off! Stop! I’ll do a quest! Any quest!”

But P.U.M.A. only chirped, “Too late! Enjoy your potty pursuit! Countdown to release: 10... 9... 8...”

“GAH!” Bob bolted for the door, stomach feeling like it was about to explode. He raced through the narrow hallways of the academy, clutching his backside like a madman. He zoomed past students, all turning to stare as he whizzed by.

A girl with glasses winced and covered her nose. A tall boy blinked in confusion, leaning back as if Bob was a speeding carriage.

"What's that smell?" a first-year muttered, crinkling his nose.

“Emergency!” Bob wheezed, weaving through the crowd like a man on fire. No time to explain.

Bob’s feet pounded against the stone floor as he raced down the academy’s hallways. Left, right, right again—he dodged students, leaped over backpacks, and squeezed through groups chatting way too casually for the urgency of his situation. Every step made his stomach churn like a washing cauldron set to spin cycle.

Gotta make it... gotta make it... He tried to keep a straight face, but each step was like a ticking time bomb. He passed a group of first-years practicing levitation spells—wands raised, floating books around in the air—and they all turned to watch him dash past. One boy’s wand dropped, sending a book crashing to the floor.

“What's wrong with him?” a girl whispered, staring as Bob sprinted by, cheeks puffed and eyes wild.

“Lunch not agreeing with ya, mate?” a tall, freckled kid snickered, covering his nose.

Bob ignored them. He was on a mission—a desperate, sweaty, terrifying mission. Finally, he spotted it. The door.

“Men’s Room!” he gasped, relief surging through him. He lunged forward, grabbed the handle, and yanked it open like he was rescuing a princess from a tower.

Inside, the bathroom was empty, thank the gods. He ran to the nearest stall, slammed the door shut, and barely managed to drop his pants before collapsing onto the toilet seat.

The world fell away as Bob let go. What followed could only be described as... a symphony. A very wet, very loud, and very, very smelly symphony. Splashes, gurgles, groans—all backed by a deep, bass-like rumbling. It was like a thunderstorm mixed with a swamp, mixed with an explosion. The stink hit instantly, like a punch in the face. If paint could peel off walls, this smell would have done it in seconds.

Bob’s eyes watered. “Phew... What did I even eat?” he thought, fanning the air in front of him. He could feel the air practically shimmering around him, like a thick, brown fog.

The relief was short-lived. Just as he caught his breath, Bob glanced down—and his heart sank. The toilet water was rising. Slowly, ominously. A thick, sludgy swirl, bubbling up like a bubbling cauldron that had no plans to stop.

“Oh no... No, no, no!” Bob scrambled for the plunger. “Please don’t overflow, please don’t overflow...”

P.U.M.A. dinged cheerfully. “Suggestion! Use ‘Scorching Brown Blast’ to clear the clog quickly!”

“Are you kidding me?!” Bob snapped, grabbing the plunger and jamming it into the toilet bowl. The rubber cup suctioned onto the mess with a wet thwack, and Bob started plunging wildly. He plunged like his life depended on it, like he was fighting off a sea monster in a narrow, porcelain bay.

But the water only rose higher. Each plunge made a sound—splorp, splutch, splat—sending droplets flying in every direction. It spilled over the rim, creating a swampy puddle on the floor that spread like the world’s worst lava flow. Bob’s face twisted in panic, and he plunged harder, faster, trying to keep the rising tide at bay.

“No, no, NO!” he wailed, plunging with all his might. But it was hopeless—the more he plunged, the more the water surged. It was as if the toilet had become a fountain of filth, determined to spread its brown, sludgy misery everywhere.

And Bob, caught in the center, could only keep plunging, praying it wouldn’t get any worse.

Which, of course, meant it would.

Frank the Enforcer paced outside the bathroom door. His nose twitched. His eyes narrowed. Something was definitely wrong—he could smell it. And hear it. Splashes, grunts, frantic plunging...

"Fishy," Frank muttered, his face twisting in that way it always did when he suspected trouble. Which was always. The smell seeped under the door, curling around his shoes like a creeping fog. He frowned, adjusting his stiff collar. "Very fishy indeed."

Inside, Bob was losing it. The toilet gurgled like a beast. The water rose higher, higher—just about to overflow. He plunged like a man possessed, sweat pouring down his face. "Come on, come on!" he whispered through clenched teeth.

“User, your efforts seem... futile!” P.U.M.A. chimed cheerfully in his ear.

"Not helping, P.U.M.A.!" Bob growled, but there was no time to argue with his annoying sidekick system. He needed to clear this mess fast—before the whole academy found out.

Outside, Frank could stand it no longer. He puffed out his chest, trying to look as official as possible. “I’ll get to the bottom of this!” he declared to no one, raising a fist. Then, with the authority of a self-proclaimed bathroom detective, he grabbed the handle and kicked open the door.

The door slammed open like a battle drum.

Bob looked up, eyes wide, plunger frozen mid-air.

There, framed in the doorway, stood Frank. Regal. Horrified. And completely unprepared for the chaos before him.

A wave of stink hit him, like a physical slap. Frank’s eyes watered immediately. He coughed, gagged, then blinked through the fog as the full horror of the scene unfolded before him—the brown water swirling around Bob’s ankles, the half-submerged plunger, the toilet volcano threatening to erupt.

For a split second, the world froze.

Frank’s face contorted, nostrils flaring like he’d just sniffed a rotting dragon egg. “By the gods...” he whispered, stumbling back, clutching his stomach. “What... have you done?!”

And then, with one final, triumphant splash, the toilet let out a mighty GLORP, and the brown wave came crashing down.

Bob's eyes met Frank's. Both of them knew: this was going to be bad.

And that was when the chaos truly began.