ONCE UPON A WARLOCK ✓

BUCHERER & TYLENOL ANTLERS

THE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG, stars too gleam in the darkness like micro-diamonds embedded on a black fabric. Cold, gentle winds from the North shake the acacia withering in the backyard, birthing a lowkey storm of pinnate, sienna leaves. It's bathing the scenery in uncanniness and a comet flashing by the planet crowns the icing on the cake.

This is time when nocturnal nutjobs e.g. Julius Sullivan, hang out with his three best buddies; him, himself and he. Of course, the reefer sausaged between his swollen lips [Raymond was a vicious kisser] isn't left out in the equation. Its butt scintillates with each hit taken in and out of him.

The aluminum railing of the roof isn't so pretty to lean on. Light as a feather but still stiff as a board, Julius just has to stretch his back. Joints are rearranged and muscles tended. He goes back to his former position but this time, his left leg is crossed over the other. His hands are still behind his head and his eyes, dashing and piercing through dense clouds, strolling aircrafts, floating asteroids, spinning Saturn rings, the Milky Way. . .

Another puff of smoke.

How dare Ezra?

The mere thought of him makes Julius' body hair go taut with emotions. Feelings are concocted, nasty ones, and fed to him forcefully. You know that feeling when you taste something new, it's undefinable and your taste buds can't seem to snag on a particular taste? Just this time, there is a jillion. He's not stressing to settle on a feeling but he is going insane.

Should he feel angry, bitter, contrite, dejected, inimical, jealous, vengeful? The scene replays in his head; Ezra guiding the redhead with his hands on her spade-ish abdominals and her fingers caressing that expensive stubble Julius never ceases to obsess over.

The young warlock's lungs are hot. The miasma of sentiments and marijuana brewing inside of him can't be contained. More of the latter is discharged, through his nose like those "dragon lords" on YouTube.

Mere friends don't stare at each other like that. Colleagues don't converse like that. Ezra can't. He just, can't. And there's only one way to find out.

His eyes flash crimson and Julius vanishes from the roof of a suburban bungalow to the master's bedroom of a Victorian mansion. Well actually a closet made out of mahogany and stinking of lavish but heaven knows what frivolities may be happening on the bed. He can't fathom the horror.

A surprise nab could have been cute but Julius also possesses even an iota of morals despite being able to teleport into every ends of Earth and beyond. He won't want to violate Ezra's privacy no matter how much he messed up, and hopefully he just hasn't.

There's this nagging feeling of Ezra being innocent. Julius saw what he saw but his heart doesn't want to feel what it's supposed to feel. His sapience is at war with his conscience and his brain with his heart.

Sweat and reality dawn on him that he starts to panic out of nothing. Like noticing his frustration, a tie slips down from the prong of the hanger and flaps on his face. Whether it's intending to mock his state or lick his face like a concerned pet dog, he's speechless. His trembling hands shove it out of his face and then they rest on the closet door.

Peeking into the room and seeing it's empty, Julius sighs in relief and pushes it open. He's barefooted because Ezra is a freaky clean freak. His bedding, flooring, lighting, are immaculate beyond imagination, whiter than fresh pearls.