My spell led me to Venture Mechanical, the US headquarters of Kubota Tractor Corporation. I don’t know where I imagined a blood mage to be but that wasn’t it.
I didn’t picture that a blood mage would have a job at all. I guess they need to eat just like everyone else. That’s depressing. It’s like finding out that Voldemort picked up shifts at Panera Bread and took home unsold food.
I sat in my Explorer in the parking lot reading everything I could find online about the attempted murder-by-dog attack on his ex-wife. Eventually a guy in a security cardigan came out to ask me what I was doing. I said I wanted to buy a compact tractor. He told me to get out of there before he called the cops.
I retreated to Babe’s Chicken Dinner House to plan my next move. That move was sitting in my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot and trying the spell again every hour. While I was sitting there, a shirtless man came up to the car and asked if I would give him a blowjob in return for crack. And yet if I had choked him out and set his balls on fire, that would make me a bad person.
Eventually my spell told me that the dogman was on the move. Have you ever tried to sustain a magical GPS in your head while driving? It’s fucking hard. Try balancing a plate on your head next time you drive. Also make sure the plate is piled high with spaghetti. Then put a spastic little yappy dog in the car with you. That’s about halfway to how hard it is.
I followed him to a ranch on the lake. I saw on Zillow that the thing was sold for 1 million damn dollars. It wasn’t that nice. For a million dollars there should be a water slide. Or a military fortification with machine guns for home defense.
Going into this endeavor, I had no plan. I was sick of not doing anything. I wanted to act. Which is a pretty bad reason to do something. Sitting outside his house, I had no sudden inspiration of what I should do. I still had no plan. After several hours, I went and knocked on his door.
I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. I don’t even know what I wanted to happen. It’s like when you have a cracked tooth and you can’t stop poking at it with your tongue. There’s no good result. But you can’t stop yourself.
Even though it was past 11 PM, the dogman opened the door promptly. Like he had been standing there waiting. He had his fancy man work shirt unbuttoned, his tie loosened, and he had a beer in his hand. One of those fruity Sam Adams numbers. His hair was thick and jet black. So black it didn’t seem real. He had one of those super thin beard things. He stared at me for a while and then said “can I help you?”
I asked him if he tried to kill his ex-wife and he said “Yeah” and took a drink of his beer.