The Lay of the Land

His long robes loosely hung from his meek body. His long gray hair blew slightly in the breeze of the overcast fall day. The magician stopped and adjusted his magical hat. He kept a tube of anchovy paste in his hat, and the tube was blessed with an enchantment that ensured its contents could never be depleted. His gaze wavered suspiciously to the east, and then to the west. The magician was nervous. His sharp, crooked toenails scraped the ground.

The magician began to cast a cantrip of protection, expertly taking off his magical hat and squeezing a thick bead of anchovy paste on to his pointer finger. He stuck the finger in his mouth and vigorously brushed his teeth until the flesh of his finger was excoriated to the bone. The blood dripped from his lips, running down his chin. The magicks began to take effect. The trees of the forest quivered, recoiling from the appearance of the magician and his sorceries.

The magician put on his magical hat again. He said to the forest, "I am Barack Obama, the king of all lizardmen!"

The magician cupped his hand to his ear as if to listen for a distant reply.

The autumn breeze whipped through the trees, and the rustling could be plainly heard to say, "Fffffffffffffffffffffuck yyyyyyyyyyyou..."

With a great whooshing sound the breeze subsided and the magician and the suspicious forest resumed their standoff once again.