The afternoon in Cinder Town was a physical presence, a heavy, woolen blanket of heat that pressed down upon the dusty earth, leaching the will from man and beast alike. The sun, a merciless, white-hot coin in a bleached sky, had baked the world into a state of near-paralysis. In the main hall of the three-story tavern, the only movement was the slow, shimmering dance of dust motes caught in the slanted bars of light cutting through the shuttered windows. It was in this profound, soporific silence that Harry Potter Michael held his court.
He was enthroned upon his personal recliner—a salvaged artifact of cracked vinyl and dubious springs that had, through sheer force of his ownership, become a symbol of authority. His current mode of governance could be charitably described as one of profound indolence. A philosophy, he had recently decided, that held a simple, self-evident truth: temporary corruption brought temporary bliss, but sustained, dedicated corruption promised a perpetual state of satisfaction.
While his guards drilled in the punishing heat and the townsfolk toiled, Michael was engaged in a far more demanding ritual of sovereignty. Each time he parted his lips in a lazy, wordless gesture, Lynda, the wolf-hybrid attendant, would place a single, chilled grape upon his tongue. The grapes, a treasure from his own world, had been cooled to a shocking crispness in the deep, cold heart of the new well. Their burst of cool sweetness was a minor miracle. Simultaneously, Faye, the foxkin, knelt beside him, wielding a fan that was itself a relic—a promotional item from a modern-world urology clinic, its cheerful, inappropriate logo a stark contrast to its current function. With gentle, rhythmic waves, she created a fragile, personal breeze that pushed back against the oppressive air.
The only thing that threatened his hard-won composure was Faye's tail. Now clean and meticulously brushed, it was a plume of soft, russet fur. In her playful, seemingly innocent adjustments of her posture, the tip of that tail would occasionally, delicately, brush against his bare calf. The contact was electric, a whisper-soft tickle that sent a jolt of something entirely unrelated to the ambient temperature straight through him. It was a life of such exquisite, unapologetic decadence that it would have made a medieval lord or a feudal landlord nod in approval. It was, in a word, gloriously rotten.
Any lingering, subconscious fear of the Wasteland's latent radiation had been neatly excised by a recent, comprehensive medical check-up in his own world. The doctor's clean bill of health had been the final permission slip he needed. Now, he found himself more at home in this broken, strange, and servile world than in the one of his birth.
A sound, a persistent, hushed whispering, finally pierced the veil of his drowsiness. "My Lord? My Lord…?"
Michael cracked open an eye. Old Gimpy stood before him, his few remaining strands of hair slicked back with such precision that a fly attempting to land would have skidded to its doom. The old man wore an expression of obsequious urgency.
"What is it?" Michael asked, swiping a hand across his chin to erase any trace of drool.
"My Lord, a petitioner! A treasure-bearer!" Gimpy's voice was a conspiratorial hiss. "He claims to be drawn by the radiance of your reputation, wishing to present you with fine artifacts! I took the liberty of a preliminary inspection… and the items, they are… intriguing."
Michael's lethargy vanished, replaced by a sudden, greedy spark. Treasure?His mind instantly conjured images of glittering gemstones and tarnished silver, hauled from some forgotten ruin. He had been waiting for this! The word had spread about his interest in pre-Collapse valuables, and while a steady trickle of weathered dollar bills had appeared, the real prizes—the jewels—had remained elusive.
"Well, don't just stand there!" Michael barked, sitting upright. "Bring him in! Immediately! And Lynda, my dear—fetch the guest a refreshment. The… the '82 Cola." The mythical, room-temperature bottle of cola was a currency of hospitality he reserved for moments of high expectation.
The man Gimpy ushered in was a archetype of the Wasteland scavenger. A tattered cloak, stiff with grime, obscured most of his features. His body, though tall in frame, was whittled down by hunger to a collection of sharp angles. An olfactory wave preceded him—a complex bouquet of sweat, dirt, and decay that made Michael's eyes water. But the promise of jewels was a powerful air freshener.
Michael arranged his face into a mask of paternal benevolence. "Please, rise! Don't be shy. What should I call you? And what wonders have you brought to show me? You have my word, if your offerings please me, your reward will be more than fair. My reputation for generosity, I trust, precedes me."
The scavenger, overwhelmed, dropped to his knees. "Y-Yes, Lord! Your name is spoken with hope… I am Richard. Most call me… 'Jinx' Richard." With trembling, reverent hands, he reached into a grimy satchel and produced an object wrapped in layers of stained cloth.
Michael's heart sank. The shape was all wrong. It was flat, rectangular. Not a small, dense cache of jewels, but the shape of a book. His premonition was confirmed as Richard carefully peeled back the cloth. There lay not a diamond, but a magazine. A publication whose legendary status Michael recognized instantly: Penthouse. The cover featured a woman of impossible, airbrushed proportions, arching her back in a pose that was both defiant and vacant.
Beside it lay a half-filled, hardbound notebook. It was clear that to Old Gimpy, the magazine was the priceless artifact, a portal to a forgotten world of fantasy that held obvious, primal appeal for any man starved of such simple pleasures.
"My Lord," Richard stammered, his eyes gleaming with pride, "this volume… for your edification. The notebook… a mere trifle. For… for your personal necessaries, after… you know."
Disappointment, sharp and bitter, washed over Michael. Thiswas the treasure? A moldy skin mag and a partial diary for toilet paper? He managed a strained smile. "Your thoughtfulness is noted." He turned to Gimpy. "See that he receives a measure of water, a portion of rice, and a handful of caps." The principle of rewarding initiative, however misguided, had to be upheld. But the '82 Cola was swiftly and silently withdrawn from the negotiation.
As the grateful, stinking scavenger was led away, Michael picked up the magazine with two fingers, as if handling a radioactive specimen. He flipped through a few pages. The glossy paper was brittle, the images faded. Then he saw it—a dark, suspicious stain on one of the centerfolds. With a grunt of disgust, he flung the magazine away from him as if it had bitten him. The transaction now felt like a net loss.
It was only out of a sense of thoroughness that he reached for the notebook. It was a standard composition book, its hard cover scarred. He opened it idly. The first page was dated: Wednesday, June 1st, 23. Sunny.
Luck's finally turning,the entry began in a neat, masculine script. Audrey from the lab next door—the one with the freckles—asked me for a drink after work. Hot damn. Today is Paul's lucky day.
Michael's breath caught in his throat. The disappointment over the magazine vanished, replaced by a sudden, racing pulse. 23. That was three years in the futurefrom his own timeline. This wasn't just a diary; it was a message from the other side of the apocalypse. What events did these pages chronicle? What clues did they hold about the cataclysm that had shattered this world? This was a treasure far greater than any gem. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned the page.
He was so engrossed he didn't notice Old Gimpy's return. The old man cleared his throat softly. "My Lord… if the… the pictorial volume displeases you… might I…?"
Michael looked up, startled. "Why?"
Gimpy's face took on a strangely clinical expression. "I find that… perusing such material before retiring… it seems to… facilitate the flow, during the nocturnal emissions. It makes the passing of water smoother, you see."
Michael stared for a beat, then waved a hand in dismissal. "Yes. Fine. Take it. Just… get it out of my sight." His attention was already back on the notebook, on the cryptic, hopeful words of a man named Paul, written in the last days of a world that was about to die. The real treasure had been hiding in plain sight all along.