Hayroll Kettlepotter, redneck wizard.

Hayroll Kettlepotter lay in the shade of the huge tree outside his farm. He was not idle, no, he was awaiting some very important news. Suddenly he heard clucking as his faithful chicken Henwing flew down with the message he had been expecting. Henwing walked up to Hayroll and patiently waited as the message was untied from his leg before returning to the Chickenry for a quick snooze.

Hayroll opened the message and gasped. The news was worse than he thought.

We have failed. Vole De Mole is coming. You know what to do. – Bumbleboar

Hayroll’s eyes widened with terror. Just outside the fence that bordered the farm was a small mound of dirt that was meandering ever closer to where he was sitting.

Vole de Mole.

Hayroll jumped to his feet and ran for the tool shed, trying hard not to panic. He was disappointed that the Order of the Rooster could not stop Vole de Mole and was once again counting on him to be the hero, as had happened again and again. Hayroll looked around the tool shed and to his relief found his trusty Fireshovel, and in an instant he knew what to do.

Armed with the Fireshovel, Hayroll approached the mound of dirt and swatted the ground with the flat end of the blade.

“Ouch,” squeaked a tiny voice. Hayroll did not let the cute-sounding voice trigger feelings of guilt, for this was the vile creature that chewed on the rope that held aloft a bale of hay that would soon fall and crush his parents to death.

In a rage, Hayroll dug into the mound and tossed a shovelful of dirt into the air. Vole de Mole too was flying with the dirt. Hayroll grabbed his Fireshovel by the handle and smacked Vole de Mole towards the horizon as if he were a baseball.

Hayroll knew he had little time before Vole de Mole would return, so he ran back to the tool shed and grabbed a jug containing the last of the Shine of Moon potion. If there was a time to use it again, that time was now.

As expected, there was a mound of dirt speedily meandering towards where Hayroll was standing. He took his Fireshovel and stuck it into the ground where Vole de Mole was digging. There was a clanging sound from the collision, and a tiny head emerged from the ground.

“What’s this?” Vole de Mole yelled. “Another one of your tricks?”

Hayroll popped the cork off the jug and poured the last of the Shine of Moon potion directly onto Vole de Mole.

“HEY!” Vole de Mole shouted. “Whatcha trying to do now?” He tasted the potion and smiled. “Say, this stuff’s good! Pour some more-”

Before Vole de Mole could say another word, his tiny body began swelling like a balloon and when he had swollen to the size of a basketball, his body burst with a loud bang. Vole de Mole’s days of terrorizing the town of Chickenfence were over at long last.

To this day, rednecks across the South raise toasts of less potent variations of the famed Shine of Moon potion to Hayroll Kettlepotter, the greatest redneck wizard who ever lived.



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