Chapter 41: Lemonade Stand of Doom
Wukong lay sprawled on the cracked earth, his golden fur streaked with that weird grey blood that smelled like a burnt-out candle. The Foreboding Comet had left him feeling less "immortal monkey king" and more "overcooked monkey bread." He spat out a glob of the stuff. "Seriously, Shadow Man? You call *that* a comet? My grandma's sneeze has more kick—and she's 90 and still thinks 'sneeze' is a brand of laundry detergent." He grinned weakly, though his ribs felt like they'd been rearranged by a toddler with a sledgehammer. "Next time, bring a *real* weapon. Maybe a glow stick? I hear those are *very* scary."
Gayle Sambell loomed over him, his expression colder than a polar bear's armpit. "Your jokes are as dull as your combat skills, Monkey King." He raised his hand, the air thickening again. "Let's end this before I get bored."
"Ooh, scary!" Wukong coughed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "I'd offer you a seat, but I'm all out of chairs. Unless you count this cracked ground? Very rustic. Very *you*."
Before Sambell could strike, a voice sliced through the tension like a lemon zester through a bad mood. "Hold up, buttercup! You can't just *hit on* my friend like that!"
Zokraks sauntered into the clearing, hands on his hips, wearing a grin so wide it could've powered a small city. He was dressed in a ridiculous outfit of neon yellow and purple, complete with a tiny umbrella hat. "Seriously, dude? You're out here trying to *hug* the Monkey King? That's not how you make friends. Unless you're into *forced* friendships? Because *that's* just creepy."
Sambell ignored him, turning his attention to the new arrival. "You're not his friend. You're a distraction." He thrust his hand forward—the Foreboding Comet ripped through the air again, a void-black streak that made the sun itself flinch.
Zokraks didn't even blink. "Spectral Lemon!" he declared, waving his hands like a chef tossing ingredients. "Let's see if this lemon is a *lemon* of a spell!" He snapped his fingers, and a shimmering, citrus-scented orb of light shot toward Sambell. It looked like a lemonade stand had exploded in a disco ball factory.
Sambell's comet met it head-on. The lemon orb *sputtered* like a faulty firework, then imploded with a sound like a deflated whoopee cushion. "Tch," Zokraks tutted, shaking his head. "Rude. I made that with *organic* lemons. No preservatives. Just pure, unadulterated *zest*."
Sambell lunged. His chains—black as sin and sharp as regret—snapped out like whips, wrapping around Zokraks' wrists and ankles. "You're not lemonade," he hissed, dragging Zokraks off his feet. "You're lemon *juice*. Sour, useless, and easily squeezed." He yanked Zokraks backward, toward the edge of the battlefield.
Zokraks kicked wildly, his umbrella hat flying off. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! You're handling me like a grocery item! I'm not a fruit, I'm a *spectral* lemon! You're supposed to *squeeze* me gently, not *yank* me like I'm a stuck drawer!" He grinned despite the chains, his eyes glinting. "But hey, free ride! Thanks for the taxi service, Shadow Man! Next time, tip your driver!"
Then—*pop*—the chains shattered. Not from force, but from Zokraks *laughing*. His body pulsed with a sudden, blinding yellow light, and the chains dissolved into harmless lemon-scented smoke. "See? *That's* how you handle a lemon!" he crowed, bouncing back to his feet. "You don't *yank*—you *squeeze*! And then you make lemonade!"
Sambell stood frozen for half a second, his cold eyes narrowing. Then he vanished in a ripple of shadow, leaving only a faint smell of ozone and regret.
Wukong wheezed a laugh, wiping grey blood from his chin. "Well, at least someone got a free ride out of here. Shame about the lemonade, though—needed a drink after that comet. And maybe a new hat." He gestured to Zokraks' fallen umbrella. "Nice fashion choice, by the way. Very 'I-just-robbed-a-fruit-stand-and-then-decided-to-throw-a-party'."
Xorath, who'd been silently watching from the sidelines like a brooding statue, finally spoke. His voice was low and dry as desert sand. "This is why I stay home."
Zokraks flipped his umbrella hat back onto his head. "Hey, don't knock the lemonade! It's refreshing! And *spectral*! What more do you want?" He winked at Wukong. "Next time, I'll bring extra zest. For *you*."
Wukong groaned, rolling onto his back. "I'd rather have a comet to the face."
The battlefield fell silent. Only the ghost of lemonade lingered in the air.