#mumbskizz

It was an odd occurrence; rainfall was heaviest this time of the year, and Mumbo often wore boots to protect himself from mud. Graves gave him easy access, too, a simple nudge of his shovel doing the trick. But for this one, it was like one of summer’s worst droughts.

Mumbo raised his arms over his head once. Then again. Then a third time, with no avail. He used his forearm to wipe the sweat dripping from his brow, bangs stuck to his forehead. “This hasn’t happened before,” he huffed. “C’mon, what’s up with you?”

He took a moment to glance at the headstone. A chunk of the stone at the top was missing, like a bite had been taken out of it. Water damage and erosion left it a musty color, and seeds caked in orange goop were lodged in its lining, a clear victim of secondary school kids.

Mumbo squinted, bleary eyes attempting to identify the uppercase lettering carved into the headstone. He titled his head, and slowly, he read out the name:

Stephen “Skizz” Man

His eyes trailed down.

1530 to 1575

Beloved Brother 

He looked at it for a while before humming. “Well, Skizz,” Mumbo muttered, lifting his shovel, “I’ve got a job to do, and it seems like you’re making it difficult.”

Again, he lifted his shovel over his head, and with all of his might, jabbed it into the ground.

The shovel broke through the dirt, and before Mumbo could celebrate, a bright green light erupted from the crack.

Mumbo gasped, stumbling backwards and falling onto his elbows, shovel abandoned completely. From the crack emerged a pale mist, wispy as it rose. 

The air grew chillier, and the birds quieter.

As the last of the smoke came up, the light in the ground dimmed, then stopped completely. The mist, still glowing, started to curl together. Mumbo watched it swarm as one, spinning like a pinwheel in harsh winds. For a moment, he stared at it with wide eyes, gaping at the scene before him.

Suddenly, there was a groan.

“Finally, man! I’ve been waiting to be let out for ages.”

In front of Mumbo was the pale outline of a man, floating a few inches above the dug out grave. He wore pointed shoes with bells attached to the tips, and was cloaked in a vest with a pattern of rhombuses, sleeves puffy and large. On top of his head was a large hat, two ends curved in separate arches.

The man drifted down, eyeing the headstone and huffing. “To think after all I’ve done, I’ve been narrowed down to a brother.” He crossed his arms and shook his head.

Mumbo’s mouth was an ajar.

Not easing his nerves, the figure turned around a few seconds later. His gaze met Mumbo’s. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t friendly eyes paired with a couple of smoky marks on his face. “Look what we have here!”

If it was possible, Mumbo’s eyes widened even more.

The man frowned. “What, you’re gonna leave me hanging?”

He swallowed. “Y-you can…see me?”

The man mimicked a motion that was similar to raising an eyebrow. “Were the streets of London grimier than anything else?”

“Uh…”

He cackled. “‘course they were!”

To say Mumbo’s mind was racing was an understatement; thoughts of confusion, denial, and panics blurred together. Surely this wasn’t real, right?

Maybe it were a group of kids coordinating a top-notch prank—yeah, that’s it! Teenagers pulling a practical joke, hiding behind a tree and waiting for the perfect time to pop out and laugh at him.

The man cleared his throat dramatically, arms folded behind his back. “Greetings…mortal?” He tapped a finger on his chin. “No, human’s the word these days…Well, hello, regardless! My name is Skizz—Stephen to some, Skizzleman to others.”

He glided closer to Mumbo. “Back in the day, which, in reality was a couple centuries ago, I was the loyal jester to King Impulse Vance. Not a shabby job, y’know, considering he was my best buddy, and all.”

Skizz groaned. “That was until I got accused of spreading news of our kingdom’s planned attack to the enemy state. The outcome wasn’t so pretty. I got publicly beheaded and everything!”

Mumbo winced, partly from the feeling of his elbows digging into the ground, and the other being at the story. “But did you? Spread information, I mean.”

The ghost squawked. “Of course not! I didn’t want a single thing to do with Mother Spore and lackeys.” Skizz shook his head. “But that was then, and now, it seems that you, mortal, was brought the great Skizzleman from his dead.”

He brought up a green hand, swirling with haze. “And since you’ve done a great deal to me, it’s only fair that I repay the favor, isn’t it buddy?”

Mumbo could hear his heart palpitations in his ears. On one hand, he didn’t mean to revive a ghost purposely. But this was a spirit he was talking to, something he wouldn’t interact with  for a lifetime. He didn’t think he could pass up this chance.

Slowly, he raised his hand and placed in Skizz’s. A nervous smile spread on his face. “Deal.”

The grin that he was given was toothy, yet the look in the jester’s eyes was something Mumbo had never seen before; mischief and schemes hid behind murky irises.