Graveyards are, by nature, quiet places.
Silent. Peaceful. Occasionally haunted by the sounds of "Yo Mama" jokes whispered by disrespectful ghosts.
But tonight, silence was broken by a very specific and undignified noise:
"KAA-FRICKIN-CHOO!"
A skeletal figure sat up in its grave, sneezing violently. Bone shards scattered.
"Ah, my sinus cavities," the skeleton groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nasal bone. "Oh wait. I don't have sinuses anymore. Fantastic."
His eye sockets glowed a faint blue, flickering like low-battery runes. He looked down at himself. Bones. Ribs. Still dead.
"Damn. Not again."
He turned to find a wrinkled, soggy tag tied to his ankle. It read:
Property of Walter The White – Resurrection Test Subject #0023
Side effects: possible confusion, mild resurrection sickness, hatred of wizardkind.
The skeleton sighed. "Yep. Back taxes and necromancy. That's two government departments I'm wanted by."
Back at Walter's Shack
Walter stood over a bubbling cauldron that smelled like burnt turnips and morally questionable decisions. The concoction swirled with color: green, then purple, then briefly an image of a duck in a top hat. He tossed in the final ingredient—a phoenix feather wrapped around a 3-month-old parking ticket—and stepped back dramatically.
"LIVE!" he shouted, raising his staff. "RISE, YE POORLY-UNDERSTOOD CORPSE!"
There was a pop, a sizzle, and a very anticlimactic ding—like a toaster politely announcing you've created a god.
Walter rushed outside, nearly tripping on his own bootlaces. "Did it work?!"
And there he was. The skeleton. Sitting upright on a gravestone like it was a barstool. Legs crossed. Casual. Like death was just a phase and he was here to vibe.
The skeleton looked at Walter. "Oh. Great. You."
Walter blinked. "You... know me?"
"You reanimated me last year," the skeleton said, brushing dirt off his femur. "Right before your exploding gender-swap potion sent you to the ER with three extra knees."
Walter frowned. "Wait… I thought you were just a pile of bones I spilled jam on."
The skeleton gave him a deadpan glare. Impressive, considering he didn't have eyelids.
"Well, I hope you're ready," Walter said, throwing out his arms like a magician mid-failure. "Because you, my calcium-rich friend, are now part of something greater. Something criminal. Something magical. Something incredibly underfunded."
The skeleton tilted his skull. "Are you trying to sell me into a pyramid scheme?"
"No," Walter said. "I'm starting a potion empire. An underground alchemy operation. A black-market wizardry syndicate. We'll make millions. No more begging the Guild for funding. No more bans. No more rules!"
There was a beat.
"…And I'm the first employee, huh."
"Technically, you're the CFO. Chief Fossil Officer."
"…Oh my god."
Walter stuck out a hand. "What do you say?"
The skeleton stood up, stretched like he'd just woken from a two-hundred-year nap, and cracked his neck loud enough to scare off several nearby birds.
"…Fine," he said. "But I'm picking the gang name."
Walter grinned. "Deal."
"Also, I want dental."
"You don't have teeth."
"I could if I had dental."
That Night: The First Brew
They stood in Walter's basement, a cramped, moldy dungeon-like room that smelled like ambition and failure. Glowing crystals flickered overhead. There were cobwebs. One was sentient and judging them silently.
The cauldron simmered.
Walter flipped through his recipe scroll. "We'll start simple," he said. "A basic Confidence Elixir. If it works, we can sell it to desperate nobles, awkward bards, and teenagers with bad mustaches."
"Or," Heisenbones said, "we could make a potion that gives people the illusion of competence. That way, nobody realizes they're actually garbage."
"…That's a love potion."
"Oh."
They began brewing. Ingredients flew. Crystals crackled. At one point, a bat caught on fire. There was chanting. Singing. A brief dance break when Heisenbones started moonwalking.
Finally, Walter poured the mix into a bottle. It glowed faint pink, with sparkles and a suspicious smell of desperation.
"We did it," Walter breathed. "Our first product."
"Do you feel that?" Heisenbones asked.
"What, the weight of destiny?"
"No, the floor's vibrating."
Suddenly, the potion bottle popped its cork and sprayed mist everywhere.
A cloud of magical pink gas exploded through the room, shot up the stairs, burst out the chimney—
—and drifted over the entire town.
Walter stared. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," said Heisenbones. "You just crop-dusted the whole population with a love potion."
"Is… is that bad?"
Heisenbones pointed out the window.
People were gathering. Dozens. Hundreds. All walking toward the shack. Eyes wide. Breathing heavily. Muttering things like "Walter is so dreamy" and "I want to smell his beard."
"…That's not love," Walter whispered. "That's obsession."
Heisenbones nodded. "Yep. We just invented simping. In potion form."