The next morning, Mack had decided to get more familiar with his surroundings, and explore some new places. The morning sky was bright and blue, and people were bustling all around to get to work.
Mack walked against the current of the crowd, barefoot, robe fluttering slightly with each step. Some commuters recognized him from the news or grainy, chaotic TikToks. They stared. A few screamed. One woman dropped her coffee and sprinted across the street.
Mack smiled gently at a child who was pointing at him through a bus window.
"Stay weird, little one," he said.
Inside his head, Wally sighed."This is not reconnaissance. You're just walking around aimlessly."
"I'm absorbing the local atmosphere," Mack said aloud, spinning in a slow circle. "It's important to understand a city's soul if I'm going to conquer its subconscious."
"We're not conquering anything. We're trying not to be arrested again."
Mack turned into a side street, wandering past closed restaurants and coffee shops trying to open without incident. He paused in front of a storefront with blacked-out windows and a flickering neon sign that read:
VINYL VORTEX.
"Oh no," Wally said immediately.
Mack leaned in close to the glass. "What… is this?" he whispered.
"It's a music store. We are walking away now."
But Mack was already through the door.
...
The little bell above the door jingled as Mack stepped into Vinyl Vortex.
It was dimly lit, the kind of lighting that made you unsure whether it was ambiance or just several neglected lightbulbs. Rows of waist-high racks stretched across the store, packed with CDs in cracked jewel cases, dusty vinyl sleeves, and a few mysterious cassettes that looked like they hadn't been touched since 1987.
The smell was a mix of old plastic, carpet cleaner, and something faintly lemon-scented—probably from a desperate Febreze attempt. Posters of artists from every era were tacked onto the walls: Bowie, Madonna, Rage Against the Machine, Prince, and at least three unrelated pictures of David Hasselhoff.
Mack tiptoed between the aisles like he was in a sacred tomb.
"This place is haunted," he whispered, holding his staff close.
"It's a store," Wally replied dully. "And it smells."
Mack bent low to a rack of CDs labeled FUNK/SOUL/RARE.
He picked up one case and held it inches from his face."Trapped," he breathed. "Each disc… a soul sealed in a musical loop."
The CD cover depicted a man frozen mid-saxophone blast.
"Speak, spirit!" Mack hissed at the image. "Reveal to me your curse!"
He reached out his hand and let a low pulse of purple energy flow from his fingertips. The air shimmered faintly around him. A few jewel cases rattled on their shelves.
"Mack—cut it out," Wally snapped. "No magic. No reality distortions. You're going to—"
"Liberate," Mack interrupted, eyes glowing faintly. "Yes. I must liberate them."
He spread his arms. Magical energy bloomed around him like heat off asphalt—warm, humming, dangerous. A low, otherworldly vibration began to fill the store.
That was enough.
The energy pushed too far.
And the two switched.
His arms dropped.
The glow vanished.
His shoulders squared.
Wally blinked once, now in control.
He looked around sharply.
"…We're in a music store."
He turned toward the counter, ready to apologize.
And that's when it happened.
A low glint of movement.
Glass.
A small framed poster behind the counter.Framed in reflective plexiglass.
Wally caught sight of it. Just a flicker.
His eyes twitched.
And the two immediately switched back.
"Oh HOO! That was a spicy rewind," Mack chirped, fully returned, eyes wide. "Thanks for stabilizing, Wall-boy."
"This is a waste of energy," Wally muttered inside. "And we've been back for six seconds."
Mack clapped his hands once.
He turned slowly, scanning the rows—until he saw it.
A single CD, crooked in the rack.
Jamiroquai – Return of the Space Cowboy.[1]
Now the logo on the album greatly resembled a creature Mack was familiar with back in his dimension, and seeing such a majestic creature imprisoned in a small case was shocking.
"No…" he whispered, voice trembling. "It can't be…"
Mack cradled the CD like it was the last ember of a dying star. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"This... this is no mere music. It's a cage for souls..."
He glanced around the store, as if expecting the ghostly dancer to materialize and thank him for the rescue.
The cashier, a teenager with pink hair and a hoodie emblazoned with a band logo no one had heard of, raised an eyebrow.
"Uh, sir? You can't just grab stuff like that."
Mack didn't hear her. His fingers traced the cover reverently.
"I must free him," he declared, voice trembling with righteous fury.
Before Wally could even think of a way to intervene, Mack stomped toward the back of the store, nearly knocking over a precarious tower of Bee Gees compilations.
He reached for the ancient stereo system—a relic that looked like it hadn't been touched since dial-up was a thing.
The cashier hurried over. "Hey! You're not allowed to use that!"
Mack ignored her, pressing the 'Play' button with the solemnity of a high priest opening a sacred tomb.
The first notes of Just Another Story hummed through the speakers.
Mack's eyes rolled back in blissful trance.
Then he began to move.
Not quite dancing, not quite casting a spell, but something… somewhere in between.
He twirled, waved his staff, and muttered strange phrases under his breath.
The store seemed to respond—the CDs on the shelves rattled, the neon lights flickered, and a stray vinyl started to spin on its own.
The cashier backed away slowly, pulling out her phone.
"Uh, I'm calling security."
Mack shook his head, eyes blazing.
"Oh no. The Phantom Dancer demands release. We must dance."
He spun again, faster this time, the music swelling.
A low hum of energy pulsed outward, turning the store into a chaotic disco battlefield.
CDs flew like shurikens. Shelves collapsed. A poster of Elton John caught fire.
The cashier screamed.
Customers scattered.
And Mack? He grinned wildly, declaring:
"I DECLARE WAR ON THIS CURSED ARCHIVE!"
[1] This is a great album, you should definitely listen to it