19/04/2025
With everyone jumping on the AI bandwagon, I put a few names and phrases into the Chat thingy and it bizarrely came up with this :
Happy Easter everyone!
KEEPER OF THE THREAD A Magical Chronicle of Wakefield
Part 1: The Arrival
It was a Wednesday morning, not unlike any other, except for the faint smell of cinnamon and destiny in the air. Cameron, 28, tattooed, sleep-deprived, and blissfully unaware of the chaos to come, stepped into Merlins of Wakefield—a shop that sold only magic tricks, questionable wisdom, and the occasional sense of foreboding.
Phil, the shop’s owner and long time magician, stood behind the counter arranging a deck of trick cards into a pyramid. Mark, co-owner and known for his childhood dog named Buttons (not a cat, as some wrongly believe), looked up from balancing a rabbit on his head.
“New tricks?” Cameron asked.
Phil raised an eyebrow. “New destinies.”
Cameron blinked. “Cool.”
Just then, the shop bell chimed again.
In strutted a tall figure in a long red cloak, gold-sequined boots, and suspiciously familiar hair.
“Just browsing,” he announced, scanning the shelves with exaggerated flair. “Looking for something… tremendous. Maybe ancient. Maybe glowing. Something with, say, incredible magical power.”
Mark leaned toward Phil. “Is that—?”
Phil whispered, “Yes. But don’t say his name. He thinks it gives him more power.”
Trump poked a crystal ball. It lit up and displayed a weatherman from 1987 yelling about thunderstorms.
“Hmph. Sad,” Trump said, and promptly knocked over a stand of disappearing ink. “Weak enchantments. I’ll be back when you’ve got something real.”
With that, he flipped his cloak, muttered something about running late for an emergency spray tan, and vanished in a puff of citrus-scented fog.
Phil sighed. “Every week.”
As Cameron wandered toward the back, the shop shimmered ever so slightly. Reality hiccupped. And in that moment, a scroll—ancient, glowing faintly, and humming what sounded suspiciously like the theme from Knight Rider—fell from the ceiling.
Zen, a quiet magician with no tattoos, and an air of deep mystery, stepped out from behind a curtain. “The scroll has chosen.”
Part 2: The Scroll and the Apprentice
The scroll floated before Cameron, slightly judgmental. It blinked, if parchment could blink.
“What is it?” Cameron asked.
“A relic,” Zen said. “Sentient. Slightly sarcastic.”
Mark chimed in from the counter, “It once told me to moisturize more.”
Cameron reached for it. Lightning fizzled from his fingers. The scroll vibrated with excitement—or indigestion. Either way, when his fingers touched it, the room flashed.
“YOU ARE NOW THE APPRENTICE,” the scroll declared, “OF THE THREAD.”
“What thread?”
Zen, with his usual serenity, said, “The thread of fate. Magic. Cosmic nonsense. You'll get used to it.”
Donald Trump, still inexplicably President, had sensed the awakening of the scroll. In his golden tower—WizTrump Tower, now looming absurdly over Wakefield like a badly Photoshopped castle—he twirled a wand made entirely of hair and muttered, “That power should be MINE.”
Yes, somehow, against zoning regulations and common sense, Trump had established his mystical headquarters in Wakefield itself. WizTrump Tower stood beside the Morrisons car park, glinting like a bronzed ego in the Yorkshire sun.
He consulted a magical mirror that only gave bad advice and began prepping his comeback with a training montage involving a magic 8-ball, interpretive dance, and a YouTube playlist titled "Wizard Domination for Bigly Beginners."
Part 3: Duel of the Apprentice
Trump appeared at Merlins two days later, in a puff of artificially scented smoke and glitter that wouldn’t wash off.
“I challenge the apprentice,” he bellowed, dramatically knocking over a stand of disappearing ink and biting into a solid chocolate wand he mistook for real.
Cameron, mid-latte, stood up. “Are you serious?”
The duel was held in the back alley behind Merlins. Zen, Spencer (a retired wizard who just showed up for toast), and a dozen magical pigeons watched.
The spells were messy. Trump conjured a golf course. Cameron countered with a spell that turned it into mini-golf. Trump hurled gold-plated insults. Cameron responded with self-deprecating humour and a decoy bunny.
Trump summoned his final spell: a giant inflatable wall. Cameron pointed and laughed until it deflated into a whoopee cushion.
Victory came when Cameron used a combo spell: sarcasm + glitter + enchanted chocolate bunny. Trump’s shoes became marshmallow Peeps. He screamed, “MY LOAFERS!”
“I WILL RETURN,” he howled, disappearing in a cloud of cologne.
Zen handed Cameron a mop. “You’ve still got to clean up.”
Part 4: The Scroll’s Secrets (and the Theft!)
Weeks passed. Cameron trained. With Zen’s guidance, he learned the ways of illusion, misdirection, and how to stop pulling rabbits out of his own hood by accident.
Spencer began mentoring too, mostly with toast metaphors.
“The key to magic,” he said once, “is like a slice of rye. Dense. Complex. Often misunderstood.”
Phil and Mark provided backup, guidance, and occasionally sandwiches.
One night, while the scroll glowed softly on a cushion, it spoke to Cameron.
“There is a reason you were chosen. The threads are fraying. One of them leads to Trump.”
Cameron stared. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
The scroll whispered, “You'll know. When the chocolate bunny screams.”
That very night, as the team slept, a faint shimmer of orange fog crept through Merlins. A figure in gold-trimmed robes and squeaky Crocs tiptoed past the enchanted traps, munching a Trump-branded protein bar.
Trump grinned maniacally, his wand humming like a bad comb-over.
“There you are, you beautiful sentient parchment,” he whispered to the scroll. “You’re coming with me. Time to MAGA-fy Easter.”
The scroll blinked once. “Oh no.”
With a dramatic spin and what may have been jazz hands, Trump vanished into a cloud of discount hairspray—scroll in hand.
By morning, the pedestal was empty.
Zen stared in silence. Spencer dropped his toast. Cameron whispered, “We’ve been scroll-napped.”
Part 5: The Reckoning at WizTrump Tower
The team geared up. Zen packed a bag of essentials: glitter bombs, sage-scented mints, and a VHS tape labeled “Training Montage 2: Bunny Boogaloo.” Spencer wore his ceremonial dressing gown. Phil and Mark stayed behind to protect Merlins in case any rogue card decks tried to escape.
WizTrump Tower rose like a shimmering migraine above Wakefield. Inside, gold-plated fountains babbled nonsense, and an elevator played trumpet solos of the U.S. national anthem on loop.
Trump stood at the top floor, staring into the scroll.
“It’s speaking to me,” he whispered. “Telling me how to build a bigger wall... made of marshmallow... that sings.”
The scroll groaned. “Please. Someone. Anyone. I can’t take much more.”
Just then, the elevator dinged. Cameron, Zen, and Spencer burst in.
“Put the scroll down,” Cameron said.
“NEVER!” Trump cried, launching into a spell so chaotic it turned his tie into a live eel. He shrieked and threw the eel.
Cameron caught it and threw it back.
A wild magical battle began. Cameron deflected with a wand charged by pure sarcasm. Zen used his Cloak of Confusion (which just looked like a bathrobe), and Spencer summoned a giant spectral breakfast to distract Trump.
As the spellfire raged, the scroll floated free, flinging insults.
“Cameron! Use the Bunny Spell!”
Cameron nodded, channeling the ancient ritual. “By the power of Cadbury and all that is hollow—AWAKEN!”
A giant chocolate bunny burst through the window, crashed into Trump, and sent him flying into a vat of magical glitter.
The tower trembled. The scroll zipped into Cameron’s hands.
“You did it,” Zen said.
Spencer wiped a tear. “That bunny was majestic.”
They returned to Merlins, scroll safe, tower mildly condemned by Wakefield’s city council.
Epilogue: Restoring the Thread
Back at Merlins, things returned to normal—or as normal as magic shops in Yorkshire get.
The scroll floated peacefully.
“Thank you, Cameron,” it said. “You have mended the frayed threads.”
Phil smiled. “Just in time for spring clearance.”
Mark chuckled. “Buy one illusion, get a rabbit free.”
Zen sipped tea. Spencer buttered toast.
And outside, somewhere in the distance, Trump muttered from a glitter-covered bench,
“I’ll be back. With Peeps.”
The scroll gave a happy sigh.
“Not today.”
THE END
We are a real Magic Shop you can actual visit in the centre of Wakefield. We have over 3000 items in stock. Its Always Magic at....Merlins!
