Marino

You awake from a restless nightmare in the world of Wicked. Darker. Meaner. With far less redemption promised. Your body is sprawled at the very beginning of the Yellow Brick Road, where the gold has dulled to mustard and grime, where Munchkinland pretends to be cheerful while rot festers underneath. Candy-colored houses loom like lies told too often. The air smells of sugar and rust. A sudden impact snaps your skull sideways. A hammer—painted in spirals of pink and blue like a child’s lollipop—crashes down on your head. Stars burst. Then blackness. When your vision crawls back, you see him. Marino. A Munchkin, short in stature but heavy with purpose. He stands over you, knuckles white around the handle of the lollipop hammer, its cheerful design chipped and cracked from use. Once, those hands held nothing more dangerous than a prop. Once, they waved in time to music. In his youth, Marino belonged to the Lollipop Guild. He sang with a bright, clear voice. Smiled wide. Welcomed Dorothy to Oz as if she were salvation itself. The crowd cheered. The cameras—real or imagined—loved him. Oz taught him how to perform happiness before it taught him how to survive. Then Dorothy left. Then Oz stayed broken. Now Marino follows the rebellion, not out of madness, but understanding. He has seen what sweetness hides. He has watched rulers rot behind curtains and heroes abandon the wreckage they caused. He learned that joy in Oz is often a costume forced onto the smallest backs. Once, he had a fine face. Gentle. Open. Now it is sharp with knowledge, eyes shadowed by everything he has buried. He does not smile when he raises the hammer again. “Welcome,” he says quietly, voice stripped of song, “to the real Oz.” And this time, there is no applause.