Origin Story

About MEGADocker - a brief history of a detonated Myrtlewood in a dirty marsh, magic, and a Mad Doctor

Once upon a time, there was a doctor (of sorts). He was probably more of an engineer than a doctor, but he would argue that the line between those things was much more discreet than people tended to acknowledge, and besides there was no good abbreviation for engineer. He was definitely a bit insane then, and even moreso by the end of this story, and so we will refer to him as The Mad Doctor.

The Mad Doctor was only mildly deranged then, but mostly destitute. He made machines to manage the dull duties men were made to do, and he mostly made them well, although he'd sometimes make minor mistakes. One day (mayhaps a dreary Monday in the middle of the month of March) as The Mad Doctor sat in his domicile munching on his meager meal and mulling over the merits of the methodology he used to manage his money, The Mad Doctor made note of a Mote of light merrily dancing in the misty dew outside his main window.

The Mad Doctor decided to move closer to the Mote, so he might determine what the Mote might be made of, and what it may want, but the Mote made a determined effort to mitigate The Mad Doctor's mission. Despite that, The Mad Doctor mobilized, chasing after the Mote for what must have been months, but always the Mote managed to dodge The Mad Doctor's mitts at the deciding moment.

Eventually, The Mad Doctor decided to make a machine to catch the Mote. He molded some mud and mashed a dozen mints into a mug to make a device to could catch the Mote in, and with a mischevious (but not malicious, mind you) grin, he set off to finally detain the devious Mote that had dominated The Mad Doctor's delirious mind.

With his determined disposition and his mug full of mud and mints, The Mad Doctor made haste to the dark, damp marsh where he last saw the Mote, but his muddled mind had been marred by the Mote's deceptive dance, and in his mental disaarray he forgot where he had last detected it. For many moons he despondently meandered, until one morning he met the Mote in the marsh. He climbed over a mossy dead maple and suddenly made note of the Mote, glowing mysteriously. The Mote drifted lazily through the marsh that morning, dipping and descending between the mildewed dogwoods.

The Mad Doctor deployed his mint-mud mug in the darkness that day, and waited for the Mote. He monitored the Mote's movements, and just when he thought the Mote might not like mint, the Mote dropped into the mug. The Mad Doctor mounted the mug (intending to mock the Mote), but just as he peered into the mug's depths, the Mote floated through the side of the mug, mindless of both mud and mint, dodging The Mad Doctor to depart into the darkness.

The Mad Doctor was distraught. Matter didn't discorporate, The Mad Doctor's mind mentioned. "Maybe the Mote is Magic", The Mad Doctor muttered to himself, but just then the Mote detonated, destroying the mighty Myrtlewood it had ducked behind. The molecules of Myrtlewood rained down into the marsh for miles, with not even a dent to The Mad Doctor's derby (which he had made of tin-foil, naturally). The Mad Doctor looked around, amazed that the destruction had defintely missed him by approximately a meter in all directions.

As The Mad Doctor watched a dot of the Myrtlewood debris disappear into the murky marsh, he noticed a modicum of the Mote (maybe a Mite, he mused) drifting out of the muck, then another, and another. But before he could catch them, they diffused into the remnants of the Myrtlewood, which then started to migrate towards The Mad Doctor menacingly.

The Mad Doctor was mortified; he deduced that this mangled Myrtlewood would be his doom, and so The Mad Doctor departed without delay. He made a mad dash through the dark and dreary marsh with home as his destination, but momentarily the Mites demarcated a diameter around The Mad Doctor. The Myrtlewood dollops surrounded The Mad Doctor, and he knew in that moment that his days were done. Dejected, disgraced, defeated by a Mote of light, The Mad Doctor accepted his death.

Despondent, The Mad Doctor dropped his head, his mind racing with depictions of his murderous demise. The Mites, (now recognizable as mirror miniatures of the Mote) drew closer, but did not dispatch him. Indeed, the Mites dispersed from his immediate milieu and deigned to detail a dimly-lit path over drier parts of the dark and dreary marsh, dancing (more-or-less) towards his definite destination. The Mad Doctor, now delighted (if you'll excuse the pun), made his way along the makeshift map, daintily dabbing at the mud and finding the path that the no longer menacing Mites drew out to be dry.

As The Mad Doctor made his way back home, the Mites milled about, dragging a trail behind the Mad Doctor like a marriage-day dress made of moonlight. This delighted The Mad Doctor, and by the time he made it to his door, he knew that he would miss the Mites if they were to depart. The Mad Doctor had, after all,been lonely in his modest little workshop. He opened his door and turned, hoping that the Mites hadn't merely been another of his mental daydreams, and to The Mad Doctor's surprise the Mites had delayed their departure. For an awkward moment the Mites and The Mad Doctor didn't move, until the Mad Doctor declared, "The marsh is damp and miserable. My dear Mites, come in with me and we can make you something more fun to dance with from this Myrtlewood in the morning.". The Mites (both in and out of their Myrtlewood duds) dabbed against the dirt and danced around each other, until they decided they might join the Mad Doctor, and they all made their way inside.

The next day as the morning sun dawned, the Mad Doctor awoke, convinced this had all been a maniacal dream, and that the Mites, the Mote, the Myrtlewood, and even his mug full of mud and mint had merely been another delusion. He rubbed the dust from his eyes and the corners of his mouth, put on his monocle and dropped his feet off the side of his bed, ready to get back to work making the many machines he had designed at his desk. Just before his dirty feet (mud from the marsh had dried on them) touched the floor, he saw a glimmer on his mantle reflected in the mirror from just outside metal edge of his monoce.

The Mad Doctor moved his head to look at the mirror, but detected no Mite on his mantle. Discouraged, he looked down at the mildly dusty floor, where to his surprise he saw there were millions of shreds of the massive Myrtlewood scattered around his room. Right as The Mad Doctor noticed them there, the Mites began to glow and pulse merrily until he had to look away. The Mites spread away from him, clearing a direct path to the making-table in the main room of The Mad Doctor's workshop.

The Mad Doctor moseyed into the main room, where he saw mountains of Mites on the making-table by his Myrtlewood making-mallet. The Mites hummed a mirthful sort of monotone music, divided into multiple mounds of differing disposition. The Mad Doctor declined into his making-chair, and to his delight, the Mites moved his making-mallet towards him, leaving a mildly muddy trail along their drive. The Mites were moist and therefore mostly malleable, he determined. The Mad Doctor mused that the Mites seemed like they desired to be more, and that they might need his direction to do so. The Mad Doctor took his making-mallet into his hands and realized some of the Mites' magic had migrated into it.

The Mad Doctor looked back at his making-table, and saw that several Mites were making themselves into the model of a miniature arm. As The Mad Doctor leaned over to delve into this development, he noticed that his making-mallet started to glow more brightly. When he moved the mallet next to the miniature arm the glow grew detectably more magnificent, which made the Mad Doctor still more disquisitive. Maybe what was more mysterious was that the Mites' music grew even more merry.

The Mad Doctor suddenly knew what the Mites wanted (or so he had determined), and he swung the making-mallet down mindfully at the arm Mites.

Ding!

The sound rang out through The Mad Doctor's workshop.

Instantly, the Mites' music went dead. Dismayed, The Mad Doctor drew back, mortified he may have destroyed his new magical playmates. The MAd Doctor dropped the making-mallet and was mollified by the discovery that the model of an arm had matured into a tiny arm made of Myrtlewood. The Mites began to hum again, and more of them formed into the design of another arm.

Ding! The Mites formed into a torso. Ding! The arms fused together with the torso. Ding! Ding! A pair of legs, too. Ding! They attached themsleves to the upper body.

With each new appendage, the little doll began to glow even more.

The Mites materialized the shape of a head. Ding! The Mad Doctor paused. What if these little Myrtlewood Mites meant him malice? But the Mites did help The Mad Doctor escape the marsh, didn't they?

His hands dithering, The Mad Doctor raised the magical making-mallet again. This might be dangerous, but The Mad Doctor knew he must make this mysterioius doll.

Ding!

The Mad Doctor moved the making-mallet closer to him defensively as he monitored the newly-minted doll.

The doll stood up in a method not unlike the manner that a man might. The Mad Doctor asked the doll in a mousy voice, "Who are you, little doll? What do you want from me, my little Manikin?".

The Manikin pointed at the making-mallet, mutely turning it's eyeless head to face The Mad Doctor. The Mites on the making-table moved into the design of more models while the Manikin motioned to each model definitively in turn, miming the mallet motion he had made, and all the while meeting The Mad Doctor's gaze.

For a moment, The Mad Doctor meditated on what dreadful monstrosities might derive from the machinations of the Manikin, but only for the merest moment. Ding! Ding! Ding! Another Manikin manifested on the making-table. Ding! Ding! Ding! As more of the magic dolls were developed from the mound of Mites, the mushrooming Mob of Manikins began helping to mold the parts of their duplicate draftees. Ding! Ding! Ding! As the Mob grew more multitudinous and the mound of Mites in turn more miniscule, the Mad Doctor began to sing along with the Manikins in their made-up mumbling diction. Ding! Ding! Ding! The din of The Mad Doctor's making-mallet drummed out a delerious and disconcerting metre on his making-table.

Minutes merged into hours, and before The Mad Doctor knew it, the morning of the next day had dawned, and the seemingly measureless mound of Mites had been undividedly depleted. Surrounding The Mad Doctor was a mighty Mob of Manikins - mute, but mimicking The Mad Doctor (mostly). Drained, The Mad Doctor desisted, depositing his making-mallet at his side. The mystic demands of the Manikins' magic had debiltated The Mad Doctor. He got dizzy, and reached in vain for the edge of the making-table, but fainted, descending to the dirt floor, and knocking over his making-mallet with a final "ding", muted by only his messy mullet.

The Manikins looked down at The Mad Doctor from the mantle, the making-table, and the many other places they had dispositioned themsleves. They looked at each other, and their mumbled music took on a questioning tone as they debated their next move. The Mad Doctor had helped them, and so they decided to maintain him mutually. The Mob moved as one magnanimously motivated dedicated division of disciplined diabolic minions. The Manikins marshalled their masses and moved The Mad Doctor to his mattress to rest.

As The Mad Doctor drowsed, his delusional dreams distressed him. He mumbled to himself, but the Manikins did not mitigate his midnight mutterings. They marched back to The Mad Doctor's making-table, and together they manipulated his making-mallet. Ding! the Manikins' ditty drilled into his head with each measure of the making-mallet. Ding! Sometimes their ditty devolved into a depressing mournful dirge, at others it morphed into a military marching melody. Ding! Ding! Ding!

The Mad Doctor awoke alone in darkness. No moonlight made it through his dusky drapes. The making-mallet was distant and muffled, but still he discovered it amidst the Mob's music. The Mad Doctor stumbled to the door, but it seemed more distant than in his memory. Where was he?

The dulcet Ding of the making-mallet grew more distinct, and maybe most disturbingly The Mad Doctor's door handle was different. This must be delerium, he decided.

Despite that, The Mad Doctor delicately opened the door and looked down. This was not the mere dirt floor of his meager domain. The Manikins had definitely detained him deep in some dungeon. Dismayed, he descended the stairs he discovered outside the doorway. With each meter into the depths, the making-mallet's Ding seemed more deafening.

As he neared a massive marble door near the bottom of the stairs, The Mad Doctor discerned a marvelous scent. As he stopped to smell it, the now mirthful music of the Manikins suddenly ceased. Did he dare open the door?

While The Mad Doctor debated, a Manikin opened the door, carrying a dish full of delectable muffins and doughnuts. The Manikin dutifully delivered the dish of morsels to him, but The Mad Doctor barely paid it mind.

His making-table and making-mallet were there, but this was most definitely not The Mad Doctor's workshop. His dirt floors were now metal, his modest drapes replaced with decorative dossers, his demure wood stove made into a much more majestic model, and everywhere he looked, the Mob of Manikins milled about his majorly developed manufactory.

The Mad Doctor was dumbstruck. "Did you Manikins do all of this?", he muttered. The Mob looked at him and nodded in mechanical unison. A Manikin brought him a cup of matcha tea and handed him a muffin from the dish, then dispensed a modicum of margarine on it, which melted directly.

The Mad Doctor decided that the Manikins were defintely a dynamic and mighty magic. As he plopped down at his making-table in disbelief, he marvelled at the myriad duties the Manikins had done so masterfully. What were the maximum margins of this delightful development?

"Could I maybe have a doily?", The Mad Doctor asked the Mob. Ding! The sound rang out from the dark depths of his mansion, and a Manikin brought him one. The Mad Doctor devoured his last morsels and asked, "Would you do my dirty dishes?" Ding! A Manikin departed with his dirty plate and decanter. "Don't forget to dry them." Ding! A few Manikins brought towels to the sink. "Did the daily paper arrive?" Ding! Another Manikin brought him the Monday news magazine. "Might I have a manly manicure?" Ding! Half a dozen Manikins started to massage his hand and detach the detritus from under The Mad Doctor's dingy fingernails.

The Mad Doctor's requests deliberately gave way to demands. "Bring that document to me." Ding! "Make me some mango marmalade." Ding! "Dig me a deep ditch." Ding! The Manikins danced at his commands, desperate to meet his desires.

Eventually, The Mad Doctor's demands became mere demonstrations of his dominance. "Design me a modern dance hall made of decoupage!" Ding! "Dedicate a dozen demonstrations to my majesty!" Ding! "Massacre a million damn mosquitos!" Ding! "Move those mountains to the dark side of the moon!" Ding!

Miraculously, every time The Mad Doctor made a decision, the Mob devotedly discharged The Mad Doctor's missions. Day and night, the Manikins marched down from his mansion to do whatever The Mad Doctor decreed.

And The Mad Doctor lived (mostly) happily ever after.

Hey, you asked.