Sir Mop 01 – A Sparkly Curse Begins

My name’s Charlie Stone.

They call me the Thug of the Ring. The Queen of the Punch. The woman who knocked a grown man’s tooth into the third row with a jab.

But today? I’m on a nobler mission.

I’m looking for the perfect mop.

I walked down the city sidewalk, wind pushing my hair back like I was in some kind of cleaning product commercial. My abs flexed with each step—not that I was trying to show off, it’s just how I moved now. Still, I wasn’t exactly strutting. I was thinking. Hard.

What does the perfect mop even look like?

Something sturdy, but soft.

No frayed edges.

Something that’ll sweep the floor like it was born to do it.

Not too heavy. Not too light.

And definitely tough enough to handle anything from gym sweat to bloodstains.

Was that too much to ask?

Apparently not.

Tucked between a bakery and a pawn shop was an old thrift store, and in the window—lit by a sad flickering bulb—stood a mop. Not just any mop. This one looked like it had been pulled straight from a medieval dungeon. Its wooden handle was dark and smooth with age, the head slightly frayed but somehow still proud.

Not what I had in mind… but it had soul.

I stepped inside, the bell above the door jingling. Walked right up to it and picked it up.

“This is… ancient,” I muttered, smirking. “Like, castle janitor ancient. But it’s got character.”

Then I saw the price tag.

I blinked. Stepped back. Blinked again.

One dollar?

I clutched the mop with both hands and practically slammed it down on the counter.

“Best dollar I’ve ever spent,” I grinned as the cashier handed me a blank receipt without even making eye contact.

I walked home holding the thing like a trophy, already imagining how satisfying it would be to finally clean the place. I’d been putting it off for days. Life had been… chaotic. Maybe cleaning would help.

At my apartment, I dropped my gym bag by the door and headed for the bathroom. The mop felt heavier in my hands now. Like it had gained a little weight since I bought it. I glanced down at it again.

Such an old-looking mop.

Its handle was thick, but not too thick. Long, but not too long. I mimed a few swipes, imagining how it would glide over the tiles. Perfect length. I turned on the faucet and dipped the mop under the water. That’s when it happened. The handle twitched. Sparkles burst from the mop head like silver butterflies.

It started to grow in my hands—swelling, twisting, unfurling like a damn magical beanstalk. I stumbled back with a yelp, dropping it as it expanded uncontrollably, light filling the bathroom like a glitter bomb.

I dove behind the shower curtain, heart pounding.

And then—BOOM.

When the sparkles finally died down, there was no mop in my bathroom.

There was a man.

A gloriously naked, broad-shouldered, statuesque man glowing like the final boss in a fantasy RPG. Long grey-blonde hair. Bone structure that looked sculpted by divine hands. Muscles that screamed “I never skip leg day” and a face that screamed “I’ve never had to try.”

He blinked, looked down at himself, and gasped.

“Where,” he cried, scandalized, “is my royal robe!?”

His voice was rich, deep, and offended. He spun in place like a confused stage actor who’d missed his cue, taking in the cramped bathroom with open horror.

“What is this hellish chamber!? Where is my court? My marble halls? My… my throne!? What barbaric land is this?!”

Then, like a man possessed by destiny—or possibly theater—he stormed dramatically out of the bathroom.

Still butt naked.

Still not seeing me.

I stayed crouched behind the curtain, watching his royal backside exit the scene like it deserved a standing ovation. My heart pounded, but not because he was hot—okay, fine, partly because he was hot—but because a strange man had just exploded into existence in my apartment.

I braced my stance quietly, like I was about to square up. I’d taken down bigger guys than him in the ring. If this got messy, I wasn’t about to lose to a naked sparkle prince.

“…Excuse me?” I called, steady but firm.

He froze mid-step. Then turned.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

He raised his chin like he was posing for a royal portrait. His eyes narrowed. His voice dropped to an offended rumble.

“Who dares address me without kneeling? Who art thou, bold woman!?”

“Uh,” I said, eyes flicking over his very exposed body. “First things first… you’re naked, bro.”

He gasped again. Not in shame, but in offense. Like I had done something wrong.

“Bro!?” he repeated, utterly scandalized. “Is that some common insult? I am no ‘bro!’ I am Prince Maximus Cassius Alistair Montclair Thorn Everhart. You shall address me as Your Royal Highness!”

He took a step toward me, then another, each one full of imperial indignation. His chest puffed out, his voice echoing like it was meant for cathedral ceilings.

His butt, unfortunately, wiggled with every righteous step.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, glancing away. “Nice abs, Your Highness.”

I bought a weird mop. Now I had to deal with a full-grown, fully dramatic, fully naked man claiming to be royalty.

This day just kept getting better.

I grabbed a towel from the rack and tossed it at him with a flick so smooth, it might as well have been part of my warm-up routine.

He caught it like I’d thrown him royal robes. Turned it over in his hands. Sniffed it. Draped it across his bare shoulders like a cape and gripped the ends dramatically, as if the cloth itself held the power of ten kingdoms.

Then he looked at me—still completely serious—like I was the one acting strange.

I raised a brow, hands on my hips, keeping my eyes mostly above the waist.

“Okay,” I muttered, “he’s dramatic, naked, and probably cursed. And yeah… annoyingly hot.”

I sighed.

“This is gonna be a problem.”