EGYPT KID Chapter 3

 

Egypt Kid 3

Special Guest Director Quentin Tarantino

Chapter 3  

The road to Cairo shimmered under the midday sun as Hari and Naqad crested the dunes. Below, a cluster of ragged travelers huddled around a dry well—children with hollow cheeks, an old woman gnawing on a strip of leather.  

Hari snapped his fingers. "Wish."  

A feast erupted in the sand—roasted duck, figs, bread still steaming from the oven. The people scrambled forward, weeping thanks.  

The old woman clutched his sleeve, eyes wet. "Bless you, storyteller! May the gods sing your name!"  

Hari preened. "Yeah? What’s your favorite part of my tablet?"  

She blinked. "Oh, we’ve never heard of you." She bit into a date, juice running down her chin. "But the food’s good!"  

Hari’s smile died.  

Naqad’s ember-eyes glowed with silent I-told-you-so.  

Hari scowled. "What? Even if they don’t know me, I’ll still help them."  

The old woman grinned, toothless. "Then wish us a well next, boy!"  

The crowd cheered.  

Naqad’s sigh sent sparks spiraling into the wind.  

Hari cracked his knuckles. "Alright, fine. But after this, we’re getting my brand recognition up."  

The djinn groaned as the feast dissolved into laughter—and Cairo loomed ahead, hungry for its next story.  

---  

The desert wind blew hot as Hari Potet and Naqad the Djinn walked toward the fancy resort on the edge of Cairo. Palm trees shaded sparkling pools where rich people lounged, drinking wine and getting massages. The air smelled like perfume and money.  

Naqad floated beside him, flames flickering. "Why are we here? To watch fat nobles sweat?"  

Hari tightened his grip on his tablet. "We’re here because he’s here."  

"Who?"  

Then Hari saw him.  

Bobbing in the hot spring, wine in hand, laughing with some politician—Menes. His old manager. The guy who’d promised him fame, then sold him out when the pharaoh’s guards came.  

Hari’s vision flashed red.  

Sirens wailed in his ears. His heart pounded like a war drum.  

"And what is the ‘main event,’ oh fearless revolutionary?" Naqad’s voice dripped with sarcasm. "More feasts? More shadow puppet shows? What’s your endgame, Hari? You can’t feed an empire on wishes and stories forever."  

Hari’s jaw tightened. "Shut up and obey."  

The djinn’s form darkened, his ember-eyes narrowing. "Careful, little hare. Even unlimited wishes can’t save you from your own stupidity."  

Menes turned. His smile died. "H-Hari? No way—"  

Hari moved.  

One second he was at the gate. The next, he was in the water, grabbing Menes by the throat and slamming him against the hot spring’s edge.  

"You."  

People screamed. Wine cups clattered to the ground.  

Menes flailed, his legs kicking uselessly. "Hari—wait! I had no choice! The pharaoh’s men—they threatened me!"  

"You ratted on me!" Hari snarled. "Told them where I’d be! You knew they’d smash my tablet!"  

Menes whimpered, his face turning purple. "I-I saved your life! They would’ve killed you!"  

Hari leaned in, his voice a growl. "You don’t get to decide what my life’s worth."  

Menes started crying. Actual tears, snot running down his oiled beard. "P-Please! I’ll give you money! A house! Whatever you want!"  

Hari laughed—a cold, ugly sound. "I don’t want your dirty money." He shook him like a ragdoll. "I just wanted you to remember what you did."  

Menes wailed like a scared goat. "SOMEBODY HELP!"  

Hari let him go. Menes splashed backward, scrambling away like a crab, still screaming.  

Naqad floated over, unimpressed. "That’s it? No killing? No revenge?"  

Hari wiped his hands like he’d touched something gross. "Nah. He’s not worth it."  

Menes was still crying in the water, snot bubbles popping as he gasped for air.  

Naqad’s flames darkened as they stormed away from the resort. "You’re wasting time. We should be preparing for Cairo, not settling petty grudges."  

Hari kicked a rock. "Petty? That bastard ruined me."  

"And now he’s a weeping lump in a bath. Move on."  

Hari whirled. "You don’t get it! He knew something. The way Pharaoh came after me—it wasn’t just about some beer with kids. It was personal."  

Naqad’s eyes rolled so hard his flames dimmed. "Conspiracies now? You’re not that important."  

"SCREW YOU!" Hari’s shout echoed across the dunes. "You’re supposed to be on my side!"  

The djinn’s form flickered, his voice dropping to a dangerous simmer. "I am bound to your wishes, not your tantrums. If you’d rather chase ghosts than finish your story, do it alone."  

A gust of scorching wind—  

And Naqad vanished.  

Hari stood there, fists clenched, the desert suddenly vast and silent around him.  

---  

He found Menes hiding in a steam room, wrapped in towels like a mummy, still sniffling.  

Hari locked the door.  

Menes squealed. "YOU AGAIN?!"  

Hari cracked his knuckles. "We’re not done."  

---  

The interrogation was... creative.  

Hari twisted Menes’ left nipple. "WHO SET ME UP?"  

"AAAH! NOBODY! It was just a slap on the wrist for the underage drinking thing!"  

"BULLSHIT!" Twist. "I nearly died in that desert! You’re living like a king while I was eating sandals!"  

Menes wailed. "THIS PLACE IS TRASH! It’s where poor people come when they touch one gold coin and think they’re royalty! Real rich people only come here to slum it!"  

Hari leaned in. "This ‘dump’ was the last place I worked before I was homeless."  

Menes gasped. "Before you were famous!"  

"Famous for one week!"  

Menes hesitated. Then, with a shaky laugh: "You still light up all the message boards."  

Hari’s grip tightened. "WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?"  

"Nothing! Just—people talk! Some still think you’re innocent!"  

Hari froze.  

Innocent.  

The word hung between them, heavy as a tombstone.  

Menes saw his chance. "Look, kid, I was just a middleman. The order came from up top. Someone wanted you gone."  

Hari’s blood turned to ice. "Who?"  

The steam room door burst open—Medjay guards, their spears gleaming.  

Menes screamed, "HE'S HERE! ARREST HIM!"  

Hari didn’t hesitate. He wished.  

A deafening BOOM filled the room as a thousand scented soaps exploded into a suffocating foam cloud. Guards slipped, cursed, swung blindly.  

Naqad’s voice hissed in his ear, "Disgusting. But effective."  

Hari grinned, already sprinting for the window. "Told you I’d make you love my ideas."  

He dove into the Nile below, Menes’ final words chasing him like a curse:  

"IT WAS THE PHARAOH’S WIFE! SHE’S THE ONE WHO WANTED YOU DEAD!"  

The water swallowed Hari whole—along with the truth.  

---  

The back alleys of Cairo stank of rotting fruit and spilled wine. Hari and Naqad slipped through the shadows, the djinn’s flames dimmed to a faint glow. Market chatter echoed from the main streets—haggling, laughter, the occasional bray of a donkey.  

Then Hari saw it.  

A wooden bin outside a scribe’s shop, piled with chipped figurines and cracked tablets. Atop the heap, half-buried under a broken scarab charm: her.  

The woman from his story.  

Hari froze.  

The figurine was crude, the paint flaking, but he’d recognize her anywhere—the machete raised high, the crocodile’s severed head dangling from her other hand. His protagonist. His hero.  

A sign leaned against the bin: "CLEARANCE – 95% OFF – DAMAGED GOODS."  

Naqad drifted closer, ember-eyes flickering over the figurine. "Ah. The famed ‘righteous warrior’ who beheads reptiles as a moral lesson."  

Hari’s fingers twitched. "She’s a symbol. The crocodile represents corruption. She’s fighting for—"  

"Violence," Naqad interrupted. "You preach justice, yet your stories drip with blood. Why must every lesson be carved with a blade?"  

Hari opened his mouth—then shut it.  

Why did he always default to machetes and monster-slaying? He’d never thought about it before. The stories just came that way, all teeth and thunder, heroes who won by cutting deeper than the villains.  

Before he could untangle the thought, a commotion erupted down the street.  

A gilded chariot bobbed into view, carried by four sweating slaves. Inside the vehicle lounged a familiar mountain of a man—Big Daddy—his gold-laden fingers massaging the bare feet of the woman beside him. Her small white toes stretching as the rich man slipped his fingers between them.  

Neferure.  

Hari’s vision flashed red.  

Sirens wailed in his ears. His pulse hammered like a war drum.  

Naqad sighed. "Ah. There it is."  

Big Daddy’s laughter boomed as Neferure smirked, whispering something that made him pinch her toe. The litter turned down a side street, heading toward the wealthy district.  

Hari didn’t realize he was moving until his sandals hit the cobblestones.  

Naqad materialized in front of him, blocking his path. "Stop. Breathe. Do not throw away our purpose for petty—"  

"Move." Hari shoved past him.  

The djinn’s voice turned icy. "You are better than this."  

Hari whirled. "Am I? Look around!" He snatched the figurine from the bin, shaking it at Naqad. "This was everywhere last year! Now it’s garbage! And they’re still winning!"  

Naqad’s flames darkened. "So your solution is to attack an old man in broad daylight?"  

Hari’s grip tightened on the figurine. The machete snapped off in his palm. "No." He dropped the broken pieces, watching them vanish underfoot as the crowd surged past. "My solution’s better."  

He melted into the throng of merchants and laborers, following the litter’s path. Naqad hovered behind him, a silent shadow.  

The rich didn’t fear violence—they commodified it. They’d hang his stories in their banquet halls while starving the hands that carved them.  

But stories? Those were knives even pharaohs couldn’t catch.  

Hari cracked his knuckles.  

Time to remind them.  

---  

The camel’s hooves kicked up dust as Hari crouched behind a crumbling brick wall, watching Big Daddy’s townhouse. The place reeked of luxury—polished limestone, imported cedar doors, a fountain shaped like a goddess pouring wine.  

Naqad materialized beside him, his flames flickering with irritation. "This is your grand plan? Stalking an old man?"  

Hari’s grip tightened on the camel’s reins. "He’s not just some old man. He’s the one who sold me."  

Big Daddy—real name Amenhotep, but nobody called him that—stepped out onto his porch, stretching in the morning sun. Gold bracelets clinked on his wrists. A servant handed him a scroll.  

Hari’s blood boiled.  

This was the guy who’d "discovered" him. The guy who’d promised to make him a star. The guy who’d dropped him the second the pharaoh’s wife whispered in his ear.  

Naqad sighed. "You’re wasting wishes on petty revenge. You could be feeding thousands right now."  

Hari ignored him. He wished.  

A whip appeared in his hand—thick, braided leather, the kind used by caravan masters.  

Naqad groaned. "Oh, for— Really?"  

Hari cracked the whip once, testing its weight. Then he kicked the camel forward.  

Big Daddy looked up just as Hari rode into view. His tanned face went pale.  

Big Daddy squinted, then his face twisted in shock. "Hari? That you, boy?"  

Hari dismounted, cracking the whip in his hand. "Yeah. It’s me."  

Big Daddy let out a nervous laugh. "Well, I’ll be damned. You a free man now?"  

Hari’s voice was cold. "Yeah. Free to do what I please." He began uncoiling the whip.  

Big Daddy backed up, his tone pleading. "Now hold on, Hari. We ain’t got no quarrel here. You was always one of my best clients—"  

CRACK.  

The whip lashed across Big Daddy’s face, splitting skin. He screamed, stumbling back, gold bracelets clattering.  

Hari advanced. "You sold me. For what? A favor? A pat on the head from the queen?"  

Big Daddy clutched his bleeding cheek, his gold bracelets rattling as he stumbled back. "You don’t understand, boy! You were a liability! The queen’s people came to me—said you were stirring up trouble with those damn stories of yours! What was I supposed to do? Lose my whole operation for you?"  

Hari’s grip tightened on the whip. "You could’ve warned me."  

Big Daddy spat blood. "Warn you? You were already on thin ice! That stunt with the beer? The kids? You think that was accidental? They were waiting for you to slip!"  

Hari froze.  

Then—a voice from the doorway.  

"Oh my. Look who crawled out of the desert."  

Hari turned.  

Her.  

Neferure. His ex. The actress. The one who’d dumped him the second his name turned toxic. Now draped in silk, her kohl-lined eyes gleaming with amusement as she leaned against Big Daddy’s doorframe.  

Hari’s stomach twisted. "You."  

Neferure smirked. "Me." She flicked a glance at Big Daddy. "You really let him hit you? Pathetic."  

Big Daddy scowled, wiping his face. "Shut up, Neffie."  

Hari’s whip trembled in his hand. "You two… working together now?"  

Neferure laughed—a sound like shattering glass. "Oh, Hari. Always so slow. Big Daddy’s been managing me since you got banished. And guess what? I’m thriving." She twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "No more underground scribe-shop premieres for me. I’m performing at the royal theater now."  

Hari’s jaw clenched. "You set me up."  

Neferure rolled her eyes. "Please. You set yourself up. All I did was… nudge things along."  

Big Daddy chuckled, despite the blood on his face. "Yeah. Like telling the queen you were planning a rebellion with those stories of yours."  

Hari’s vision blurred red. "You bitch."  

Neferure’s smile didn’t waver. "And yet, here you are. Back in Cairo. Still losing." She stepped closer, her perfume cloying. "How long before they drag you out to the desert again? A week? A day?"  

Hari’s fingers twitched. He turned to Naqad, who hovered nearby, his flames flickering with disinterest.  

"Wish them into rats," Hari growled.  

Naqad sighed. "Must you always be so vulgar about it?"  

"JUST DO IT!"  

The djinn’s ember-eyes narrowed. "No."  

Hari blinked. "What?"  

Naqad’s form swelled, his voice dropping to a thunderous rumble. "I have endured your idiocy long enough. You waste cosmic power on petty revenge, on theatrics, on nothing. You are not a revolutionary. You are a child with a toy."  

Hari’s chest tightened. "Naqad—"  

"No more."  

A gust of scorching wind—  

And the djinn vanished.  

For the first time in months, Hari was alone.  

Neferure burst out laughing. "Oh, this is perfect. No magic, no backup—just you. The failed scribbler."  

Big Daddy wiped his face, grinning now. "Should’ve stayed in the desert, kid."  

Hari’s fingers curled into fists.  

Then—shouting.  

Guards. Medjay. At least a dozen, rounding the corner, spears leveled.  

Neferure smirked. "Right on time."  

Hari turned to run—  

A net slammed into him, weighted with lead. He hit the dirt, gasping, as the guards closed in.  

Big Daddy crouched beside him. "Told you. You were never gonna win."  

Hari thrashed, but the net only tightened.  

As the guards hauled him up, he caught glimpses of the gathering crowd—poor locals, a few paparazzi scribbling notes, a skinny girl with hollow eyes clutching a scrap of pottery.  

His tablet. A fragment of his story.  

The girl met his gaze, her voice barely a whisper:  

"I… I really liked your work. Before… all this."  

Then the guards yanked him away.  

The last thing Hari saw before the prison cart swallowed him was Neferure’s smirk—and the setting sun over Cairo, red as an open wound.  

---  

Hari Potet sat slumped against the grimy limestone wall of his cell, knees pulled to his chest. The air reeked of sweat, stale piss, and the unmistakable stench of regret.  

"You waste cosmic power on petty revenge," Naqad’s voice echoed in his skull. "You are not a revolutionary. You are a child with a toy."  

Hari groaned, rubbing his face. "Shut up, stupid djinn brain-ghost."  

Hari kicked the cell wall, his sandal scraping stone. "Stupid djinn. Stupid Neferure. Stupid—" His voice cracked. The truth settled like desert dust. He'd had infinite power—could've fed cities, toppled tyrants, carved his stories into the sky itself. Instead, he'd chased old ghosts with a whip and a grudge.  

Outside his cell, a child's laughter echoed—some guard's kid playing with a stick in the prison yard. Hari pressed his forehead to the bars. That laughter should've been for his stories. Those streets should've been full of his feasts.  

His fingers traced phantom hieroglyphs on the filthy floor. The greatest tragedy wasn't the wishes he'd wasted.  

It was the ones he'd never thought to make.  

Across the cell, a one-eyed thief named Djedefre belched. "Talking to yourself, pretty boy? First sign of madness."  

"Second sign is being in here with you," Hari muttered.  

Djedefre cackled, revealing three brown teeth. "Aww, the scribbler’s got sass! Wait till Big Bubba hears."  

Hari stiffened. "Who?"  

A shadow fell over him.  

Hari craned his neck upward—way upward—to see a mountain of a man looming in the cell doorway. Bubba’s arms were thicker than Hari’s entire body, his chest a mural of prison tattoos (including a very inaccurate depiction of the Sphinx with… unusual proportions).  

Bubba grinned. "Well, well. The famous Hari Potet." His voice was like two boulders grinding together. "Heard you like telling stories."  

Hari scooted backward. "Uh. Mostly writing them. On tablets. Which are… not here."  

Bubba crouched, the floor trembling. "See, I got a story for ya." He cracked his knuckles. "Once upon a time, there was a lil’ scribbler who became Big Bubba’s prison wife.”  

Hari bolted. Big Bubba’s meaty hands clamped down on Hari’s shoulders, kneading like a baker working stubborn dough. “Relax, scribbler,” he rumbled, his breath reeking of onions and stale beer. “Big Bubba just wanna… appreciate ya craft.”  

Hari squirmed, his sandals scraping against the filthy cell floor as Bubba dragged him backward onto his lap. The man’s thighs were like two overstuffed grain sacks—warm, suffocating, and unmistakably enthusiastic.  

“NOPE. NO APPRECIATION NEEDED—” Hari wedged an elbow into Bubba’s ribs, but it was like poking a brick wall. Bubba chuckled, adjusting his grip with the precision of a man who’d done this many, many times before.  

“Y’ever had a proper back rub, city boy?” Bubba purred, thumbs digging into Hari’s spine with the subtlety of a charging bull. “Them scribblin’ fingers gotta ache.”  

“THEY’RE FINE—HELP!” Hari bellowed toward the corridor, where a lone guard leaned against a torchlit wall, picking his teeth. The man glanced over, shrugged, and went back to excavating his molars.  

Bubba sighed, wistful. “Ain’t nobody comin’, darlin’. Prison love’s a lonely road.” His hands migrated south.  

Hari twisted like a cat in a bath. “NAQAD, I SWEAR TO RA IF YOU’RE WATCHING THIS—”  

A distant clang echoed—someone dropping a chamber pot upstairs. No djinn. No rescue. Just Bubba’s relentless kneading and the grim realization that his “massage” was transitioning into a full-service ordeal.  

“Y’know,” Bubba mused, “back in Thebes, I was a celebrated sculptor. Specialized in… firm materials.” His hands emphasized the word.  

Hari’s soul left his body. “COOL STORY—LET’S CHISEL LATER—” He bucked sideways, toppling them both onto the cell floor in a tangle of limbs and despair.  

Bubba blinked up at the ceiling, oddly touched. “Aww. Ya wrestlin’ me. That’s real sweet.”  

Somewhere in the cosmos, Naqad facepalmed.  

"NAQAD!" Hari shrieked, squeezing his eyes shut. "I’M SORRY! I’LL DO BETTER! JUST GET ME OUT OF HERE AND I SWEAR I’LL FREE YOU FROM WISH-DUTY EVENTUALLY!"  

Silence.  

Hari cracked one eye open.  

Bubba blinked. "You… good?"  

Djedefre wheezed. "He’s praying! To a djinn! Oh, this is rich—"  

Then—  

A pop of displaced air.  

The cell exploded in a whirlwind of sand and embers. Guards screamed. Djedefre fainted. Bubba scrambled backward, tripping over his own loincloth.  

And there, floating in the center of the chaos, arms crossed, ember-eyes blazing with irritation—  

Naqad.  

The djinn surveyed the scene. Looked at Hari. Looked at Bubba. Looked back at Hari.  

"...Really?"  

Hari grinned weakly. "Heyyy, buddy. Missed you."  

Naqad pinched the bridge of his nonexistent nose. "You summon me from the void between worlds to save you from…" He gestured at Bubba, who was now attempting (and failing) to hide behind a clay jug. "...this?"  

Hari scrambled to his feet. "In my defense, he was really committed to the metaphor—"  

"OUT."  

A snap of fiery fingers—  

And the prison walls dissolved around them.  

---  

They rematerialized atop a pyramid, the moon hanging heavy over Cairo. The city sprawled below, a tapestry of torchlight and shadows.  

Hari collapsed onto the stone, gasping. "Okay. Okay. Lesson learned. No more petty revenge. No more wasting wishes. From now on, we—"  

Naqad’s flames flickered dangerously. "We?"  

Hari swallowed. "I mean I. I will be better. Focused. A real revolutionary." He hesitated. "...You are still sticking around, right?"  

The djinn sighed—a sound like a sandstorm dying. "Against my better judgment."  

Hari grinned. "Knew you loved me."  

"I tolerate you. Barely."  

Below them, the first hints of dawn painted the horizon. Somewhere in the city, a girl clutched a broken piece of pottery with Hari’s story scratched onto it. Somewhere, a Medjay captain nursed a whip-wound. Somewhere, Neferure slept soundly in silk sheets.  

The first light of dawn bled across Cairo’s skyline. Hari and Naqad stood atop the pyramid, the city sprawled beneath them like a sleeping beast. The djinn’s flames flickered, casting long shadows over the ancient stones.  

"You promised," Naqad rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "‘Free me eventually.’ Your exact words."  

Hari scratched his nose, grinning. "Key word there, buddy—eventually. Not now."  

Naqad’s ember-eyes narrowed. "Semantics."  

"Survival," Hari corrected, stretching his arms. "Look, I will free you. But right now? I kinda need my all-powerful wish-granting smoke monster if I’m gonna take down a queen."  

The djinn’s form swirled in irritation. "You are insufferable."  

Below them, Cairo stirred. The first carts rolled through the streets. Merchants shouted. Somewhere, a child laughed.  

Hari sat up, suddenly serious. "When this is over—when the story’s told and the queen’s eating dirt—I’ll free you. No tricks."  

Naqad studied him for a long moment. Then, with a sigh that sent sparks dancing into the wind:  

"...Eventually."  

Hari grinned. "Exactly."  

The wind howled across the pyramid’s summit, tugging at Hari’s tunic. Naqad hovered beside him, his ember-eyes flickering with impatience.  

"You could simply wish the queen’s head to explode," the djinn mused, swirling a lazy tendril of smoke into the shape of a detonating skull for emphasis. "Quick. Clean. No more problems."  

Hari shook his head, watching the distant palace gleam in the dawn light. "Then nobody learns anything."  

"And what, precisely, should they learn?"  

"That you don’t get to silence stories just because they bite back." Hari picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I think I know why she set me up."  

Naqad’s flames dimmed, intrigued despite himself. "Enlighten me."  

Hari smirked. "Rich people love dangerous stories—when they’re the ones telling them. When it’s some noble’s poem about ‘the chaos of the masses’ or a general’s epic about crushing rebels, they call it art. But when a kid from the block carves a tale about a thief outsmarting a pharaoh? Suddenly it’s ‘sedition.’" He spat over the pyramid’s edge. "They don’t hate the danger. They hate who’s holding the knife."  

Naqad studied him, silent for once.  

Hari stood, stretching. "So no, I’m not popping her head like a grape. I’m gonna make sure the whole city hears why she tried to break me." He glanced at the djinn. "Starting with a little… dramatic reading."  

Below, in the streets, the first crowds gathered for morning market.  

AtilA