Babble-Yaga

***

In the cluttered office of Velgravia TV, Victor juggled a ringing landline and a buzzing cell phone, both going off like fire alarms.

“Yes! Velgravia TV—yes, there are still spots open on the show!” he chirped, wiping sweat from his brow.

The moment he hung up, the landline rang again.

“Uh-huh, just send us a video intro by email. Yep. Great!”

Before he could breathe, the door burst open. Producer Marshall Fate stood in the doorway, waving a comically long list like it was a scroll from hell.

“Victor, what the hell is this?!” he barked. “We can’t afford all these contestants!”

“I can’t stop them! They just keep applying!” Victor spun around, holding up his phone like it was possessed.

“Then tell them we’re full, you moron!”

Victor blinked. “…Oh. I could do that?”

Marshall stared at him for a long, agonizing beat—then turned around and walked out without a word, muttering something about blood pressure.

Then the phone rang again.

“I’m sorry but we’re full alr- … Oh. You’re professional what? … Mhm… Sure, I’ll talk to the boss!”

Victor, overjoyed, stormed Marshall’s office but before Victor could say anything, the producer already dictated the flow of the conversation.

“This is simply too many. We have to create a preliminary round and choose only the best contestants.”

“Of course, that’s a great idea, I was thinking the same thing for a long time! Anyways… I think I have a perfect addition to our staff.”

***

“So let me get this straight,” Madona stirred a bubbling pot of goulash with the intensity of a woman stirring fate itself. “Before you can even compete for the crown, you first have to convince them you’re worth it?”

Fifty lounged across the couch like a dying king awaiting resurrection. “Apparently. It’s called a preliminary round. Some interviews or something.”

“Well, the fortune-teller did say you’re destined to be the next Gypsy King,” Madona said, flicking beef into the pan like blessings. “I have no doubt you’ll be one of the chosen. Just get rid of those gádžo-like manners first.”

Right on cue, the front door burst open.

“I’m home!” Emynem Mirga stomped in with two overflowing shopping bags and the aura of a man who forgot something. “Here, dear—I hope I didn’t—dammit!” He stopped mid-step. “I forgot the eggs.”

Madona froze.

“Oh, wonderful! I send you to the store and this is what I get in return. Why don’t I do everything around this house? Should I also lay the eggs myself?!”

“I told you I’d forget if I went alone!” Emynem defended himself. “Fifty should’ve come with me!”

“Fifty is busy being a Gypsy King candidate,” she huffed, waving a wooden spoon like a royal scepter.

Fifty raised a hand from the couch. “Hey, I haven’t even been selected yet. It’s just the preliminary round.”

“Oh, amazing,” Emynem muttered. “So they’re gonna look at you and say, ‘Hmm, not gypsy enough. Next!’ I told you not to accept this circus.”

“No, you didn’t…”

“I did. And what’s this nonsense about the poor girl being the prize?” Emynem dropped the bags on the table. “I mean sure, she’s a pretty čhajori, but this is inhumane. And what are they even trying to say? That we gypsies should be grateful for being allowed near a white girl? It’s insulting.”

Madona nodded. “Our great-great-grandfathers never missed. They always said: ‘Gypsies for gypsies, and gádže to gádže.’”

Fifty leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “You guys seriously believe that?”

“I lived that,” Emynem replied, pointing to his chest like it was engraved there. “Look, even if a white girl loved you—and I’m not saying she can’t—you’ll always be just a gypsy to her family. I remember your uncle tried marrying a white woman. Whole town called him a thief before he even moved in. That’s the cross we bear for being born different.”

“Oh boy, here it comes,” Fifty sighed. “We’re just a few sentences away from dad’s communist nostalgia.”

“I’m just saying!” Emynem’s voice rose. “At work, I’m ten times more skilled than most of them, but still—it’s always ‘he’s just a gypsy.’ That’s reality.”

“Don’t start lumping everything together again,” Fifty said. “What’s next? Blaming Wi-Fi issues on cultural discrimination?”

“We just want what’s best for you,” Madona cut in, arms folded. “Imagine being married to a white woman for twenty years… and one day, during a fight, she calls you a gypsy. What then?”

“So what? We are gypsies, aren’t we?” Fifty sat up. “You two call white people ‘gádže’ all the time. Why can’t they call us what we are?”

“Because they don’t have the right to say it to our faces!” Madona barked. “Let them say it behind our backs like normal people!”

“That’s… incredibly hypocritical.”

“You don’t understand,” Emynem grunted.

“No,” Fifty said. “I do understand. I just don’t agree. You’re stuck in this old conservative loop where everything is either 'us' or 'them.' I don’t want to live like that. I’m not ashamed to be Romani, but I’m also not here to keep score on who calls who what. I want inclusion. I want things to change. I’m tired of being compared. We’re all human, aren’t we? And I’m not a racist!”

A heavy silence fell across the kitchen. Only the bubbling of the pot kept time.

Then his phone rang.

Victor.

Of course.

Fifty stood, brushing imaginary dust off his track pants. “Victor needs me. Probably something stupid but important-sounding.”

He moved to the door, then paused. “This whole thing might be ridiculous, but I’ve made my choice. I’ll become the Gypsy King. And when I do, I’m gonna change the way both sides think. That’s my dream now.”

He reached for the door and with that, he left.

***

When Fifty arrived at the Velgravia TV headquarters—an aging office building with too much glass and too little dignity—he barely got two steps into Victor’s office before freezing in the doorway.

“What the hell are you doing here?!”

Across the room, perched in Victor’s chair like a crow on a throne, sat the one and only Madam of Maybes with her signature turban and a shawl.

“Well, if it isn’t the prophecy-denying, destiny-deflecting delinquent himself!” she chirped, waving her long-nailed fingers like a villain in a soap opera.

Fifty’s jaw clenched. “I still haven’t forgotten how you scammed my mom out of five thousand crowns. I’ll make you pay us back! Preferably with interest.”

“I’m no scammer, you ungrateful brat! Look where you are now! Right here, right where I said you’d be—competing for the title of the next Gypsy King after Fredi’s death! My prophecy is manifesting!”

“That’s called a coincidence, Babble-Yaga.”

Her eyebrow twitched. “What did you just call me?!”

“I see you bought a new fake wart and glued it to the other side of that huge nose. New look? For aesthetic balance?” he smirked.

She yanked at her shawl defensively. “The old one wouldn’t stick—I mean, this is how I’ve always looked! Natural elegance runs in my bloodline!”

“Yeah, let’s pretend that scene with your wart falling off like a booger of your nose never happened.”

“You arrogant punk! My crystal ball must have been already cracked! Because the likes of you can never become a Gypsy King! And I’ll make sure you never will!”

“Oh no,” Fifty gasped mockingly. “You’ve begun to doubt your own prophecy? Blasphemy!”

At this point, Victor, who had been sipping instant coffee at his desk like none of this was unusual, finally chimed in.

“I see you two have met.” He gestured between them with his coffee mug. “Good. That’ll make the judging panel much smoother.”

“What do you mean?” Fifty asked, blinking.

Victor leaned back, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Madam of Maybes will be the judge for the preliminary round. Her mystical intuition and cultural insight—authentic or otherwise—are exactly the flavor we need to keep the show interesting.”

Fifty’s face drained of all color—because in that moment, he knew: his dream had just hit a wall made of shawls, fake warts, and personal vendettas.

Chapter 4: END