Part One:

At the last second, Oliver leaped from the cardboard drawbridge as it collapsed into the chasm of packing peanuts, clawing his way up the other side. He scurried desperately onward, almost falling in as he navigated a series of cantilevered platforms that sank under his weight. His wife's sneering face loomed above the high walls that rose all around.

"You think you've beaten my prison, pest?" she spat. "I've got one more surprise in store for you. This time you're going to be too LATE for your antidote. DEAD late. Ah ha ha!"

She paused the camera. Oliver sat back on his meaty haunches while she performed the scene change. Her vast hands rearranged the world, lifting props in and out of the rat-sized obstacle course they'd built together that morning. One of the cardboard 'prison' walls fell off and had to be glue-gunned back into place. He reeled in his tail and held it in his lap while glops of hot glue dribbled from on high. The toilet roll tube tunnels were removed to create an open space into which she lowered the wooden mousetrap.

They ran the WitchJusticeTG YouTube channel together. They'd had the idea for it after his wife had shown him her favorite content creator - a hamster completing home-made obstacle courses for peanuts.

"That hamster earns more from a five-minute video than I do in an entire year," he'd remarked jealously. And the channel had sprung from there.

It was a lovely bit of rage-bait. Oliver played the part of the pathologically unfaithful husband, transformed and tormented at the hands of his capricious witch of a wife. He performed the stunts and wrote what could generously be described as the script, while she filmed. Oh, and handled the rather important, arcane, potion brewing side of things.

Their main viewership was the female 45-to-60-year-old demographic, embittered middle-aged divorcees tuning in for their weekly dose of a man being dehumanized, degraded, and put in his proper place, that place being pressed

firmly beneath the toes of a confident woman. After them came the 18-25 males, there for the spectacle of Oliver's fuzzy, feminized butt wedged and wiggling inside toilet roll tubes.

And then there was the female 65-400+ demographic, women of a certain age who couldn't turn mortals into newts as casually as they did in their younger centuries. As his wife remarked, their videos were about the closest thing to witch porn as you could get.

She'd moved away to check the camera, adjusting aperture sizes and exposures and fiddling with the mousetrap's placement until the moneyshot was in crisp focus. "Thanks for being patient, sweetie," she said, rubbing between his floppy ears with a massive thumb.

He draped his tail over the end of the mousetrap. It had been deactivated, the spring removed, so she had to flip the steel bar over onto his tail manually. It'd be a pain to edit out her fingers in post-production and they'd need to speed up the footage to get a convincing snap. Oliver had pushed to use a real mousetrap -it wasn't as if she couldn't just magic away any injuries he sustained- but his wife took his safety very seriously. She'd put her foot down. And when you were six inches tall, a foot being put down was serious business.

They filmed his panicked reaction shot from multiple angles. "Great! I think we got it. So what's the next scene? How do you escape?"

"Um... I don't know," he squeaked, scratching his head. "I'm kinda making this one up as I go along. This is as far as I've written."