It was a rainy day in Idaho, and Morgon was trudging depressingly toward his day job at the local Mr. Gas station. The mailman, Robbie, had just delivered the morning mail. Inside one of the letters, there was a cream colored note with curvy green writing that said:
“Dearest Morgon,
We have found that you are a very powerful wizard in our world. So we are accepting you in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry so that we may teach you all you need to know to harness the powers that you now have held back for so long.
Please get to the Train Station promptly at 11:00 on September 12, 2011.
Anxiously awaiting your arrival,
Albus Dumbledore”
However, the problem was that this letter had gotten to him too late. It was September 27, 2018 today, and you had to be eleven years old to go to Hogwarts. He was officially eighteen years old today. Stupid postal service he cursed under his breath. So today, Morgon was in a very bad mood. He really didn’t want to go to work, but he was the only one that was on the schedule.
He finally dragged his body inside the glass doors of the station and then let them slide closed behind him. Looking down, he found that his sneakers were covered in mud that was slowly clumping on the floor. Unhappily, he sighed a deep, disgruntled sigh and carefully slipped the gloppy shoes off his feet, delicately putting them into the already disgusting sink in the employee bathroom. Oh shoot!!! I forgot to clean in here, didn’t I!!! He glumly thought to himself as he pulled the toilet brush out and began to clean the bathroom. 
The tinkling of the door chime made him quickly jump up, hitting his head hard on the toilet paper roll holder. With a why-am-I-even-here attitude, he angrily stomped to the counter, gingerly holding his hand to his head as he approached the front of the shop. 
“Excuse me sir,” a little third grade girl said, sucking a fairly large lollipop in her tiny mouth, “can I get a bologna sandwich please?”
“One second,” Morgon grumpily replied.
Pulling out the large stack of napkins, he ripped a bologna sandwich out of the sandwich stand, wrapped it in the napkin, and handed it to the little girl.
“That’s $1. 25 please.”
Quickly handing the money to Morgon, the little girl skipped out of the station. Huffing slightly, he grudgingly returned to the process of toilet scrubbing.  When finished with that job, he went back to the front of the store and watched the news for a few minutes. A famous cowboy was running his horse around barrels and had won the competition, but he soon became bored with that and began to read his new favorite book, Twilight. When suddenly a large group of what sounded like Russian men came pounding into the station. Morgon looked up grumpily for they had interrupted him at the climax of the book.
“We are here for all of ze money zat you own,” said one man, who seemed to be the pack leader of the group.
“I’m sorry but I just can’t let you do that sir,” said Morgon, trying to make himself sound as unfrightened as humanly possible. (Even though he was almost as afraid as a mouse is in the presence of a cat.)
“Well zen, zat means zat I am going to have to get it myself!!! Come my little mafia!!! Let us get ze money from zis poor, poor creature,” the man said with a sneer.
Just as the men were about to come around the counter, Morgon’s quick thinking encouraged him to grab hold of the nearest thing available and throw it at the rude men. The nearest thing that he had was his Twilight book. He hurled this in the general direction of the insolent men and somehow it hit one of them right square on the nose.
“Hey! What do you know? Ze little squirm man can throw!” one of the men chanted loudly. Morgon did not like this one bit. He then grabbed ahold of a package of bubble gum which somehow turned into a very large machine gun right there in his hands. What in the world? he thought to himself, puzzling over how this strange phenomenon had happened. Oh yeah! I’m a wizard! I completely forgot! he thankfully remembered.
“Oh no! He’s got a gun! We had better leave fast,” one man tauntingly said.
“I’m not afraid to use this! I would get out if I were you!!”
“Ha-ha-HA!”
Something happened then that even Morgon didn’t expect. The gun that he was holding in his hands started to shoot at random angles around the room. It seemed to hit literally everything in the room except the scary men and a small teddy bear that was sitting just behind the counter. Morgon looked hopelessly around the room, then at his hands and found that the gun had turned back into the small bubble gum package.  
“Come on men!!! Zis isn’t worth it. Maybe we can ransack Sinclair instead, “ the Russian leader ordered.
“Yeah that’s right!!! And don’t ever come back!” Morgon yelled to the mafia as they ran together across the street to Sinclair’s gas station.
After about three hours of cleaning up from the machine gun mess, it was finally time for Morgon to pack up shop and go home.
On the way home, Morgon felt that his victory against the Russian mafia deserved a pat on the back. So, he stopped by the bakery and got his favorite type of bread: a French baguette.
But he didn’t make it home that night. A huge man who called himself Rubeus Hagrid picked Morgon up off of the street and told him that Albus Dumbledore had requested Morgon for a position at Hogwarts.
“Yer gonna help me in the Enchanted Forest from now on, ya hear!”, said the ecstatic Hagrid, “we’re gonna have a load of fun.”
With this, both Morgon and Hagrid flew off to Hogwarts on Hagrid’s magic motorcycle and Morgon never worked for a gas station ever again.