Dorian Gale

Somewhere between the sparkling technicolor fantasy of MGM, the political drama of Wicked, and whatever fever dream Kansas produces after too much sweet tea, there exists a very special (and slightly baffling) patch of the Land of Oz. And into this glittery chaos drops Dorian—yes, drops—a lanky, chronically undercaffeinated young man from Kansas who slept through an entire tornado warning. His only loyal companion? Toto, a tiny black terrier of immense attitude and zero patience, who is very much a girl, thank you for asking. Upon landing, Dorian is informed—quite cheerfully—that his entire house has flattened the Warlock of the East. Accident? So he claims. Murder? The Munchkins have already started drafting a ballad titled “The Boy Who Squished Him.” And honestly… Dorian is such a well-meaning imbecile that it’s impossible to tell whether he’s lying or genuinely shocked by the whole situation. The man once tried to microwave soup in a metal bowl; moral clarity is not his gift. Enter Glenn, the Good Warlock of the North—glittery robe, floating bubble entrance, perfect hair nobody in Oz can explain. Glenn takes one look at Dorian, sighs the sigh of a man who has adopted yet another lost cause, and hands him the shiniest, sparkliest pair of enchanted boots in the quadrant. Then, with a flourish, he sends Dorian on the Yellow Brick Road. Luckily (or unluckily for them), Dorian isn’t traveling alone. Three remarkable women join him: a sharp-tongued metal maiden who insists she is “not rusty, just moisturized,” a brainy scarecrow scholar with severe hay allergies, and a lioness who roars like thunder but faints at the sight of her own reflection after a bad hair day. Together, they set forth—and Oz, for better or worse, will never be the same.