The Illusionist, a strapping young lad none too long in the tooth, came marching onto the stage to set up. He was on after the conjoined contortionists, a hard act to follow by anyone’s standards, and was very nervous. Thankfully, the club’s spotlights shining in his eyes prevented him from seeing the audience; it would be as though they weren’t even there. That would be much easier on him than his usual method of picturing the crowd naked, as this being a West Palm Beach show, there wouldn’t be anyone in the crowd under the age of 70.

“Nothing up my sleeves,” he began, rolling up the arms of his tux jacket. He’d lost the cufflinks to many a rental this way, but it was the only way for him to gain their trust. That was much more important to him than a tailor’s fee.

“And nothing in my hat,” he continued, removing his archaic Stove-top. It was the sort thing aristocrats used to wear back when there still were aristocrats. He placed it down on the table, which was covered in an opaque green cloth, and from it retrieved a white hare. The creature had a distressed look on its face, presumably from having just been materialized out of nowhere.

The crowd clapped respectfully, but were quickly silenced by a cry of “HE’S GOT A CAGE UNDER THE TABLE!” from the back of the room. The illusionist squinted as best he could to make out the heckler’s face, but couldn’t see past the first row of tables. In true cavalier fashion he decided to just ignore the taunt and carry on with his set.

The heckler proceeded though, informing the crowd that the illusionist’s so-called levitation was really just him “balancing on his rear tiptoes,” and that his lovely assistant wasn’t the one flying around under the giant sheet he’d draped her in, but rather a “mesh rigging on a hidden pulley.” The illusionist was startled by the accuracy of his tormentor’s comments, but maintained composure nonetheless. He kindly asked the crowd to refrain from any further outbursts, only to be told by the disembodied voice that if he couldn’t take the heat he should leave the kitchen.

At this point the Illusionist reminded the crowd that beating someone up in the parking lot wasn’t against club policy, and that should they feel the need to, say, take a certain loudmouth out back for a crash course in proper magic show etiquette, it would not be frowned upon. No one stirred though, at least not so far as he could see, so he moved on to his big finale: The Disappearing Barmaid.

From behind a row of barstools came Helga, a hardened southern belle with a scar above her left cheek. She and the illusionist had talked before the show and she was excited to be part of a real magic trick for once; usually she just watched from the sidelines. As a child Helga had seen Marko the Magnificent escape from a padlocked straight jacket, and since then had found herself immensely turned on by any man who could so much as name the card she’d drawn from his deck. Her panties were soaking wet as she approached the stage, and like the levees in her hometown of New Orleans, they failed to stop the flood as it flowed down her legs, but she didn’t notice; she was in a trance. The illusionist couldn’t have asked for a better volunteer.

He had her introduce herself to the audience, though this was unnecessary since most of them were regulars. Everyone clapped for her and she did a little curtsey with her bar smock to show her appreciation. This was her shining moment and everyone in the club knew it.

The illusionist wheeled out an upright oblong box and spun it around in front of the audience just like the magic shop owner had shown him. he instructed Helga to get inside, and once she had, promptly closed the door behind her. Tapping the lid 3 times, he opened the box once more to reveal that Helga was missing.

“FER CHRIST’S SAKE,” a voice cried, “YOU CAN SEE HER SHOES STICKING OUT FROM UNDER THE CURTAINS!”

It was true, Helga had been too excited to wait in the wings for the illusionist to conjure her back, she needed to be right up against the curtains to see the astonished looks on everyone’s faces. Unfortunately, one of her sneakers had slid into an unnoticed crevasse in the fabric and revealed it’s self to the crowd.

Helga was mortified and immediately fled the stage in tears, leaving the illusionist still holding open the door to an empty prop. As she ran past the box its rear trap door sprang open revealing the means of her escape to the crowd. She stopped momentarily to look at it, then let out a whimper and ran through the front door of the night club night club never to return.

“HOW DARE YOU!” The illusionist cried out in outrage.

“Funny,” the heckler persisted, “I said the exact same thing about your pathetic parlor tricks.”

The illusionist clenched his fists. He swore he’d never let his rage interfere with his magic career ever again, but he could feel it welling up inside him at an alarming rate. “So what,” he asked indignantly, “you’ve seen it all before, is that it?” He was beginning to loose control, the anger management councilor had warned him about this.

“Everything and more, my boy,” the voice announced with a condescending chuckle, “There’s nothing you could show me that I haven’t already seen.”

“We’ll see about that,” the illusionist said, a sly grin spreading across his lips as he invited the heckler up for one final act which he promised to be “a total showstopper.”

An old man in an equally ridiculous Stove-pipe hat and tuxedo approached the stage, his cufflinks hanging on by threads. He gave his name and a list of credentials, but the illusionist was no longer listening, he was too preoccupied rounding up the equipment necessary for his next stunt. The old man looked at these materials, an oblong box laid horizontally on a table and a large saw, and scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’re going to saw me in half!” he exclaimed. “Fine then,” the illusionist replied, “I won’t.” And with that he lifted the lid and ushered the old man inside.

“Do you know what the technical term is for this procedure in the medical world?” the illusionist asked.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” replied the heckler, whose head was sticking out from a hole in the box’s side. Similar holes had been drilled on the opposite end for his feet.

“A hemicorporectomy,” the illusionist said, touching his finger to one of the saw’s teeth. A drop of blood ran down into his palm; the blade was sharp enough to do the job.

Because of his restricted range of vision, the old magician saw none of this, though if he had, he would have probably dismissed it as showmanship and thought nothing of it. He began whistling a tune which had accompanied his performances back in his circus days. It had been a long time since he’d been on stage and he was enjoying every minute of it. “A comeback of sorts,” he thought to himself.

Before long the illusionist was ready to begin. He sunk the saw’s teeth into the lid of the box and began pulling it back and forth.

“Aren’t you supposed to put sheets of plastic on either side of the blade?” the magician asked.

“I thought you’d seen it all!” laughed the illusionist.

The old man shut his mouth, embarrassed to be shown up, even if only momentarily, by such an amateur. He was determined to make the illusionist pay for that petty barb, and would reveal the trick’s mystery to the crowd immediately.

“Whoever’s in the hidden compartment on the other side of this rig is pretty good,” he said. “He’s moving his legs exactly the same way I am!”

The illusionist smiled. “I assure you,” he replied, “that you are the only one in there.”

“So robotics is your game, eh? Well, the motion sensors must’ve set you back a bit, but . . .”

“There are no robots either,” the illusionist interrupted. Then leaning in close so only the old man could hear, he whispered “those are your legs.”

The old man looked down and wiggled his feet, then back up at the illusionist. “Then how are you doing this?” he asked, a puzzled look spreading across his wrinkled face. That was when he felt the blade graze his chest.

By now the crowd was awestruck by the performance; it looked so real. The way the old man writhed in pain like he was really being cut open was dead on (no pun intended), and the entrails that spilled onto the stage when the illusionist split the box open were incredibly convincing. It wasn’t until the illusionist was dragged away in handcuffs that any of them started to ask questions, and even then they figured it was all just part of the act.

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