by

Mark Rosenblum

“Dis is the last audition of da night, boss,” says Joey, the rotund producer’s assistant, squinting at a clipboard.  The lights are turned low in the old, deco theater know as the Royale.  Only the stage lights are bright, shining hope on the next to try out.   

“This pug better be good,” says Karl, the television producer who needs a showstopper; a rising star to punch up sagging ratings on his reality show, America’s Got Something. 

Entering stage right appears The Masked Magician, face obscured by a black hangman’s hood.  He leisurely wheels a large wooden box to the center of the theater stage. 

“Would you look at this disturbed son of a bitch, what’s his story?” asks Karl. 

“He told me he was once da best in the bizz; sez he’s been washed up since his wife left him a year ago—hit the bottle and da skids—but seein’ your audition ad in da paper gave him a comeback idea.” 

The Masked Magician—now standing center stage—faces his audience of two.  He adjusts his hood; the whites of his eyes peering out from behind jagged slits.  He raises his arms, letting loose sleeves descend against his elbows to prove there are no hidden objects.  Then, with a flourish of fingers, a deck of cards appears in the palm of his right hand.  He waves his left hand above the deck and without touching them; cards suddenly flutter into the air in all directions, tossing themselves out into the empty seats.  A few land near the producer and his assistant, who fail to notice that every card is a Suicide King. 

The Masked Magician takes a deep bow as Joey’s applause echoes loudly against the walls of the theater.

“Not bad, eh, boss?”

“Sit down,” Karl grumbles, unimpressed.  

On stage, the Masked Magician points a long, bony index finger outward.  The finger curls back slowly summoning the producer to join him onstage. 

“I’m not going up there with that hooded freak.”

“Come on boss, have some fun,” says Joey.  “Besides, what’cha gotta lose?” 

Karl slowly ascends the stage.  The Masked Magician slides a large steel bolt open on the box, and silently ushers his volunteer inside.  Karl steps into the box, turns and stares out with indifference at the Masked Magician, who slams the door shut and slides the bolt securely into place. 

The Masked Magician slowly ambles around the box.  While he is briefly out of view behind the box, Joey, now on the edge of his seat, is certain he hears a faint sound emanate from the wooden cabinet but pays it no heed as he eagerly awaits the trick's ultimate reveal. 

Soon, the Masked Magician comes around to the front, waving his hands and uttering a few unintelligible words of hocus-pocus.  With his promenade of prestidigitation concluded, The Masked Magician slides back the bolt and flings open the door. 

Karl is sitting cross-legged upon a blood-soaked floor.  His trembling, crimson-stained hands are clasped between his legs and his face is distorted in agony. 

The Masked Magician removes his hood, leans into the box and stares into Karl’s eyes which are now opened wide with recognition and says, “I wouldn’t worry too much about losing it, Karl.  You know my ex-wife doesn’t have a problem finding herself another prick.”