Mazdare The Magician

June 20, 2011 at 8:31 pm (Short Story) ()

Mazdare the Magician.

The name and the face gazed out from the poster of the Pantages Theatre.

He had long dark hair, piercing dark eyes and a dark moustache.

In the poster, he doffed his magician’s hat (from which many a rabbit had made a quick exit) and held his magic wand.

Stars circled around him in the poster.

Mazdare the Magician.

“My gosh, you look awfully familiar,” a distinguished voice spoke to the poster and the speaker of that voice doffed his hat.

“Ah, I can see why,” the speaker pointed his finger at the face on the poster and took a sip from his bottle of bourbon, “I believe I see your face in the mirror every morning when I shave. That is after I’ve shaved. I believe I have a lot more stubble on my face before I shave.”

Mazdare the Magician laughed and stumbled along the alleyway before reaching the street.

“Now, the motel is… where is the motel?” Mazdare licked his finger and held his wet finger in the air to tell which way the non-existent wind was blowing, “ah… this way.”

He pointed and moved up the street.

He stopped to take a leak against a lamp post.

As he urinated, he sang, “Old Man River. That old man river… yes, old man river keeps rolling along.”

When he felt no more coming out, he looked down.

“Has old man river finally stopped rolling along?” He looked down and when he decided that Old Man River had indeed stopped rolling along, he put it back and pulled up his zipper.

“Strange,” he thought, “I must be in China because that river sure looked like the Yellow River while it was flowing.”

He continued on down the street towards the motel.

He passed the tavern which was right next to the motel.

He looked at the flashing neon lights of the tavern.

And then at the flashing neon lights of the motel.

Carlotta would be waiting for him on the second floor of the motel.

“Just one drink,” he spoke to the neon light in the tavern window, “just one drinky pooh. I’m sure Carlotta wouldn’t mind.”

He entered the tavern.

Sitting up at the bar was a very attractive red head in a short skirt and dominatrix boots.

“That looks like my type of woman,” he threw the bourbon bottle he had been carrying into a nearby trash can.

Seated next to her was a greasy looking guy in a plaid sports jacket and wearing glasses.

“I hate guys like that,” Mazdare huffed.

He walked up to the nerd in the plaid sports jacket and held his hand at the back of the chair.

“Excuse me,” Mazdare smiled politely, “but has this seat been taken?”.

“Why, yes it has,” replied the nerd.

Mazdare pulled the chair sideways and the nerd fell off to the floor, “You’re right. It has been taken. It’s been taken by me.”

Mazdare sat on the chair and put his hand on the red head’s crossed tan pantyhose legs.

“A pleasure to meet you my dear,” he patted her knee.

“Are you always so brazen?” the red head looked at him in shock.

“I’m only brazen when I’m well cooked in a brazier,” Mazdare smiled at her in reply.

“Who the Hell do you think you are?” the red head asked while the nerd on the floor queried, “Anybody get the license plate number of that truck?”.

He reached behind her ear and pulled out a business card seemingly from behind her ear.

“Mazdare the Magician,” he smiled, “like the card says.”

Indeed the card said MAZDARE THE MAGICIAN.

The woman looked at the card and then at the handsome dark haired dark eyed stranger in front of her.

“I’ve heard about your show,” she said, “They say you’re absolutely incredible. They say you make magic seem so real.”

“Magic is real,” he drew himself closer to her and looked in her eyes.

“Well…” she paused.

“My favourite trick,” he drew himself ever closer towards her, “is to take my big wand and to stick it into holes. You’ll never know what surprises await you inside a hole.”

“I don’t… I…” she edged away from him.

Mazdare brought out a pack of cards from his pocket.

“These are cards,” he said stating the obvious, “they’ve never been open before…”
he flashed the whole deck before her like a skilled Vegas casino dealer, “as you can see, this is not a trick deck. Now…” he handed her the deck, “Pick a card. Any card.”

She picked a card.

He leaned back.

“Now, look at the card,” he commanded, “look at the card very intently. Concentrate on it. Memorize it. Never forget the card.”

He gazed intently into her eyes as she gazed intently at the card.

“Is the number and suite of the card emblazoned into your brain?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He handed her the deck and said, “Now put the card back in the deck.”

She did so.

“Shuffle the deck yourself,” he helped himself to a bottle of beer from a waitress’s passing loaded tray.

She shuffled the deck and then handed the deck back to Mazdare.

Mazdare then re-shuffled the deck himself.

“Now what was the card you chose?” he asked her.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me?” she smiled at him.

“Well I suppose I could tell you it was the 6 of Clubs,” he smiled at her, “but where’s the fun in that? What was the card you chose?”.

“The 6 of Clubs,” she gasped.

“Pick the top card from the top of the deck,” he said.

She did so.

And flipped it over.

She gasped again.

“The 6 of Clubs,” she gazed at him thunderstruck, “how did you do that?”.

“Magic,” he smiled at her.

He looked at his watch.

“Oops…” Mazdare frowned, “I’m late for an appointment.”

He looked at the redhead, kissed her hand and bowed, “It’s been a very charming evening. Hope to see you again in the very near future.”

He ran from the tavern and up to the 2nd level of the motel using the outside steps and outside walkway.

He pounded on Door 229.

A fiery eyed sultry sexy and steamy brunette Latina woman in a red dress opened the door and screamed at him, “You bastard!”.

“Now that is very unfair,” he wagged his finger at her as he spoke, “I’ll have you know my parents were both legally married when I was conceived and when I was born. Making me grow up a misfit in this society of increasingly common law partnerships.”

“I suppose you think just because I’m a whore that my time isn’t worth anything,” she slapped his face, “but my time is precious. I have other clients besides you, you know.”

“But none who are as charming as I am,” Mazdare started to take off his shoes.

“But we can’t do it now,” she said.

“What are you ticked off at me for being a few minutes late?” Mazdare held up his hands in protest.

Carlotta opened the bedroom door and there stood a little girl about 8 years old.

“What is a child doing here?” Mazdare asked in shock.

“She’s my niece,” Carlotta answered, “my sister was put in jail this evening and will no doubt be remanded for compulsory treatment in drug rehab by the judge tomorrow morning. Social services brought Andrea to me.”

“Social Services left her in the care of the town whore?” Mazdare was incredulous.

“I’m her nearest relative,” she said.

“So because of your crackhead sister, I won’t be allowed to unclog my pipes tonight?” Mazdare raised his arms in disbelief.

“That’s right,” Carlotta nodded as she smoothed her dress.

“This is outrageous,” Mazdare kicked over a garbage can, “I’m no Vulcan like in Star Trek. I just don’t mate every 7 years like they did. No wonder Mr. Spock’s ears were so pointed. It was all backed up that far.”

He slammed the door behind him, walked along the motel’s outside walkway and walked down the motel’s outside stairwell.

He then walked in a huff through the motel parking lot and as he did so, Carlotta came running out of her motel room, leaned over the balcony in her low-cut red dress and screamed at him, “The next time you think you’re perfect, try walking on water.”

Mazdare immediately walked over to the motel swimming pool and started walking on top of the water in the pool.

“How the Hell are you able to do that?” Carlotta screamed at him in wonder.

“It’s magic,” Mazdare held out his arms in triumph as he stood on top of the water in the pool.

“Magicians,” she shook her head and went back in the motel room and slammed the door.

* * *

It was Mazdare’s magic act inside the Pantages Theatre.

Mazdare held a small paper cage with a dove between his hands and then invited members of the audience to likewise come and hold their hands against the cage.

Suddenly Mazdare slammed his hand down on top of the cage and poof! the cage was gone.

Then Mazdare raised his hat and a dove flew out from inside his hat.

The audience applauded.

* * *

As Mazdare left the back stage of the Pantages Theatre, a small boy probably about 8 or 9 was blubbering on the steps outside the back door.

“What are you snivelling about, you obnoxious little brat?” Mazdare asked.

“Is that any way to talk to paying members of your audience?” the boy bawled.

“Hey, I have to pretend to like kids inside the theatre,” Mazdare reached for a bottle of bourbon from underneath his cape, “but out here in the real world, I don’t have to like you, you bawling screaming whiny cretins with your runny noses.”

The boy continued to sob.

“What are you bawling about anyways?” Mazdare asked.

“I know how you did the trick with the dove inside the cage,” the boy cried, “I read magic books. The dove inside the cage died. That dove that flew out from inside your hat was another dove. The dove inside the cage died. Died for the sake of your magic act. I should report you to PETA,” the boy snivelled.

“PETA?” Mazdare blinked in disbelief, “those people are terrorists!”.

“Terrorists?” the boy looked up at Mazdare.

“Yes,” Mazdare nodded, “they had the audacity to steal a steak sandwich from my hands once and to call me a cow killer.”

“Well, now you’re a dove killer,” the boy bawled.

* * *

The next day inside the theatre.

Mazdare asked for a volunteer.

He noticed several hands go up.

And one of them was the boy who had been bawling outside the back stage door of the theatre the day before.

Mazdare smiled.

“Come up, lad,” he invited.

The boy’s mother look worried but the boy ran up on the stage.

He was then placed inside a box.

And soon Mazdare and his lovely blonde female assistant in the slit sparkly sequined cream coloured evening dress started sticking swords all through the box.

The boy’s mother looked pensive.

Mazdare’s assistant then opened the box and a little girl stepped out.

The audience burst into applause.

* * *

Outside the back stage of the theatre, the boy’s mother waited with the little girl.

“Where is my son?” the boy’s mother demanded to know as Mazdare emerged from the stage door.

“That is your son,” Mazdare pointed at the girl.

“But she’s a girl,” the mother protested.

“Still, she’s now your child,” Mazdare threw his cloak around himself, “As a woman named Carlotta recently told me… let me rephrase that… recently implied, I’m not perfect. So Madam, let me tell you, I’m not perfect. I’m not perfect. And neither is magic.”

“You mean you’ve turned my son into a girl permanently?” the woman gasped.

“Madam,” Mazdare threw his cloak around his neck and then rubbed his hands together with glee, “think of it as an experiment in transgenderism gone wild.”

He doffed his hat towards the woman, winked at the girl and then walked down the back alley towards the open street.

* * *

The old man looked out the window of his motel room in Room 228.

Outside he noticed standing in the motel rose garden was that mysterious individual that was always visiting the woman in the room next door.

The man looked at his old Coca-Cola neon clock from the 1950s. It said 12 Midnight.

He then looked back at the dark haired figure dressed in black.

The man seemed to be digging a deep hole in the garden where he dropped several bags that seemed to contain meat and bones or at least so the old man concluded from his vantage point.

The figure in black then used the shovel to put dirt back over the hole.

When he had finished, the figure in black doffed his hat towards the hole, put the shovel he was carrying in the trunk of a car and then headed upstairs.

The old man’s neighbour Carlotta greeted the dark figure at the door of Room 229.

She wore a tight fitting red evening dress that accentuated every curve in her body.

“I found your niece a new home,” Mazdare the Magician said as he stood at the door.

“Oh, darling,” Carlotta embraced and kissed him.

She kicked the door closed with one of her red spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes.

The old man put on the late movie on the TV, grabbed a beer and sat down and watched.

No use going to sleep he figured.

The noise those two made as they did it.

And no doubt they would be at it all night.

Like always.

-A short story written by Christopher Van Helsing
Monday evening June 20th 2011.

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