MAGES FOR HIRE. I. GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE. 001. PATREON
In the beginning, there was nothing. Then, The Constant took its first breath, and every dwindling star, etching of black ink on paper, and mustard stain on La Brea came to be.
The star paths are old, forgotten maps of cosmic birth, life, and death.
Supernovas taste like stale champagne - Black holes like a 9 Volt battery on your tongue. Magic(k) developed with the human race as we gazed upon those stars. To ensure it was remembered, we bound sigils together, one after another, to cast spells as we spell. Unfortunately, as of the time of writing, there is no power strong enough to beat spicy mustard.
It was the first night of August. It was crowded, unreasonably warm, and the sky smelled like smog and piss. A gaggle of teens wait outside the Nuart Theatre. A drug deal between a cop and a beast made of shadows happens off 6th and Alexandria. To the untrained eye, the 405 looks like a river of brake lights. A man with no home asks for spare coins, thinking about a life forgotten. And his future? A Bizarre Tale.
The first night of August is like every night in Los Angeles: beaming with Magic(k), ready to explode.
Just as the clock struck 10, a miracle happened in the small Silverlake dive bar known as Tarbell Circle.
Liz was gorgeous in an old Hollywood sort of way. A tight black dress, revealing just enough skin to be allowed into any respectable funeral, contrasted the shade of red that matched her lips and heels. Her platinum blonde hair, cut into a bob, framed her pale blue eyes. They looked near purple in the red and orange ambient light.
The Magician had a deck of cards in his hands. Building pressure on the bottom half, they sprung out in a straight line. It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert. Considering the 13 years of performing, found on every stage from the bowl to Magic(k) tournaments to the streets of Venice (the one with deep fried pizza, not Italy), this display was like breathing: second nature enhanced by the confidence of someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Liz removed a card, signed it with a borrowed sharpie, then kissed the face of it for good luck. The Magician didn't mind that the lipstick would ruin the deck. The only thing more disposable in his life than playing cards were the condoms he hoped to use later that night. His Costco membership made both of them much more affordable when buying in bulk. Once the card was lost in a dribble, then a shuffle, and a display to ensure he had no idea where her card was, he removed the dart from a pocket in his jeans.
The Witch sat alone. Sitting at the bar top, she finished the last bits of her single glass of beer. She was handcuffed to the briefcase resting on her lap. When The Witch flipped the glass rim down in her left hand, a rosewood wand fell from her right sleeve. The wand began to pulse with a shade of Vermilion light.
The light jumped from the wand to inside the attaché. The combination locks that kept it sealed rattled. Then, she watched as that light jumped out and became a wisp of energy inside the glass.
The Magician gave Liz a look, a smile that would make the devil uneasy. It caught her off guard when he threw his cards into the air.
The Witch gazed upon the wisp in the glass, her eyes swelling with tears, her nose beginning to bleed, microfractures in the pint becoming larger and larger.
That's when the miracle happened.
As the cards flew through the air, the magician hurled the dart. Sailing through the cascade of an army of 52, a single card appeared to be pierced, landing point first into the wall. Liz screamed with delight, pulled the dart out from the vintage wallpaper. Her signed ace of hearts was impossibly stabbed midair.
The miracle had never been seen before. Someone wanted to fuck a Magician.
"HEY!” Yelled the bar’s titular John Tarbell. "QUIT PUTTING HOLES IN MY FUCKING WALL!"
Liz, being a sensible woman next to a professional liar, quickly turned her head towards the voice best described as Tom Waits if he somehow chain-smoked more. Art took a step back, casually kicked his playing cards on the floor into a neat pile, and prayed for mercy.
"He does this every night, lady," John said, gesturing to the wall. "What? Didn’t notice the other dozen holes that need to be patched?" She didn't. She did notice the half dozen patrons looking for her reaction, as well as Art trying his best to turn invisible.
SLAP.
The palm of her hand striking The Magician's cheek almost matched the speed of the thrown dart. Though, neither could match how fast her libido began evaporating into nothingness. “Call me?" Art chuckled, touching his cheek
Liz spat in his face. “Asshole.”
She walked out the door, never to step foot into that dive again.
"Jesus, John. You seriously have to do that?"
John grabbed the bottle of Naathan's off the shelf and began to pour into a rocks glass. "I told you," said John. "You fuck up my bar? I fuck up your love life."
Once he finished pouring, he slid the glass of scotch next to Fiona.
"Not that you need my help with that," laughed John. "You got the rent?"
Art checked his watch. "We still have two more hours."
John chuckled "Better hurry. I'd hate to evict my best customer."
A pompadoured man carrying a trumpet on the other side of the bar signaled for a drink. Most bartenders would find it odd if someone's drinking buddy were a marching band instrument. But, after dealing with Art for the better half of the year, nothing phased Tarbell anymore.
Fiona wiped the blood from her nose and lowered the glass. As Art sat down on the stool next to her, the wisp of energy was gone. Loose tears hit the ground. When people noticed Fiona post ritual, she said it was allergies. When asked what she was allergic to, she answered, "This conversation."
The Magician grabbed the scotch and sipped defeat.
"Reverse psychology?” asked The Witch. "Did you really think that would work?"
"Works with Marcellus," he shrugged. "Maybe I should write a book or something. 'Card Tricks to Meet Chicks and several other failures.'"
Out from Fiona's pocket emerged a phone in a vibrant green case. The credit card reader attached to the charging port meant only one thing.
"You can start writing your memoir after the gig," she said dryly. "They called for help about 30 minutes ago, and you were...” Fiona stopped and looked at the cards on the floor. "Busy."
Looking down at his glass of peaty gold, Art sighed, then drank what was left of his double in a single gulp. "Add it to my tab, John!"
John gave him the finger.
Fiona rolled her eyes. She grabbed the briefcase, leading the way out to Sunset Boulevard.
If you've never been to Silverlake before, allow me to paint you a terror-laden word picture.
Silverlake is a neighborhood in Los Angeles where you can get tattooed between a Michelin star Ethiopian restaurant and a haunted Vape store. It’s not a great place to drive, though it’s better than the (Frankly more exciting, and intoxicating) neighborhood of Koreatown.
To get from Point A, B, and Z, you either walk to where you’re headed, or you book a ride with Rad Cab. Your choices are either a ride-sharing app that values its drivers the way plastic manufacturers value the ocean or cardio. I will let you decide which is the lesser of two evils.
Aside from Tarbell, bartenders charged $19 for a mediocre old-fashioned. There are niche business pop-ups, like doggy hair salons. When the season is right, find dozens of photo ops for any given “for your consideration” campaigns. And Sunset Blvd smells like high rent, food trucks, and broken dreams.
Art and Fiona were in the same boat as the other 20 something-year-olds that called it home. They lived in a neighborhood they couldn’t afford, doing jobs that risk their very well-being. Yet, somehow, they survived, and made rent along the way. Not because they wanted to. Far from it.
They did it because if they were going to pay $3,000 a month for a two-bedroom/one-bath with no air-conditioning or a real kitchen, it better be a five-minute drunken stumble to the most magic(k)al bar in Los Angeles.
Also, the landlord knew their bar tab. He purposely made the drinks better when they paid rent on time.
“It totally would’ve worked, by the way,” said Art, defending and nursing his bruised face and ego. “You know, if John wasn’t determined to cock block me eight days a week.”
“I can’t lie,” said Fiona shrugging honestly. “You sound like those guys who hang outside a liquor store after last call complaining about why they struck out.”
Art gasped, clutching his heart like the wooden performances found in bad porn. “Ouch! Fucking uncalled for, Fiona. My ego can only take so much damage in a single evening.”
Fiona smiled. “You’re a magician. You’re 80% ego. The rest is that terrible scotch you love.”
They turned the corner off the busy street and stumbled into a residential grid of houses. Every home passed cost more than they’d ever make in their entire lives. Or nine if they were struggling cat actors.
“Oh, fuck off. You drink Bud Light. You only had one glass the entire evening. Naathan’s? It’s an acquired taste.”
Fiona took out her phone to find the address. “One I don’t see myself wanting anytime soon.”
Art stretched his arms the way a boxer might before stepping into the ring with a killer kangaroo.
He asked, “What the hell do you want?”
After six months of being roommates, doing this job, and paying Tarbell Circle’s mortgage via shots, there was still a lot Art didn’t know. Her last name, considering she was just listed as “Fiona” on the lease. Where she's from, or who her family was. Hell, Art didn’t even know how she did her side of the operation. As essential to their business as The Constant was, asking him to explain it would be like asking the Amish to explain the rockets at JPL.
Fiona stopped walking. She pondered a second, then shrugged.
They turned another corner in silence.
Honestly? Fiona didn’t mind carrying the case. It prevented Art from making unnecessary Pulp Fiction references in front of clients. The decision kept things looking professional, and she had always been told to act professionally. That the real world would not hold her hand or tolerate her slacking off. If she thought it was terrible now, she had no idea what suffering truly was.
The memory of who etched this onto her bones, inside her eyelids, and on her soul was a shadow in a dark room. She just remembered Father, and being burned alive.
“So, what’s the gig?” Art asked, done stretching and now fixing up his hair.
“Possession,” Fiona responded flatly. “Mom is freaked out. Dad is in denial. Nothing we haven't done before.''
The white A-frame three houses away, the one with vibrant green detailing and a brown tiled roof, caught their eye. Exploding glass from an upstairs window revealed ravenous howls, laughter, and the unmistakable ripping of human flesh. A sickly yellow, foggy, irradiated piss sample glow pulsed with the noise.
Art pointed to the lawn where glass fell. “Found it!”
There is a trope in buddy cop stories called “The Good Cop and Bad Cop”. The Bad Cop is loud, aggressive, and cruel, causing a giant scene to intimidate. The Good Cop (an oxymoron) steps in, pulls the Bad Cop (the officer you’re most likely to meet on the street) away, then tells the person that they aren't like their partner. If you tell the Good Cop what they need to know? You’re cut a deal, and life moves on. Refuse to cooperate? The Bad Cop comes back worse.
Art and Fiona didn’t have that. Art was the drinker, Fiona, the thinker. The two of them refused to elaborate any further.
