MAGES FOR HIRE. I. GROUNDS FOR DIVORCE. 003
When Maggie opened the door, the first thing the Mages noticed were her bruises and busted lip. Even with all of the mayhem taking place in her house, the color suggested that didn’t happen tonight. Mousy brown hair framed her bright green bloodshot eyes. Crying a year’s worth of tears in a single evening should break everyone. But there was Magic(k) in the air when she opened the door and heard-
“Mages for Hire,” declared by Fiona. “Beating bizarre bastards since 2022,” chimed Art with a finger gun. “You need some help?”
Maggie looked confused. Did they always say that jingle? Yes, they did. And they made it sound like the beginning of an infomercial on purpose. It distracts everyone from the vermillion energy slowly etching itself into the door.
If you had seen the things Art and Fiona did, you would notice the hieroglyph glowing from across the street. But for 90% of the human race? Even at full perception, they would only see a door. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Now invested, hands of fate? Your vast Vermillion creates Ankh Space.
“Thank God,” she exhaled slowly. “There’s…” Maggie pondered her next words. Another ocean of tears swelled in her eyes. “There’s something wrong with my daughter!”
Every framed picture on the wall crashed to the floor—more laughter, sounding even less human than what The Mages heard on the street.
Fiona, just for a second, flinched. It was hard for Art not to notice. On a previous job, he once ate hotdog off the Hollywood and Highland sidewalk. No reaction then. Just silence and an immediate purchase of anti-diarrhea medication for the mess later in the apartment. But flinching? On the clock?
Art straightened his jacket and said, “Show us.”
The home is truly an expression of what one prioritizes. It is a shelter from a cruel world, hunters of the night, and spectators waiting for something to explode.
The Angle household felt more like a museum than a home. Between the Romantic era originals, dust covered books of philosophy, and old Hollywood history kept in mint condition, a closer look revealed that family photos were outnumbered 12 to none. White leather couches, a dining table reserved for the holidays, and wooden floors that probably slaughtered a forest for maximum quality assurance were only there to make you feel bad about your tax bracket.
Jonathan was pacing back and forth. He tried his best not to pull what little hair he had out from his scalp. Slouching, mumbling to himself, he tried his best to rationalize what was happening.
If mental gymnastics were an Olympic event, he would take home the gold trying to find a way to blame this on anyone but himself. A gold medal for a man who is cracked polystyrene at best happens more than you think. And Jonathan was determined to win.
He snarled. “No! You didn’t!” Finally, on the top of the stairs, Art and Fiona approached the bedroom. A dry erase board read “AVIVA’S ROOM. INVITE ONLY.”
“You fucking...” Jonathan bit his lip until it bled. “What? David Copperfield on his way?”
“That depends,” Art answered. “You got the Statue of Liberty in there?”
Right on cue, supervillain laughter from behind the door.
“You fucking listen to me,” growled Jonathan. “I don’t know what kind of voodoo horseshit you’re selling, but my wife is retarded if she thinks you can fix this.”
Maggie's eyes shot to the floor. “What?” asked Jonathan, pointing a finger at Art’s face. “You get lost on your way to that faggot mansion on Normandie? Get the-“
A sucker punch landed against Jonathan’s nose, knocking him to the ground.
Art, his knuckles now bruised from the impact, turned to the door. He kicked it in. “Fuck that! Let the professionals handle this.”
Certain milestones in a person’s life are truly unforgettable. Their first kiss. Their first real heartbreak. The last time they were somewhere that felt like home.
A milestone that doesn’t get mentioned enough is the first time you see something truly horrific. Not in a horror movie or any sort of media. It’s the moment you see it with your own eyes, smell it as it conquers the room and your dreams. It’s that sad realization you can never go back to when existence was not defined by monsters and agony.
If you reached that milestone, you deserve better. And if you don’t have it yet? My condolences in advance.
What I’m trying to say, is that you never forget your first bifurcated teenaged girl. Her limp mangled body devoured by gold and blackened tar? Knowing that particular combo was the violent sludge of decay? It’s a paradigm shift you could never return from.
