Ten minutes or so later, after Mrs. Carla had a chance to make sure Havana was good to keep going, our little circle of feelings was settling back into their seats. The new guy raised his hand with a confidence that fully demonstrated how oblivious he was to how awkward that gesture is. His clothes were a hodgepodge of 80's hair band singer and fetish club bartender and his name tag said Christian. He looked like the kind of person who personifies those disgusted noises people make when someone else vomits.

“You don't have to raise your hand... Christian.” That pause was as close as I think Mrs. Carla has ever come to openly scoffing at a person. It probably didn't help that he smelled like he'd been dipped in whatever makes cheap strip clubs smell like that. She motioned for him to go ahead.

“First of all, I just wanna say that my manager made me come here. I'm a Magician.” He kinda waggled his eyes as he said it, like a shitty sleight-of-hand grifter was going to impress a room full of people with legit superpowers. “You probably haven't heard of me. I mostly work in the City-” no hint as to which city, “-I like to keep my finger on the pulse, you know?”

All this started a couple of weeks ago. I was working on a new illusion and it kept proving too much for my assistants. I went through three new girls in as many weeks, which I mean, normally... you know. Anyway, Sid (that's my manager) starts getting nervous.

The End

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