The Magician [Part 3]

GRAND FINALE ACT 1 ACT 2

I was fortunate enough to scrounge up the eight hundred sooner than I thought and was back to texting the Truth Teller the second I could pay for a ticket.

Reaching the venue went exactly like the last time. I was texted the details and told to follow them without question. Even only being to the Tower once before, I already knew that these directions were different from last time and when I reached the venue, it confirmed what I already knew. This Tower was completely different from the last.

Despite that, the venue was still pretty similar. It had a decent bar and an even larger auditorium. The same guys in red jackets stood by the doors and even though I knew I didn’t have the money that compared to the rich folks, I took a bidder’s card on my way in.

The shows continued to astound me.

Every night there was something different. The Truth Teller found more elaborate ways of making torture entertaining. If he wasn’t throwing knives at people, he was shooting arrows, he was hanging stooges from the ceiling or trapping them in boxes. Each time, the audience would pay obscene amounts of money to see these stooges suffer and every night the stooges would never waver in their eagerness to help the Truth Teller out. I’d never seen a thing like it.

Then it would come to the Truth Teller’s finisher. It wasn’t always a guillotine, but it was always dangerous. If it didn’t involve decapitation, it did involve drowning or fire or body deformation to the likes I’d never seen. On one night, the Truth Teller did a simple hand trick with three cups and a ball. Except the ball was a small vial with red liquid that he told us was the antidote. To what, we never found out. The stooge bled out from all orifices before he could ingest it.

Some nights, of course, the tricks went down without a hitch. Sometimes whatever bid the Truth Teller was seeking just wasn’t high enough; sometimes I think he just did it to encourage people to place higher bets.

Not all nights were filled to the brim with the rich and snotty. Some nights, I saw more people like myself. I saw the first-timers with their tarot cards, I saw people like me, who’d become regulars over time, gorging themselves on the bloodlust that came with participating in the show.

We never spoke with each other. The rich kept to their own kind, laughing and talking with glasses of champagne, but sometimes I’d see people from their groups breaking off, taking to the shadows like the many middle class citizens already residing in the audience.

I don’t remember how long it took me to realise how much I was spending. I don’t remember when it became a problem. But the shows… they did something to me. Maybe I didn’t want to see it, maybe I still don’t want to, but every second I spent away from the Tower, I was thinking about it, about the show, about the tricks, about the Truth Teller. It was impossible for me to think of anything else. And it ate at me. More importantly, it ate at my wallet.

I was spending everything I earnt on tickets. I was selling my furniture, asking for loans from parents and friends alike. Most of them stopped taking my calls when they realised all I was interested in was their cash. I was in too deep, I know that now, but I didn’t want to stop. I’d been trying to save up for a chance on the stage, but the prices for tickets alone kept climbing, I could barely keep up.

I was in a dark place. If I wasn’t at a show, I was sat alone at home staring at a blank TV screen trying to imagine what kind of horrors I was missing out on. Life away from the Tower became bleak and uninteresting. I stopped showing up to work and promptly got fired. My parents started calling, but it was my turn to ignore them. Without the Tower, without the Truth Teller, I didn’t have a purpose.

I started texting the Truth Teller in an attempt to explain myself, to beg for some kind of agreement. I’d seen the look on his face when he’d got me those eight hundred tickets and I knew that there must have been something to it. I was a valued customer; he couldn’t just let me go, could he? Not after what he’d introduced me to. Not after the world I’d seen.

Just as I was beginning to lose hope, I received a text.

ONE FINAL MEETING.

The Truth Teller admitted me one final face-to-face meeting to explain myself. He sent me directions and I followed them obediently. At this point I was willing to cut my own hand off if it meant he’d sell me discounted tickets.

He sent me to yet another venue named the Tower, although by the time I got there it hadn’t even gotten dark yet.

The second I entered I saw the Truth Teller sat by the bar. It wasn’t open, but he somehow had two drinks on the table. One was obviously for me.

He slid the whiskey my way.

“I’ve heard you’ve had a bit of money trouble lately.” The Truth Teller smirked.

I didn’t know what I looked like right then, but the second I’d gotten those directions I’d left my apartment without even looking in a mirror. Honestly, I could have been wearing only my underwear and it wouldn’t have mattered to me.

“I got fired,” I said. I’m sure I looked mad.

The Truth Teller frowned. “That’s unfortunate.”

“It’s a little more than that,” I said through my teeth. “You said it yourself. I’m broke.” I leant in closer to the Truth Teller. “I need-” I inhaled sharply. “I need your help.”

The Truth Teller shrugged passively. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know!” I said. “But I can’t just go back to the real world after everything! I need these shows. Please.” I lowered my voice. “Please. If there’s anything you can offer me, some kind of deal, some cheaper tickets… I’ll sit on the fucking floor if I have to just please.”

The Truth Teller’s lip seemed to curl the longer I kept talking. He took a sip of his drink before glancing towards the doors to the auditorium. “There is one thing,” he admitted.

“Anything,” I begged.

“Work for me,” he said.

I paused, unsure. “Work for you? As…?” I tensed, a sickness swelling in my stomach. “You don’t mean…”

The Truth Teller cocked his head towards me. “What do you think I mean?”

“A stooge?” I could barely say the word out loud.

The Truth Teller’s grin was unsettlingly wide.

I shook my head. “I can’t,” I said. “I… no I couldn’t. I’m not ending up like those sick freaks.”

“Why not?” the Truth Teller asked, pouting. “They get free admission to my shows every night. There are so many that offer their service to me… it’s not even guaranteed that you’d even be picked to go up.”

“I can’t,” I said again, adamant. “Not on a chance like that.”

The Truth Teller nodded his understanding. “I suppose you’re right. Your mind is not as far gone as some of the others who have come grovelling to me. I can respect that.” The Truth Teller looked me squarely in the eyes. “In fact, I’ve grown rather fond of you. It would be a shame to sign your life off just like that.”

My heart felt tight in my chest. “I’m… not sure what to say. Thank you.”

The Truth Teller nodded. “I enjoy having you around, which is why I have another proposition to make.”

“What would that be?”

“Work for me in another way,” the Truth Teller said. “Become one of my stage hands.”

Thinking of those identical grey masks smiling out at the audience sent a chill down my spine. The stage hands had always been the most unsettling aspect of the show for me.

“I’d get to work backstage?” I asked, a trill of excitement in my voice.

“But of course,” the Truth Teller said. “You would handle my equipment, on some nights you would even be present on stage during my finisher.”

That sold the deal for me. “I’ll do it,” I said.

The Truth Teller raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“I’ve never had the kind of cash to be on stage before,” I said honestly. “Seeing you work from close up, even if it meant from behind a mask, I’ll do it.”

“Well,” the Truth Teller said with a smile. “Finish your drink and I’ll show you around the stage.”

I didn’t expect there to be anyone backstage apart from the Truth Teller and myself, but the second we ducked behind the curtain I found myself staring into the bottomless expression of a stage hand mask. There were three of them already hard at work collecting and setting up apparatus for the show. Even as they worked, I couldn’t help but notice the strange way that they moved. It was efficient, but jittery, like they’d had too much coffee that morning. Apart from the mask, I couldn’t see any of their features. They seemed to be wearing full body black morph suits. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was very comfortable.

“This will be your work until the venue moves,” the Truth Teller explained. “You’ll help move and carry apparatus from venue to venue. You’ll fix things that break and handle special effects and lighting.”

“Is there any kind of training?” I asked unsurely.

“You’ll pick it up quickly,” the Truth Teller assured. “They all do, don’t you?” He glanced to one of the closer stage hands. They stopped what they were doing to turn to the Truth Teller and nodded stiffly. Then they continued like nothing happened.

I swallowed. “Are they… alright?”

“They’re very attentive,” the Truth Teller said with a wave of his hand. “A lot of things have to be done to assure the show works according to plan. You’ll understand soon enough.”

I nodded along to most of what the Truth Teller told me. He showed me everything I would need to know, which didn’t seem like much. Considering how many different tricks he pulled off every night, I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d be up to the task. I guessed it was more like an internship. Maybe for the first week I’d just be in charge of menial tasks before I was trusted with anything epic.

The Truth Teller told me to stay put while he got something from one of the back rooms, so I waited with the stage hands, watching them work.

They were efficient. The whole time I watched them, they didn’t say a single word. I scarcely heard them breathe. I was beginning to wonder if I was about to join a cult. Maybe the first step to working for the Truth Teller involved the ritualistic severance of your tongue. In a show where people were killed on a nightly basis, maybe I shouldn’t have found that thought so ridiculous.

When the Truth Teller returned he was holding a few sheets of paper stapled together.

“Your contract,” he said in means of explanation.

I took it, flicking through the pages without really taking anything in. I was restless, I know that now, and desperate for another show. I wanted to work for the Truth Teller, I wanted to see the magic behind the stage. It sent me back to my childhood in a weird way, back to when all I cared about was solving magic tricks. Now, of course I know the tingling in my chest had nothing to do with knowledge and instead had everything to do with danger. And it all started with one live tiger and a gaudy little magician on a cliff face in Ireland.

The Truth Teller handed me a pen and I eagerly signed my name.

“Excellent!” The Truth Teller’s smile was broad and genuine. “Now, let’s get you a costume.”

He took me further behind the stage where a set of props and costumes had been hung up. I could see the guillotines glistening in the corner and the table of very real knives had been set up ready to be rolled onto stage.

The Truth Teller took an identical mask from the rack and held it up at eye level, measuring me with his eyes.

“This will do,” he said.

I took the mask, staring into its empty gaze. For the first time since accepting, I felt a little uneasy.

“Go ahead, put it on,” the Truth Teller said, turning his back to find a spare morph suit.

I kept staring at the mask. My stomach rolled uncomfortably. “Uh,” I said, swallowing hastily. “In a second.”

The Truth Teller stopped perusing to turn to me. He raised an eyebrow good-naturedly. “It won’t bite.”

“I know that,” I said, but I could hear the uncertainty in my voice.

“You signed the contract,” the Truth Teller reminded. “I’m afraid the mask is part of it.”

As soon as he said that I felt a presence behind me. I spun around in one startled move to find two stage hands stood patiently not two inches away from me.

“What the fuck,” I muttered.

“They’re just eager to see the show,” the Truth Teller said.

“The what?” I asked, unable to look away from the stage hands’ masks. “Tonight?”

“Oh, that too,” the Truth Teller said.

It was at that moment I realised that I might have fucked up.

And it was also at that moment the stage hands came to life. They reached out with their jittery arms and grabbed me by the shoulders, twisting me uncomfortably so that I was forced to turn back to the Truth Teller.

That’s when the mask was pulled from my hands. That’s when the same mask was forced against my face.

I screamed, taking a step back from the mask before it could be secured. I fell heavily against the stage hands behind me, just enough to send one of them off balance. They fell to the ground, hard, but they didn’t make a sound. Not a cry of pain, not a shout of astonishment. They just sat there like the floor was their new home now.

“What the fuck.”

Before the other stage hand could react, I reached down and grabbed the mask around the fallen one. I yanked at it, ripping it off of their face. The morph suit ripped upwards along with it, giving me the first glimpse of the stage hand’s face.

Sat on the ground with a look of enchanted calm was the unexceptional man from the first show I'd ever seen at the Tower.

The other stage hand reached out to grab me, but in my blind shock I somehow managed to elude them. I batted their arm away, instead reaching for their mask, ripping it from their face before they could move away.

The rich woman from the first finisher stared back at me. Except her face was no longer gaping like a fish out of water. And oh yeah, it was still fucking attached to her neck.

“No.” I fell to my knees, unseeing.

“Now, that was very rude,” the Truth Teller said in amusement. “My stage hands are rather shy, you must understand.”

“They’re dead,” I said numbly, “I watched them die.” I got to my feet hurriedly, whirling on the Truth Teller. “What is this? Is this a trick? You didn’t kill anyone?”

The Truth Teller frowned. “Is that the answer you would like? Would that take some of the guilt off of your conscience knowing that the people’s lives you so eagerly watched on stage had never been severed at all?”

“You sick fuck.”

The Truth Teller shrugged. “It isn’t the truth, and I pride myself in the truth as you know.” He looked at me for a long moment. “I killed them. It’s true. But they weren’t random members of the audience as you already know. They were stooges, hired hands. Just like you they came grovelling to me when they ran out of cash, when their desperation to see danger and suffering reached its very limit. They signed themselves over to me. To work for me.” The Truth Teller grinned. “And I’m afraid even in death that contract remains binding.”

“I don’t understand,” I said lamely. My body felt numb. I’m sure I was crying, but I couldn’t feel my face to be sure. “I don’t…”

The Truth Teller walked around me, pulling the woman’s morph suit just below her neck. There, I could see some rough stitch marks holding her together.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” the Truth Teller mused. “Once they die a real death on stage, or their bodies become visibly deformed, they are promoted to stage hands. No one can see the damage behind a mask. And show regulars will never notice that the stooges still remain somewhat alive.”

“But I didn’t agree to this,” I said numbly.

“You didn’t want to be a stooge,” the Truth Teller said, disappointment dripping from his voice. “So I offered you a job as my stage hand. Of course, to reach that job level… you have to be promoted.”

“Fuck you,” I spat. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“But you did.”

“I didn’t-”

“You signed the contract. You accepted my offer. You belong to me.”

“Fuck. You!” Before the Truth Teller or his zombie stage hands could do anything about it, I lunged for the table with the very real knives. I grabbed the biggest one in the set, remembering fondly how often it had been used in shows. How once it had even lodged itself into an unlucky stooges’ jugular. Now I realised that stooge was probably somewhere back stage, wearing a mask. I guess this shot was in memory of that stooge, of all the people just like me. I yelled something guttural before running at the Truth Teller and imbedding the knife directly into his heart.

I knew I’d lost when the Truth Teller didn’t fall. When he didn’t make a sound of pain or even fucking flinch when I drove the knife through his chest. Instead, he smoothly pulled the blade out of himself, inspecting it fondly. It was slick with blood. The same blood I’d seen drip from his finger every fucking night. The same blood he showed to the audience to prove that he was alive and human just like the rest of us. But how long did he remain wounded? I could remember seeing him with a wound on his hand in that first show with my friends what felt like a lifetime ago. But since? Had I ever seen him with any wound since that night? Had he even tried to hide it?

“How?” I asked.

The Truth Teller grinned. “Magic.”

**

I work for the Truth Teller now, as you might have already noticed. It’s not so bad, all things considered. I haven’t died yet.

I know, right? How crazy is that?

I don’t know what will happen to me when it’s my turn, but every night I get to watch the shows and you know what? Every night I’m just as eager. It’s like whatever electric buzz I had before this shit show just got stronger after I sold my life away in a fucking hastily stapled together mess of a contract. I love the shows even more than I did before. I clap just as hard, I cheer with the rest of the audience, and every night without fail I raise my hands along with the other stooges, an eagerness like no other filling me every time the Truth Teller asks for a volunteer.

I haven’t been picked yet. Like I said, I’m not dead. I haven’t been impaled or decapitated or burned alive. I don’t know what happens when I am, but I think that’s when I’ll lose whatever free will I have left.

See, I might belong to the Truth Teller now, but until I die, I still have to look like a normal audience member. The Truth Teller lets me live at home, not that I have much of a home anymore. He’d probably even let me talk to my friends if I had any left.

Honestly, I just feel empty when I’m at home and I really can’t wait to go back to the next show.

I don’t think I’m scared of dying. Maybe then the emptiness will go away.

I think I might be scared of losing my free will though. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this out on fucking reddit. Of all places.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you ever end up at a magic show where the magician calls himself the Truth Teller? Get up and leave. Take whoever you’re with and just get the fuck out of there. Because if you’re not disgusted by what he does, you’ll be like me. And most of us don’t realise who we are until it’s too late.

There are all kinds of people out there. And a lot of them work for the Truth Teller.