I'm a world famous stage magician. My latest trick might be the death of me.

People like to use the word “trick" for what we do. I prefer “illusion" but neither is really correct.

The magic performed today when at its best is more akin to professional wrestling than to those cheap boxed gags you find at magic shops or in big box stores. And I mean that in the best way possible.

I spent years tucking objects like rocks and ball bearings between my lips and gums, creating an unnatural pocket in the mucosal membrane there. So that I could hold a key in that spot if I so wished. Now I have a little hole in my mouth to keep a small item safe so I can pull it out mid-illusion and use it to break free from any bonds which might hold me.

People talk about dedication.

We're on stage sticking ice picks through our palms, holding our breath underwater, blindfolded and bound in a straight jacket and people cry, “It's fake!”

They can't fathom the notion that someone would actually put themselves through all that for real. Just for their entertainment, no less.

You have to love the job. And I mean really love it.

Just look at some of the most popular stage performers and illusionists and you'll see what I mean. Everything that they do is all too real. The ice pick through the palm? Just a well chosen piece of subcutaneous tissue, and the piece of sharpened steel slides easily through the flesh, if you know what you're doing.

Kids - don't try this at home.

The truth of magic is far more twisted and disturbing than you'd think. It's always been a game to the best of us. A competition. Who can take it the furthest? Who can come closest to death himself? Stare him in the eyes and manage not to flinch when he peels back the hood from his rotten and decayed face and smiles at you, inviting you into his home to stay forever.

I know what you’re thinking, and it's true in a way, there's no such thing as magic. Not really.

Not usually.

Only lunatics in black suits, pretending to be mystics, then going home afterwards and licking our wounds, applying copious amounts of antiseptic to our fresh, soon-to-be-probably-infected self-inflicted injuries.

Don't ask me to explain why I do what I do. Why any of us don't quit and get a regular job is beyond my understanding. Except that the idea of that, to me at least, is like the idea of trying to tell a fish it should really spend more of its time on land. Y'know, because it's so much drier up here.

I wish I could quit. But there's no way. I have way too much planned to give up now.

Sure, Covid has made it difficult. But I have something planned for a virtual event. It will be free to watch with the option to leave a tip. And people will be dying to leave a tip.

What do I have planned?

Well, if I told you that it wouldn’t be a surprise! And surprise is essential to any illusion’s success. It’s like a good joke in that way. If you know what’s coming, it spoils the fun. The lifeblood of any great illusion is taking people on a journey, on a story of what is to be expected. And then dashing those expectations and giving them something even more amazing than what they had imagined.

And everyone is going to be a witness to this. Because this will be a sight to see. Even if it is viewed on a computer screen or a phone.

What am I going to do? You're probably wondering.

Well, a magician never reveals his secrets. You'll find out with the rest of them.

Oh hell, I can’t wait. I’ll give you a little taste of what’s to come.

I’ve found a mask. It was buried in the earth in the rain forests of South America, and made its way to me through means of auctions and inner circles and black market transactions through the dark web. And now I have it. And when I put it on, those who look upon my face disappear in the blink of an eye. Not an illusion, mind you. Real magic. Dark magic.

I’ve experimented with it using a cell phone and found it worked just as well over video chat. The unsuspecting soul who looked at me through their screen suddenly vanished, poof, gone forever.

Where do they go? That’s not for you to know.

I can make them come back, but they won’t be the same. It’s not even really them anymore.

It’s a classic magic trick. You ask for a volunteer. In this case, the audience members are whoever happens to be watching at home. I tell them that only one person in the room should look at the screen. The other should look at their friend, their husband, their wife, son or daughter who has volunteered.

Watch them very closely. Because if you blink you’ll miss it.

But if you stay staring intently at them as I put on my mask, you’ll see their face change into a horrified stare. And you’ll suddenly wish you hadn’t participated in my online “once in a lifetime magic event.” Promotions to be starting very soon.

It will be too late once they see my face in the mask. Theirs will glow green as the colour of their phone changes suddenly, into the greedy emerald hue of Gullveig’s visage.

That will be the last you see of your loved one. The one that comes back will have no mercy or pity, no compassion or grace. They will want only to please themselves, for they have seen the place of plenty. And they will want nothing more than to return to it.

Little do they know that Gullveig’s palace is only a mirage.

Still, one can’t help but be impressed by all that gold – mountains of it reaching to the furthest stretches of a vast chamber. And once they see that they will pull out their wallets in wonderment and give, give, give. Hoping for a blessing from Gullveig. Just a taste of the horde of plenty.

But offerings to the goddess of greed are always made in vain. For there is no return from an investment in Gullveig’s plight.

Imagine a junkie chasing the dragon. Only all he wants is wealth. Power. Plenty.

That is Gullveig’s curse. My curse.

I realize it now with mounting horror. For I wanted nothing more than to see my own face reflected in the mirror while wearing the mask. I prepared myself just as I planned to for the night of my greatest illusion yet.

My purple velvet suit was fresh from the dry cleaners. I had polished the mask and put on my whitest gloves. My shoes were likewise buffed to a shine and I looked the part of the most professional illusionist the world had ever seen. Who cared that Penn and Teller never accepted any of my audition tapes? They would see. Everyone would see what I was capable of.

I stood in front of the mirror and felt it all looked perfect. Except that final touch. The mask.

I had been told to never look at myself in a mirror while wearing it. But nevertheless I found my hand reaching for it on the bureau. My fingers were shaking as part of me tried to stop, but a greedy voice in my mind beckoned me to continue, to pick it up. And so I did. I put it on my face.

The thing didn’t need a strap to hold itself in place. It sucked onto my skin like an octopus. Clinging to me, I felt my heartbeat begin to quicken with sudden fear.

I closed my eyes, forcing them shut, but felt something pulling at them, opening them. The mask was in control of everything.

My shuddering head rose up and my eyes met the eyes of something else. The emerald green glare that met my gaze was not my own, and the mouth on that face in the mirror twisted into a crooked grin, showing cracked teeth and a rotting tongue inside. Pus leaked from cracked corners of the skin and I saw that it was taking everything from me.

The mask glowed green and the visage in the mirror laughed and cackled, a long-nailed finger pointing back at me in my reflection.

“You thought you could use the horde of Gullveig for your own devices? You are a foolish mortal, capable of nothing close to what we gods call magic. Enjoy your wasted body, for what you had and thought was nothing was the most precious thing of all. And it belongs to us now.”

“Gold is an illusion. A mirage made by men.”

JG