The Magician

The Magician does not fail when his victim discovers his perfidy. Because obviously, someone who has swallowed something once, will swallow something else again. You refine the liquid. Add sugar. Salt. Pathos. Layers. Wheels within wheels.

You draw from that stream of invention.

After the first unmasking the victim, who now knows that you have naught but treachery in your heart, colludes in the farce.

I know this is unreal but I'll continue to pretend because it's like reading a book. I know it's fiction, but I'm lost in the plot and I don't want it to end.

Yes, I pretend to search for the truth.

I say I want to know what's what.

But really, it's comfortable here, all caught up in my illusions, in your web of lies, and I'll tuck the anomalies away, the stray strands that don't quite fit in the tapestry.

Snip, snip, there, that's much better. A neat little picture.

I snipped too much?

Left a hole?

Don't worry, more thread back and forth, back and forth, a little darning, a little damning, a mock tantrum, and we're all better.

Now who'd like some tea?

Trust Jennifer. She's the only one who would be dumb enough to swallow this story.

The Magician only fails when you lose interest in the plot and wander off halfway, not caring about the great, dramatic conclusion, or the working out of clues littered along the way. Or who gets who in the end or who was lying.

Because let's face it, they were all lying, weren't they? They were all in on it. They were all watching and laughing from the sidelines.

It's a sort of Truman.

But I'm bored now. The Magician failed.

I can't even pretend to care. Maybe I never actually did.

So where's my remote?

Click.