Legerdemain

This was a fun commission using a magic act to spur multiple transformations. My awesome client even commissioned a sequel. I will share that one with y’all too, sometime. Enjoy!

Buster Craddock rifled through his dresser drawers for a sixth time and then stomped back into the living room. He found two of his three roommates there. Harris and Johnny. His fellow college students looked up from their phones and regarded him with mild annoyance. Buster ignored this. He had been working on his confidence, forcing himself to ignore his roommates’ intimidating attitudes and just ask for what he needed. It still came out as apologetic, most of the time, but at least he was asserting himself. Somewhat.

Harris and Johnny glanced at each other and then went back to scrolling. Buster cleared his throat.

Harris flipped his lank, ash-blonde hair away from his eyes and tilted his head back, looking at Buster down the sides of his beaky nose. “What is it now, Blaine…?”

Buster winced at that. He hated it when his roommates called him by his birth name. A good magician had a catchy moniker, and he’d adopted “Buster.” Buster Craddock sounded like a fun guy, a party guy. It was aspirational. But he knew he could truly be that person someday. He knew his look still needed work. He experimented with dressing in flashier clothes and hoped they would distract from his short stature, pudgy body, scraggly beard, and prematurely thinning hair. He considered getting contact lenses to better show off his pale blue eyes, but for now all he could afford was a pair of designer horn rims.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “but I just want to double check. Are you guys sure you haven’t seen my Svengali deck?”

Johnny, the self-appointed peacemaker of their apartment, said, “You have so many decks, Blaine…! We can’t keep track of them all. I mean, you leave them everywhere! Maybe Roger accidentally threw that one away!”

Buster found himself making a pathetic little gasping sound and quickly cursed himself for it.

“So, grab another deck, genius,” Harris droned. “What do you want it for, anyway? You can annoy pedestrians with your closeup magic bullshit some other way.”

“It’s not for street magic,” Buster shot back. His voice had jumped an octave. He cleared his throat a second time and forced himself to be calm. “I’m playing a room. Well, a lobby. But still…! This is a big step for me. I want the Svengali deck.”

“We don’t know what to tell you,” Johnny said, simply.

Buster felt all the muscles in his body tightening. He looked at Johnny’ sappy face with its watery eyes and rubbery mouth, shining with every bit of its owner’s New Age Christian piety. But he deployed his faith in a condescending way that betrayed his belief that he was a far better person than anyone else. Buster wanted to cave the phony fucker’s skull in. Harris wasn’t phony; he let you know he was a rich kid asshole with an inflated opinion of himself right away. The third roommate, Dane, was just the worst. He was a gym rat, and so handsome that Buster had started to have sex dreams about him, even though he was pretty sure they were both straight. But Roger was fixated on his masculinity in a proto-fascist kind of way, and he had made it his job to police the masculinity of every other guy he met. He had rules against befriending guys who ordered dessert, owned cats, wore bright colors, enjoyed anything written or directed by a woman, and a hundred other innocuous things. Apparently, magic was on that list.

Harris was the first of his three roommates he had met – in a business administration class – and it was Harris who told him about an empty room in his apartment. Things hadn’t been too bad at first. Buster had started out thinking he would be an accountant, with magic relegated to something fun he could do at parties. His uncle Mike was an illusionist, and he made a hell of a living at it, traveling the world, scoring gigs on talk shows, licensing his name to merchandise… he was a success. He was handsome, too. A big, strapping guy with long white hair and violet eyes. “The Witcher” in a hooded vermilion cloak. He’d inspired Buster to take up magic as a hobby.

But the more Buster delved into the craft of it, the more he loved it, and the more he wanted to make it his life. That seemed to be what had instigated the rift between his roommates and himself. Before, they’d thought of him as a pockmarked, bespectacled nerd with an eye on a “serious” career. Harmless, a bit sad, maybe, but respectable. But his love of magic was somehow hilarious to them. Between the constant wisecracks, his props began to disappear or even wind up broken. He knew they had something to do with it, but they never owned up to it. He guessed they wanted him to move out. Dane was probably their ringleader in that regard. Well, he’d be damned if he’d give them the satisfaction of leaving.

Dane chose that moment to stomp through the front door, dressed in baggy workout pants and a t-shirt with the sides hacked off to better show off his gains. He gulped down a liter of water from his bottle, then wiped the excess from his strawberry blonde chevron ‘stache. Aiming a thumb at Buster, he turned to Harris and grunted, “What’s wrong with the Great Gazoo?”

Johnny began to say, “He says he can’t find…”

But Buster talked over him, angrily explaining that his Svengali deck was missing.

“Search me,” Dane shrugged. “You leave your magic crap all over the place, Blaine. It’s not our problem if you’re not organized.”

The dam broke. Cursing a blue streak, Buster pushed past Dane and retreated to his room.

Dane watched Buster depart, and then he stuck his hand into a pocket and pulled out the Svengali deck. “Oops,” he deadpanned.

Johnny guffawed. “Get the fuck out, bro! That’s brutal!”

Dane smirked. “Hey, I said, ‘Search me!’”

The trio had a good laugh at that.

Buster sat on his bed, his thoughts jumbled, overcome with fury. His tears made the room look insubstantial. Another illusion. A dark red shape materialized in the far corner.

Without looking, Buster sighed, “Uncle Mike.” He’d been seeing his uncle a lot, lately. It was the pressure he was putting on himself, he figured, making him imagine his uncle lurking in dark spaces, watching him with a concerned look on his face.

The figure spoke his name. That was new. “Uncle Mike” walked calmly over and sat next to him on the bed, telling Buster he was proud of him for how far he’d come, and saying he had a present for him. He opened his fist, giving Buster a glimpse of a small, gleaming stone. It was violet, like his eyes. His fingers closed over the stone, then opened again. The stone was gone. But Buster felt something small and warm in his own hand. The stone was there, sending its heat into Buster’s body as it sank into his flesh and vanished.

One year later, Buster stood in front of the full-length mirror in his dressing room and checked himself out. He looked amazing. His complexion was flawless and deathly pale, with expertly applied carmine mascara to make his newly violet eyes pop. His lush raven hair had reasserted itself on his scalp, with a handsome widow’s peak, perfect for a magician. He’d had it styled into a rigid pompadour with a fade. He ran a purple-nailed finger along his dense handlebar mustache and his forked goatee. Turning back and forth, he admired his lean, muscular body. With his form-fitting leather pants, high-heeled boots, strappy leather vest and multitude of bangles and wristbands, he made a stunning, beautifully theatrical illusionist.

He saw his uncle more often these days. The wizard was teaching him to use the elemental magic that had taken root within him. Teaching him how to shape the world to his liking. Buster had first practiced on himself, changing things slowly, trying to avoid any questions he couldn’t answer. He’d learned a lot about himself, this last year. He’d figured out he was bisexual, and his improved body and beaming confidence had nabbed some fun hookups with both women and men. It didn’t endear him to his roommates. But their attitudes could be changed. He looked forward to doing that.

A few minutes later, he was peering through the curtain at Dane, Johnny, and Harris, seated uncomfortably at a center table in the front row, sipping overpriced cocktails. Getting all three of them here tonight hadn’t been easy. He’d guilted Johnny into it, playing on his need to seem supportive. With Harris, he’d emphasized that the ticket was free and had hinted that he would have fun mocking all the other magicians there. Roger had been the most difficult. He’d already had plans. Buster had to arrange for his date to get the flu, a health inspector to shut down his favorite bar, and a freak blizzard to cancel a baseball game he’d planned on watching.

But he did it. All three of his bullies were here. That was vital. He surveyed the sardonic, knowing faces of the other audience members. Johnny, Harris, and Dane had no idea what they had walked into.

Dane writhed within the borrowed jacket and trousers he’d been forced to wear. Both were too small. But the maître d’ had insisted, saying it was policy. And he’d gone along with it, just to get this evening over with. That fruit, Blaine, had been nagging him to see him perform at this magician’s club. It was either tonight or some other night, and everything else he’d wanted to do had fallen through. He’d just wished the little faggot had warned him that cargo shorts and a polo shirt weren’t going to cut it with the management. At least he and his friends could have fun partying later and really tearing into their flamboyant roommate.

He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the audience. They were a motley bunch, all of them dressed for maximum drama. He wondered how many of them were magicians, too. Maybe all of them, although that would be strange. Blaine had been performing in clubs for less than a year after graduating from street magic. How good could he be?

He tipped his bottle of craft ale to his mouth and slammed it back down onto the table. He wanted to spread his sturdy legs wide and hang one arm over the back of his chair, like he usually did. But the mandatory formalwear constrained his muscles. He eyed Johnny, who was waxing philosophical in his “stoner freshman” kind of way, posing unanswerable questions about the universe before shakily connecting them back to his faith. Harris sipped at his bourbon-and-soda, his face blank, but his fingers tapping irritably on his glass.

A photographer in a sequined bustier and tuxedo jacket stopped at their table and offered to take souvenir photos. He tried to shoo the bitch away. He knew it was a scam, and he wasn’t about to drop seventy-five bucks or whatever on a fucking photograph. It wasn’t just the expense. The fewer reminders he had of tonight, the better. But the woman insisted, saying the picture had already been paid for. By Blaine.

After getting the photo over with, he ordered another cocktail. A double, this time. Eventually, a trembling old man in an emerald robe toddled onstage and announced Blaine as the opening act. The house lights dimmed, and music blared over the sound system. Godsmack’s “Voodoo.” Dane muttered, “For fuck’s sake…!”

The curtain swept open and there was Blaine in all his queeny glory, surrounded by chairs and small tables with various props on them, like vases and hats. He was playing air guitar. The music blended into an extended guitar solo, which Blaine performed with gusto. Without warning, he began slamming the notional instrument into the tables and chairs, knocking them over. This was accompanied by a splintering noise. At the back of the stage were larger props beneath sparkling black tarps. He swung the ruined imaginary guitar at them, knocking the folds of fabric askew. Finally, he tossed the air guitar over his back, where it landed with a raucous clang, and waved his arms, causing the tarps to fly into the rafters. The audience applauded wildly. Dane glared at his companions, daring them to take part. They did not.

The whole thing made him uncomfortable. It was a sympathetic embarrassment, he guessed. Blaine was a loser, a nobody, and his choice to reinvent himself as a try-hard Adam Lambert knockoff was baffling. Looking at him prancing onstage with his BDSM-lite costume and his Rogaine hairdo and his stupid purple contact lenses was hard to take. At least they’d all graduate in a few months, and after that, they’d never have to see him again.

Blaine was doing his patter, talking about how he had too many props and needed a “big, strong man” to help him. A pink spotlight swung around and nailed Dane in the face. He waved a meaty hand in front of his eyes, like he was shooing away a cloud of flies.

“There’s my boy,” Blaine crowed. “My roommate, Dane Jensen, ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd cheered. Dane looked around at the shadowy figures in the audience and then back at Blaine, who was smiling broadly and holding out his hand. “Come on up, tough guy,” Blaine prompted. In a voice that came from further back in his throat, he added, “I think you owe me.”

Dane looked back at his other two roommates, but they were no help. Johnny prattled about “going where the universe guides you,” while Harris had his phone out, tracking his movements. The prick was already recording this.

Dane warily climbed a set of steps on the right side of the stage. Even with the roaring crowd, he could hear the stitching in his puny jacket and trousers creak with every movement. He grimaced at the audience, then leaned and whispered to Blaine, “Don’t think I won’t beat the living shit out of you if you embarrass me up here.”

“Dane is nervous,” Blaine announced to the crowd. He turned to Dane and said, “Don’t be. It’s a compliment to you! I need a strongman, er, I mean, a strong man. You enjoy showing off your muscles, don’t you? How about giving us some stats? Height, weight, all that.”

After hesitating a moment, Dane begrudgingly mumbled, “Six-two, and I dunno, around 205 pounds…?”

Blaine scoffed, “Is that all? I was hoping for someone bigger and stronger than that. But it’s nothing I can’t fix. Should I help Dane here bulk up, folks…?”

The audience applauded wildly.

Scowling, Dane spat, “Fuck this, I’m done,” he muttered.

Before he could walk away, Blaine darted in front of him and fixed his gaze with his luminous violet eyes. “You’re not going anywhere,” he grinned. “You want me to have a good performance, don’t you?”

Mouth agape, Dane found himself nodding. He wasn’t sure why he had been in such a hurry to leave. He wanted his roommate to have a good performance.

Blaine reached into a nearby box and fetched a glittery gold bicycle pump with a long hose. “This will do the trick,” he cried. He thumped Dane on his flat stomach and ordered him to life up his polo shirt. Dane obeyed to get it over with, but proud to show off his six-pack abs. The crowd emitted whistles and breathy sighs. At a nearby table, an old man with a Santa Claus beard produced a set of opera glasses and ogled his body through them. Blaine stuck the nozzle into Dane’s navel, where it attached itself to his flesh with a soft sucking noise.

Blaine adopted a melodramatic “thinking” pose, laying a thumb alongside his mustache, and cradling his furry chin with the rest of his hand. “I wonder,” he mused, “just how many pumps will do the trick.” The crowd tittered.

Dane shivered as cold air rushed through his body. Then, impossibly, he felt himself growing. His flesh bulged outward, sagging for a half-second until his muscle and bone had built up to fill it. One pump, two pumps, more. He lost track of how many times Blaine bore down on the prop. The tight trousers and jacket ripped at the seams. His expanding traps pressed against the jacket, creating another rip down the center of the back. His ballooning thighs shredded the hem of the pants. Dane ripped the belt from his waist in a panic, and then he tore his leather watchband from his wrist. The sensation was weirdly pleasant – in his subconscious, he really did dream of growing big like this – but at the same time, he could feel his thoughts begin to dissipate. He opened his mouth to ask Blaine a question, then immediately forgot what the question was.

Blaine bared his perfect white teeth as he made an aside to the crowd. “I forgot to mention, the bigger I make Dane, the dumber he gets. But that’s a fair tradeoff, don’t you think? Should I keep pumping? I might do it if you get a chant going. How about it, ladies and gents? Pump, pump, pump…!”

To Dane’s vague horror, the audience followed suit. As they chanted, Blaine pumped, forcing his body to grow ever taller, wider, and stronger. His polo shirt rode up on his now eight-pack abs and strangled his armpits before his pillowy pecs and brawny delts caused the garment to explode. As his shoe size climbed from twelve to sixteen, the tops of his loafers separated from their soles, yawning like alligators, making his toes to spill out of his ripped socks and touch the floorboards. He looked dimly down at himself, dizzy from his increasing height, and saw that the only intact piece of clothing he wore was his cotton jockstrap. And even then, his junk was pushing the fabric pouch precariously outward.

By the time Blaine ceased, he was seven feet tall and over three hundred pounds of pure muscle. His definition was crisp, his veins ropy, and his skin glistening with oil. It felt fantastic, he had to admit. But his dulled intellect raged at the loss of his intelligence. He wanted to lash out at Blaine, or Buster, or whatever his name was. But that would ruin the act, and he’d already agreed that the little dude should have a good performance. He was trapped. All he could do was glare balefully down at his tormentor.

The magician (Buster? Yes, that was it) surveyed his creation and shook his head. “Not bad. But so angry! That’s no fun!” He circled Dane a few times and then declared, “It’s the mustache. It’s all wrong!” With an elaborate gesture, a pair of scissors appeared in his hand. Brandishing them at the air, he yelled, “Snip, snip!”

Dane watched helplessly as his thick chevron mustache detached itself from his upper lip and hit the floor as a pile of loose, fluffy hair. Another elaborate gesture, and a new mustache appeared in Buster’s other hand. It was startling to behold. A stout handlebar mustache of staggering proportions, easily the width of his own face, and tinted a cotton candy pink.

“Fly, my pet,” Buster cooed to the mustache. At once, it fluttered upward like a moth and smacked into the bottom of Dane’s nose. In a panic, Dane tried pulling it off, but it had already grown into his upper lip. It had remarkable heft and seemed to be holding a metric ton of wax. It hung down over his bottom lip, dominating his face. “This way we don’t have to see his frowny little mouth,” Buster said to the crowd in a confidential tone.

He regarded Dane again and then announced, “But now the eyebrows don’t match.” He gestured again, producing a pair of furry eyebrows in a matching pink. He placed them on the frozen Dane’s cheeks. The big man could only stand there as the things crawled upward like caterpillars and bonded themselves to him in place of his original eyebrows. “Much better,” he sighed. “But do we really need the hair?” He snapped his fingers.

A frigid breeze brushed Dane’s scalp. He jerked his head back and saw his beautiful strawberry blonde hair sailing upward into the darkness. The crowd hooted at this. Dane squinted through the spotlight, desperate to see Harris and Johnny’ reaction. The pair looked like they were caught halfway between amused and appalled: mouths gaping with the hints of smiles but no teeth to be seen. Just dark, crescent-shaped holes.

He was bald, had a goofy pink mustache and eyebrows, and he was stuck there, with no idea how to get away before anything worse happened. It was agony. Despite himself, he found himself grunting, making a long, low growl of discomfort. Buster’s merry lavender eyes landed on his face again. “Naw, buddy, that kind of voice won’t do at all! You keep making that sound, though. Ol’ Buster’s just gonna autotune it.”

Dane wanted to be quiet, but the manly rumble kept vibrating in his throat. As he watched, Buster produced a slide whistle out of thin air with a flourish and brought it to his own lips. No sound emerged from the instrument as he pulled the slide. Instead, the tone of his own voice glided higher and higher, the gravel in it turning effervescent and fizzing away, until it was a clear, melodious countertenor. The crowd went wild. Buster dashed the slide whistle into the stage, where it burst into iridescent sparks and vanished. He slapped Dane on a veiny arm. “Isn’t that nicer, buddy?”

“I don’t like it,” Dane squeaked, miserably.

“But it’s so you,” Buster retorted. “I need you, man! For the act! You’re so big and strong and helpful. But that stank attitude of yours… it’s gotta go!” He turned to the audience once more. “Should I help this big ol’ sad sack get happy?”

The crowd yelled encouragement at the pair. At the front center table, Harris still had his phone pointed at the stage, although he was frowning into his lap, clearly unable to keep watching.

Buster passed his hand over Dane’s face and teased, “Got your nose!”

Horrified, Dane touched his nose and was relieved to find it still there.

Buster snorted, “Not that one, silly!” He aimed a finger at the rafters, and a small red ball dropped down, trailing magenta glitter. It bounced, making a sound like a giggling infant, and continued to rebound at steep angles around the stage, leaving glitter and high-pitched laughter in its wake before landing in Buster’s open palm. The thing trembled and tittered mirthfully, as though it were filled with a colony of chipmunks on nitrous oxide. “Now, this,” Buster breathed, “is a nose. I’ll just pop it onto you, and you’ll feel a lot better. About all of this.” He held the thing between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it upward… and just as quickly, he swept it away from Dane’s face again, and lobbed over the heads of the audience. The nose struck the exit door, bounced off a table, hit the ceiling, and narrowly missed a wall sconce, gaining velocity with every bounce until it was a whizzing, giggling comet. It bounced into the exit door again and then came screaming directly at Dane’s face. He ducked, but the thing was tracking him now. As he clumsily lurched about the stage, it plagued him with close call after close call, while the audience laughed its ass off. But finally, the thing found its mark and smacked into Dane’s nose, knocking him to the floor and releasing a fountain of glitter.

The big, dumb man sat up, his taut muscles vibrating with laughter. He felt fantastic. Everything was awesome. Better than that… it was hilarious. He jingled as he moved. He ran his hands over his new costume. There was a leather jester’s cap with an attached mask, a leather jock, thigh-high pirate boots with curled toes, and a bulldog harness. Everything in alternating strips of deep purple and hot pink leather and studded with bells. And then there was his nose, a bulbous, red, pebbled thing, so funny to look at. It was warm beneath his fingers, a living part of him, and he loved that. Onstage or off, he would always make people smile. He giggled at that. That’s all he could do instead of speaking, he knew. Giggle.

“My first assistant,” Buster announced. “Jolly Goliath! But I could do with a few more assistants, I think. Jolly, why don’t you go fetch Mr. Johnny Geralds for me?”

Johnny’s guts twisted into a knot of wriggling snakes as he watched the lumbering, jingling behemoth make his way towards their table. He wanted to jump from his seat and run out of the club, but he knew it was too late for that. Their godless roommate had already hexed them with his black magic, and he could feel it holding him down. The brawny clown that used to be Dane bounced and tittered as he seized Johnny’s wrist and pulled him onto the stage. A red spotlight clicked on overhead, bathing him in a hellish glow. Warm moisture splashed against his left thigh and trickled down his leg. The crowd saw this and launched a cannonade of mocking laughter in his direction.

Still facing the audience, Blaine threw his arms around Johnny in an imitation of sympathy. “Poor guy,” he said, in a tone usually reserved for soothing toddlers. “He doesn’t like magic! It’s not pious enough for him. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

Johnny’s throat was dry. He managed to croak, “No judgment, brother.”

“Bullshit,” Blaine laughed. Behind him, the jester tittered stupidly, clearly not grasping what the joke was. Blaine continued, “See, my friend Johnny here, he’s a very showy Christian. Granted, his faith is the hippy, neoliberal flavor, where he’s not openly hostile to people he doesn’t understand. What’s that you’re always telling me, Johnny? Something about a path?”

The other stage lights clicked off, leaving Johnny alone in his red spotlight, like a parody of Linus in “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” Johnny saw nothing in the darkness except a pair of glowing violet eyes. “Say it,” Blaine said, his smooth actor’s voice soaking into his brain, making him feel a bit drunk.

Johnny licked his lips. “Um… what I like to say is, we all have our own paths to God. Of course, you don’t have to think of Him as God. If it helps, you can view Him as an animating power, or the universe itself, or…!”

“That’ll do,” Blaine interjected. The other lights blazed into life again. “The sad thing is,” he said to the crowd, “it’s all a front. I think now’s a good time to find out how Johnny really feels.” He glanced over his shoulder at his burly henchman. “Goliath, the megaphone, please…?” The brute bounded away to retrieve something from a box in the back.

A shit-eating grin had materialized on Johnny’s face. He looked pleadingly at the crowd, which seemed more numerous than when they had first been seated. He saw that Harris had finally put down his phone. He slumped back in his seat and stared at the stage with a paralyzed revulsion, his ash-blonde hair shading his eyes.

The jester tossed a glossy white megaphone to Blaine, who twirled the thing on its strap a few times. Stroking his forked goatee, Blaine said, “Right prop, Goliath, but this color has got to go!” He turned to show his muscular body in profile, holding the megaphone a few feet away from his mouth. Placing his free hand beneath his lips with the palm up, as if about to blow a kiss, he unleashed a torrent of lilac-hued flame from his throat. The audience cooed and clapped in delight. When the flame died away, the megaphone was decked out in a red, orange, and yellow fire pattern. Blaine tensed his arms and tapped his fingers on the megaphone, and then stepped away. The prop floated rigidly in the air, frozen. Blaine clucked his tongue. “Naw, bud, you gotta turn to face the audience,” the magician said to it. “90 degree rotation, please.” The megaphone obeyed, spinning to aim its speaker at the crowd.

From seemingly nowhere, Blaine produced a similarly flame-hued microphone and shoved it in front of Johnny’s face. “Johnny Geralds,” he cried. “I’m sure our audience would love to know the opinions of an enlightened young man such as yourself. How about it?”

The piss had pooled in Johnny’s shoe now, and it was getting colder. He bowed his head and closed his eyes tight, wanting this all to be a dream. But he knew it wasn’t and there was nothing he could do about it. He knew what he’d tell another guy in his situation. He’d tell him to be like water and let the current take you where it would, rather than fight against it and be broken.

Blaine was at his ear, suddenly, whispering, “That advice was always self-serving crap, you know that, right? Because what you always meant was, ‘Don’t make waves.’ Just put up with being insulted, used, attacked, all of it. A good person doesn’t act that way.”

The magician withdrew and flashed a winning smile at the crowd. “Let’s get to some cosmic truths, shall we? Johnny, what’s the secret to your spirituality?”

Trembling, Johnny spoke into the microphone, talking of Saint Thomas Aquinas and C.S. Lewis. His voice sounded small within the room, which seemed larger than he’d recalled, and much more crowded. It took him a moment to realize that his speech wasn’t being amplified. He could hear his voice blaring from the megaphone, but not his words. And even the voice wasn’t quite the same. When he talked, it was in a gentle, soothing tone. His voice from the megaphone was harsh, gritty, and somehow oily as well. He heard himself insulting Blaine’s sexuality, his fruity way of dressing, his lame hobby. It was how he honestly felt, but it was shocking to hear it spoken aloud. Johnny tried to stop talking, but it felt like his voice was being pulled into the microphone. He held forth on the “prosperity gospel” of Joel Osteen and the gentler Eastern philosophy of Ram Dass. But he guessed that only he could hear himself. What reached the ears of the audience was a screed. The grotesque voice from the megaphone lashed out at Dane for being a meat headed bully, at Blaine for being a nerd, and Harris for being a snob. He heard himself obsess over the body of a woman in the low-cut gown at the next table, spending two full minutes salivating over her breasts and going into intimate detail about how he’d treat her in bed. He heard himself coveting Harris’ wealth and say that he deserved it more than his trust fund baby roommate.

Meanwhile, Blaine’s painted face beamed with joy. The voice from the megaphone insinuated that Blaine was getting off on this and called him a “sick freak.” Blaine’s smile shrank into a small, straight line. “I’ll stop you there,” the magician grunted. The crowd laughed.

A thunderous noise caught Johnny’s ears. The jester was rolling a huge glass tank atop a tall, solid black platform over to center stage. “I think we’ve heard enough to know what kind of person you are,” Blaine said. “But what do I know? I’m a ‘sick freak,’ remember? You know what? I think you and I can still be friends. Well, not with how you are now. With who you are inside.”

The jester clutched the back of Johnny’s neck, making him jump. Johnny’s feet skidded helplessly against the stage as he was pulled backwards towards the water tank. The henchman shoved him around the back of the thing and prodded him up a ladder. The tank had a set of metal doors at the top with padded half-circle cutouts on the adjoining edges and handles near those. The jester reached around Johnny’s right side and slammed one door down with an ominous clanging noise. “Hop in, buddy,” Blaine prompted. “And try not to piss yourself again.” A wave of laughter rolled through the crowd.

Johnny obeyed. The second door came down, leaving his head above the water. He grasped the handles and floated helplessly. It was freezing.

“Good boy,” Blaine grinned, slapping the side of the tank. “Now, Johnny here is a real asshole. But what the hell, assholes can be fun to hang with sometimes. As long as they’re open about it. That’s your problem, dude. You’re an asshole and a phony. But let’s see what we get when we boil you down to your essence, huh?” He snapped his fingers. The front of the black platform came crashing down onto the stage. The audience giggled. “What Johnny up there can’t see, folks, is a big pile of wood, campfire style. That’ll warm you up!” He clapped his hands. The lights went down around them while the tank was bathed in shifting colors of light. First yellow, then orange, then red. The water quickly warmed, going from pleasant to unbearable. Bubbles tickled his hands and crept up his pants legs. The crowd murmured to itself.

More bubbles splashed against his skin. He began to feel them in places that should have been covered in fabric. As he thrashed his limbs, he realized that he couldn’t feel his clothes anymore. They seemed to have been cooked into pieces. His muscles ached. He felt very odd in a way he couldn’t figure out. But it felt like the handles were moving further away and the water splashing up from his kicking feet was getting closer to his hands. His flapping cock bounced against his thigh. The proportions seemed off, but at least his dick felt like it was getting bigger. The audience began to applaud.

The boiling water felt like it was inside him now, rushing to his brain. All his good intentions, his well-meaning platitudes, his concern about appearances, all were coming apart in his mind, turning into steam. It was terrifying, at first, but as his worries about society’s conventions were annihilated, he began to feel something like relief. He was going to like this. Feeling drunker than ever, he lolled his head sideways and smiled lazily at his benefactor. Blaine – or, hell, “Buster” if that’s what he wanted to be called – had done him a favor. He was free to be as disgusting as he wanted.

A shrill mechanical bell sounded through the auditorium. Buster held up a kitchen timer. “And we’re done,” he announced. He slapped one hand against the tank and the thing collapsed, dropping Johnny down onto the stage. He shook his head and saw no sign of the prop, or even water. He was naked and his dick was half-hard, and he didn’t care. He stumbled to his feet. Everything was huge, including Buster. No, that wasn’t it. He was small. Johnny stretched out his stumpy limbs and saw he was a dwarf, one who was exceptionally well-hung.

“My second assistant,” Buster said, gesturing to him. “The Imp.”

The audience applauded. Smirking, Johnny took a bow.

“Now, this is an adults-only show,” Buster continued. “But not that adult…! Let’s get you fixed up with a costume before the joint is raided.” He took a small red silk handkerchief from the pocket of his leather pants and held it up for the crowd to inspect. “Too small?” He placed both hands on it and flapped it once, making it expand into a pair of crimson leather pants and a set of long leather gloves with clawed fingertips. He tossed them to the Imp. “Might as well get dressed right here,” Buster said. “We’ve already seen everything.”

“You got it, boss,” the Imp growled. As he donned the costume, Buster circled him, playing with the curls of his mustache and humming thoughtfully.

Buster frowned. “Still needs something. I know! Any assistant of mine needs some super cool facial hair. One moment, please!” Turning in profile once more, he opened his mouth wide. The reedy sound of a flute emerged — muffled at first but growing louder. As the crowd clapped its hands, a fanciful recorder with a bulbous horn floated out of his mouth and hovered in the air. Buster winked at the audience and quipped, “Oh, it’s true… I swallow.”

He grabbed the instrument and started to play “Grow for Me” from “Little Shop of Horrors.” A rabid sort of itching taunted the Imp’s chin. And then he saw them: hundreds of wiry black hairs emerging from his chin. At the same time, his floppy brown hair began growing out, deepening in color to match his newborn mane. He watched the beard and the hair both reach the floor. And then the hair floated upward and back behind his head. He could feel it gather itself into a bun. Meanwhile, the long goatee twisted itself into a thick braid. The audience went wild.

“Needs something else,” Buster declared. He placed a hand at each end of the recorder and collapsed it into nothing. Still staring at the Imp, he held out one hand and caught a “super soaker” water gun that the jester tossed at him. “Hey, gotta use the assistants for something or else they get bored!” He took aim at the Imp’s chest. A thin stream of red liquid splashed impotently off the Imp’s left pec. Feigning embarrassment, Buster breathed, “I swear, this has never happened to me before. Well, maybe we can just cuddle. No, wait, I think it’s working…!”

The liquid soaked into the Imp’s flesh and spread like watercolor, covering his chest and then his shoulders in red and black tattoos depicting medieval woodcuts images of devils, along with flames, skulls, and pitchforks. He could feel the sting of the ink as it marched across his body, leaving only his outsized cock and balls untouched.

“And now a couple of subdermal implants,” Buster announced. The Imp winced as threaded metal stumps emerged from his forehead. Buster produced a pair of black resin horns, juggling them for a minute before swiftly screwing them onto the metal. “You’re perfect,” the magician smiled. His violet eyes shone as he basked in the crowd’s adoration. And then they landed on the sickly-looking rich boy at the front center table. “Goliath, Imp… go get Harris for me.”

Harris sat up. Knowing instinctively that he couldn’t run, he scooted as far back in his seat as he could. It didn’t matter, he knew. In seconds, his former friends had grabbed onto his wrists and were dragging him to the stage. After plopping him down in front of Blaine, they retreated to the shadows once more.

“Harris de Haas,” the magician announced. “I would offer a bit of psychoanalysis on this prick, but he’s made that impossible. The guy’s a goddamn brick wall! Who can tell what he’s thinking?” He turned to Harris and purred, “Any last words?”

Stammering uncontrollably, Harris tried to beg for his life. The only word he managed to form was something that sounded like “Pubblies.” A droplet of mucous dripped from his nose onto the stage.

“Well put,” Blaine deadpanned. “Harris here is loaded! Well, loaded enough. When he invited me to move in with him, he didn’t know I was going to our fancy pants college on a scholarship. I know, right…? Scandalous! He treated me like dogshit ever since. It was either insults or the silent treatment from him. Harris prefers the silent treatment, mostly. It saves him from having to converse with paupers. And if you don’t talk, you can con people into thinking you’re a serious person.” He got in Harris’ face, an evil smile making the ends of his mustache curl even more. “I can’t have a serious assistant, Harris!” He turned to the audience. “Should I make ol’ Moneybags Van Stick-in-the-Mud into something more entertaining?”

Beyond the blinding stage lights, it looked as if the room had grown into a full theatre, with a mezzanine, a balcony, an orchestra pit, and a massive crystal chandelier dominating it all. The house was full, and it was cheering deliriously. Looking more than a little crazed, Blaine held his palm alongside his mouth and stage-whispered, “You’re doing great!” Raising his arm, he snapped his fingers twice. The jester and the Imp rushed over to them, each baring a single large cymbal the color of rose gold. As they strapped the cymbals to Harris’ hands, his arms flung uncontrollably outward and hung stiffly above the stage at right angles to his body. “Every time you clang those cymbals, rich boy, you’re gonna get funnier and cuter and the crowd will love you more and more! You want that, right?”

Harris shook his head. But already, his arms were vibrating. An invisible force was pushing them forward. Harris tried to resist the motion. But after several seconds, he felt his muscles weaken, and the sound of his doom rang through the auditorium.

He could feel the flesh and bones of his feet liquify and bubble, his nerves lighting up with small electric shocks as the cells mutated. Looking down, he saw the leather of his shoes bulge outward.

The fucker was going to turn him into a clown, he was sure of it. Some freaky clown with big freaky clown feet…

Bursts of purple smoke erupted from the shoes, and then he saw them. His new feet were long, bestial things, covered in fluffy white fur. One of them thumped anxiously against the floorboards.

Blaine slapped his back. “Harris thinks tricks are for kids. But he’s a silly rabbit!”

Again, Harris felt his arms pull back and clang the cymbals together. This time, the shocks and the smoke occurred at the small of his back. The smoke drifted off to the side and became visible to the crowd. Blaine wrinkled his nose and joked, “Harris, please…! You’re on stage right now. Have some class!”

The audience’s laughter was deafening.

“Go on, buddy,” the magician said. “Give us a little spin.”

His arms still frozen, Harris turned about so everyone could giggle over the presumably fluffy rabbit tail that wiggled from the base of his spine. To his profound mortification, he found himself hopping.

Clang

Whiskers sprouted from his upper lip while his two front teeth grew wide and long, protruding from his mouth.

Clang

His ears squirmed up to the top of his head and grew furry, floppy, and long.

Clang

His dress shirt and tie vanished within his sport coat, revealing a white-furred, pear-shaped, nipple-free midsection featuring a fat, round belly adorned with a wide pink circle of pastel pink fluff.

The crowd’s laughter began to blend with adoring reverence, like he’d heard people make to chubby infants. He felt his resistance to the process easing, the audience’s admiration making him feel lighter. He tried to recall how he’d gotten here. Cartoon white rabbits were plastered all over his memories like stickers from a toy store.

Clang, clang, clang

It was hard to think. His thoughts were awash in a sea of smiling, buck toothed white rabbits. He bounced joyfully on his big, furry feet, naked to the world and plump with jiggling fat and white-and-pink fluff. His whole body quivered as he moved. He wasn’t sure he had bones anymore. Or even what bones were. He was just a sexless toy. A prop.

The magician poked his belly. A mechanical giggle issued from the rabbit-man’s throat. “My final assistant,” the magician announced. Hare Brain is his name. Jump for me, Hare Brain!”

Hare Brain’s fat arms dropped to his sides, causing the cymbals to slip from his paws. He rocked on his feet for a moment, then leaped fifteen feet straight up. The crowd whistled and clapped. Hare Brain turned his glassy pink eyes on his master and saw him scowling in frustration. “Remind me to teach you about escalation, buddy,” he sighed. “You don’t start that big! Well, since you already blew your damn wad, there’s nothing left but to pack you up!”

With a flapping noise, he shook his right hand and caused a top hat to appear. He placed the thing atop Hare Brain’s head, ears and all, and pressed downward. The rabbit-man felt his soft cranium give way and disappear within the hat. The world turned dark. The magician smoothly brought the hat down over Hare Brain’s shoulders and torso, down, down, until the hat was sitting by itself on the floor.

Hare Brain had a feeling of lightness. He was squishy before and now he was nothing. As his consciousness collapsed into itself, he took pride in knowing the magician would summon him again for his next engagement.

Violet flames raced up the sides of the proscenium and devoured the curtains. Buster raised his arms in victory. Three thousand witches chanted his name, welcoming him into their coven while the liminal theatre crashed down around their vanishing astral bodies. Buster and his assistants were the last to leave. He watched the chandelier slam down into the orchestra seats before he shifted to the spirit plane. He had put on a dynamite act. But it could always be better. The next time, he decided, he would wear a cape.