A Magic Trick

I

You are desperate for help. You are at your wits’ end. You are about to commit suicide but too cowardly to complete it. Sitting naked on your bed, you channel surf your one hundred and eighty channels looking for something to keep your mind off of all your failures, in life and attempted death. You land on a commercial. It is for a service. A very old man is sitting at a desk, looking wise with long white hair and beard. He begins to speak about how he has turned around many lives and gives example "Joe Blow came to me because he could not pay his bills and I helped him out, now he calls himself Hugh Hefner. Jane Doe could not keep any of her relationships for more than a month and since my counseling she has gone on to found her own matriarchal country and has six husbands and two wives." He continued with the examples and began to finish up with his little pitch that he can fix any problem, any problem. In no time, you are convinced that he can help you, too. You stop paying attention to the television and begin to get dressed. A green digital one glows up in the corner of the screen as the commercial ends and snow blankets the screen.

You arrive at the address you wrote down quickly from the memory of the commercial. Six hundredth street, number sixty-six, a small store is on the first floor, above there are some apartments. "Gabriel Services" glows neon in the window of the store. You walk in apprehendedly. There is a desk and some chairs immediately if front of you, upon entering. A sign on the desk instructs you to take a seat and wait a moment for service. The same old man from the commercial walks through a door in the opposite wall, behind the desk, and takes a seat.

"How may I be of service to you?" he asks calmly and slowly, like a wizened old man should. Uh, you stutter, I’m having a problem. "Well, of course you are, otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me. What are you having trouble with?" Everything, you state nervously. "So, you are unhappy?" You nod. "Well, to put it simply, what would make you happy?" A wife, you stammer, I always wanted to get married and have a wife and be happy. "Alright then, that can be done, but if you will please excuse me, I must be going now, so I will see you again when I do." He rises, and turns to walk towards the front door, you get up to follow, but he instructs you to the door through which he entered. You walk through the open doorway and he closes the door behind you. You don’t know my name! You shout at the door. What happened? Can you help me? How much will this cost? You continue to question the door. There is no answer from the other side, and the knob will not turn. So you begin to look for an exit.

Walking down a long hall, you hear the sound of sawing. As you continue, the sound gets louder. You approach the end of the hallway, and a door. The door is large and of thick hard wood. Large brass hinges and locks adorned it. The sound of sawing is emanating from within. Reaching down you grasp the knob tightly. Slowly turning it, to test the lock, you can feel the bolt slipping back. Seeing it unlocked, you cautiously open it an inch. Peering in you see a large dimly lit room, with activity at the other end. You open the door wider. You still cannot make out the forms at the other end of the room. There is no sign that you have been noticed.

You walk even farther into the room, squinting to define the features of the movement before you. A tall lean figure is standing over what appears to be a large, coffin like box. You walk still closer, a spotlight turns on with a loud clack. It is directed onto the box and man You can seen more clearly now that it is not a coffin but a box, not unlike a magician’s The man in wearing a tattered old black velvet cape, torn to shreds at the bottom where it met the floor. Evidence of it’s antiquity are evident in it’s color, condition and smell. An odor of formaldehyde fills the air. The man is also wearing a black satin top hat, with a blood red band. It, too, shows signs of extreme aging.

The sawing sound continues. You see no movement. Approaching from behind, you stare fixed at the man’s cape covered back. You walk around to the left to get a better look. The end of the box comes into view, you can see that it is resting on a table larger than itself. You can, also, see a woman’s feet sticking out of two holes in the end of the box, with her heels on the table top. They wiggle a little and startle you with the abrupt movement. Still walking to the left, circling the spectacle, you finally begin to see the face of the man in the cape. He looks young, much to your surprise considering the age of his attire. He has an olive complexion, and dark black hair, greased back under the hat. He is intent upon his work, which you see clearly now. The spotlight grows in intensity.

In the brightly lit morgue you look down upon your doctors work. The body of a beautiful young woman lies on the examining table, her feet spread apart at the drain. A saw is in the doctor’s hand. He puts his left hand down on the body’s rib cage, just below the left breast. He moves the saw in closer and prepares to begin cutting with a deep inhale. You look down away from the saw and chest to avoid watching the procedure, but feel compelled to stay. The stomach of the body quivers, and you hear a gasp. You look up at the face of the doctor, and you can see the olive skin, and dark brooding eyes just above the surgical mask. He was in some kind of meditation or trance, eyes shut and not moving. You then look down upon the face of the body. The beautiful woman’s face is lit up by the examination lights but more by the extreme look of fear and dread that has set upon it. Her eyes begged you to help her, but no words from her mouth vocalized the plea. You wince and shut your eyes hard as you hear the distinct soft sound of metal tearing through flesh. You imagine the beautiful woman’s soft skin and luscious, red, bloody flesh being ripped apart by the jagged metal blade of the saw. A chill falls over the room and you open your eyes.

The butcher asks you for the third time: "How much? How much?" he repeats. Your life begins to feel like a movie, and all you can do is sit back and watch yourself. What, you ask dumbly. "You asked for ribs, how much do you want?" Oh, OK, four pounds. You replied lamely. A package wrapped in butcher paper is deftly thudded on the counter, by a rather tall slender man with an olive complexion and dark black hair. You throw a wad of cash from your pocket onto the counter mechanically, and walk out of the store. Walking routinely home, turning where necessary without thinking, you glance at the package, and its label. It says that the package is only four pounds but it feels heavier, and bulkier than four pounds of ribs should be. Arriving home, you walk directly into the kitchen and begin to prepare to cook the ribs on a grill on your balcony. While the coals are heating up for the barbecue, you get out the seasonings for the meat. You break the tape sealing the package and unroll the contents onto the cutting board.

Your wife walks into the room and looks at the meat on the cutting board. Looks delicious, she says, licking her lips. Being so surprised at seeing her enter, you had not yet looked down at what had rolled out of the butcher paper. You casually glance down at it, about to make a remark about it, when you recognize what it is.