Early in the morning the other day I was practicing my magic tricks with my newly acquired magic bullets. When I purchased them from Edmond the Extravagant, he had informed me about the dangerous perils that these bullets could hold if used improperly. I told him to lick it exposing my left nipple but quickly pulling my shirt back down just in case he attempted to because I didn’t really want him to, I was just being a smart ass. I then proceeded to withdraw from the store since he was beginning to invoke evil spells. I knew this because his eyes were beginning to roll back into his head and the magic book of spells resting on the coffee table made from thousands of playing cards (all of them were the ace of spades) in front of him began to glow a very bright baby blue. I’ve studied several arts of magic and am very familiar with various types of magic. Even the Keebler elves magic, which isn’t even really magic but in fact a lot of urine clouds and midget doubles. I learned that early on in my research… Those bastards! Almost immediately after I slid through the exit I could hear the chanting of a hundred infants. To the average person it must have sounded like a hundred infants playing poker and smoking cigars but I have been trained to hear even the tiniest of spells. I didn’t know what the exact spell was but I figured it was bad. Anytime the infant’s are present it is never good. I didn’t even turn back to see if anything was behind me, I just got the fuck out of there. Nothing has happened to me since so I figure Edmund just missed me. I always thought of him to have poor aim.
The thing about magic bullets is they need to shot from a gun, preferably a cool gun. I had my gat but that was it. I needed a gun with a long barrel like an old antique Daniel Boone gun. A musket would be perfect. Those look like nothing magic could ever come from them so when I fire a magic bullet from one of those people will be beyond astonished. They will be knocked on their ass. My mind raced feverishly. Where was I going to find Daniel Boone’s musket? After what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of gigantic seconds passing it hit me like that time when I saw that guy take a bite from a grilled Swiss cheese sandwich I made him. He punched me in the face after he tasted it and said, “There is no way you’re Swiss you calamari eatin’ snake handler!” I never knew if he liked it or hated it or even why he called me what he did. I couldn’t figure out if he somehow knew about my past experiences with snakes or if it was just a spooky coincidence since that was the first and only time I ever met that guy. I think he was a giant albino Indian midget. I wonder how many chicks he’s frenched. He had game with the ladies. He talked like a black Italian but with an Australian accent. He had quite the punch too. It packed enough bite to leave me rattled and hesitant to make him anything else on the menu.
I had to call Mike Stevens up and ask him about the musket. I’m sure if anyone knew anything about Daniel Boone then he would. Mike’s not your typical Mike. Instead of dating Russians and snowboarding and doing misty flips and petting greyhounds and DJ’ing with people named Jake and eating peanut butter with chopsticks and marking the world with his graff art. This Mike chews tobacco and doesn’t date Russians but humps Americans and flexes while drinking Jack Daniels straight from the bottle with people named Cole and grows thick beards and shoots animals with modernized muskets. Mike told me he could hook me up, but for a price. I raced down to his place where he was already waiting for me outside. He had cowboy boots on with Gap jeans and a white with blue stripes polo shirt and his beard of course. The first thing he greeted me with was, “Are you ready to do this?” I told him I was and he responded with, “Alright lets do it.”
We began walking up the dark street, our eyes bouncing from one side of the street to the other looking at all the cars lined up and down the streets. Mike points at a green Explorer indicating that he wants me to take care of it. On my way over to it I retrieve my flathead screwdriver from my back pocket. I approach the front of the car and stick the tip of the screwdriver in the crack between the Ford emblem and the car. I take one glance over my shoulder towards Mike and he is still in the middle of the street but he is kneeling down with his ear on the concrete like he was listening for the Fraggles in Fraggle Rock beneath the surface. Whatever, I thought and began to pry the emblem from the car. As I forced the screwdriver deeper and deeper into the expanding space, like a shot from the musket I was in dire need for a deafening pop burst out and the emblem went flying to the ground. I grabbed the Ford emblem and the screwdriver and ran towards Mike. He was already half way up the road leaving me behind to be roasted by whoever may have heard that thunderous noise.
Soon after catching up I handed him the Ford emblem and we proceeded on doing this to numerous other cars, only on Fords though. When I asked him why the hell he wants these he told me, “So I can throw them at those damn nigger’s heads!” I didn’t believe him. Especially because he told me before how he wanted to hump Beyonce. He later asked if I was willing to go on a deal with him. I thought that these must be part of the deal but what loon wants a bunch of Ford emblems? I quickly realized it was a dude selling Ford knock off’s. Not a bad idea. I accepted his offer because I was overly fascinated with people ripping other people off that are totally oblivious. I couldn’t say why I liked it, I guess it’s the same reason why I like boobs on a hot chick. There isn’t any real explanation, they just freakin rule more than my large nut did before I got surgery on it to make it normal sized. That surgery sucked too. I couldn’t piss right for a few weeks. K.C. Phillips would come over and show me porn pictures which I never liked looking at unless I was alone because I would get rigamortus on my man parts that I would later find out was perfectly normal. He would always point out how he would like certain chick’s vaginas and think that others had funny looking butts.
I wasn’t able to make it to the deal on account that I was conducting the weekly conquistador meeting I have on Thursday nights. Mike was kind enough to give me the musket I desired. It was weird; he just pulled it from a deep small hole in the ground in his backyard. I then began thinking, who the hell stores muskets in holes, but then it came to me like that time when I saw Kenan Thompson from SNL at the club in Delaware and he just came over to me and gave me a high five because I was performing shadow puppets and making the sexies laugh. That Kenan is a classy dude, big, but classy. I realized that Mike has underground friends that are able to steal from the dead because the dead are underground. Although they’re dead so they can’t defend themselves, the suckers. I put two and two together and realized that Mike was listening to them when he had his ear to the street earlier. Maybe they were Fraggles, maybe they weren’t, I don’t know but I want to be friends with them so I don’t have to rip Ford emblems off of cars anymore. I just wonder what he gives them for their services, probably protection from the Gorg’s and Sprocket and others alike.
I returned home with my musket and magic bullets. Now the magic trick is, someone is supposed to shoot one of the magic bullets from the musket at my face. I’m supposed to then catch the bullet with my teeth. I wasn’t afraid since I’ve had experience with magic before and I knew what was actually magic and what wasn’t. A lot of the big show magicians like David Copperfield aren’t really magic they’re just good with their hands. I think that’s why the ladies like them so much. Real magicians don’t get much credit because we don’t care about it. We just like to turn people into things like frogs and newts and owls and miniature dinosaurs and talking business cards. This particular trick has been done by fake magicians many times with illusion and sleight of hand but I was going to prove that I can really catch a bullet in my teeth using actual magic.
This trick didn’t need much set up, just someone that would be willing to shoot me in the face. I tried to locate Dick Cheney but they never returned my calls. Instead I called up my body double, Howie whom I hired months ago so I could be in two places at once until I was able to master the magic spell where I could do that myself. We got aligned and he asked if I was ready but he asked through telepathy because he is a mute. I did quick fake CPR on myself, looked straight at the gun and as my body began shaking furiously like I was extremely angry I said in a slow powerful voice, “Hell yes bitch!” A loud bang and a cloud of smoke erupted as Howie pulled the trigger. With all the prepping I had done, nothing had happened. No bullet had escaped from the gun. I would have known too because I see everything when I’m doing my magic.
After the smoke cleared I looked at the gun a little more closely. There was no longer a barrel. No signs of it anywhere. Then Howie fell to the floor splashing into a puddle of blood like that time when I threw this grey cat into a pool of whale’s blood and then proceeded to drown it for eating my Philly cheese steak when my back was turned. I’ve hated cats ever since. The blood was pouring from Howie’s chest making the puddle larger and larger. I asked if he was ok but I got no reply. I knew he was dead but I didn’t know what had happened. Blood was everywhere so I didn’t go near him yet so I went to grab my binoculars and came back. I looked at the gun through them so I might be able to determine what happened. The barrel was missing but I quickly found out that it was lodged into his chest, acting like a hose for the blood to pour out of. Everything else of the gun was in the same condition as it was when Mike first gave it to me. Then as if on cue the bullet revealed itself from Howie’s chest and rolled into the puddle of blood.
When I was ready to do something with the body I felt lucky because we were at an old gym that was run down and abandoned. Nobody ever came out to this area and that’s why I had originally chosen it for my rehearsals. Even though Howie was dead I didn’t really feel bad. Actually I felt safe now, what kind of soulless sonofabitch is willing to shoot his double in the face? The whole situation worked itself out. He was starting to get on my nerves anyway. When I would be frenching my girl, he would always put porno advice into my mind with his telepathy techniques.
The burning ceremony went as well as I could have asked for it too. I had built a fire pit out back. It was quite the bon fire. I wished I had some marshmallow, graham crackers, and chocolates so I could make smore’s. After the fire had died out I went inside to grab my things. The first thing I grabbed was the case of magic bullets. On the side it read, “CAUTION: DO NOT FIRE FROM A LONG BARRELLED GUN. WILL KILL SHOOTER IF ATTEMPTED!” I laughed and said to myself, “Stupid Luke. No wonder Howie died. That was the magic trick.” I don’t do magic anymore only because I haven’t been able to find another body double. I’ve been trying to get a hold of Steve Zahn but that bastard is damn near impossible to reach.
