Magician in a Bottle
~1998~
Heavy metal blasted through the smoke filled apartment as a group of 20-somethings sat around complaining about their latest gig. It went about as well as the others, enough money for food and gas but barely enough to scrape by on bills. Before they had done much better and they argued as they passed a joint around trying to settle on why that was. Each of them were friends from high school and each wore their hair long. The front man held out a hand for his turn as he upended a bottle of whiskey down his throat.
"Are you even listening to us, Hiscock? And I thought you said you would actually share the booze with us," the drummer spoke as he tapped drummed a rhythm on his boot.
The man in question lowered the nearly empty bottle of whiskey as he snatched the joint from the bassist's hand. "Yes, I fucking heard you, Mavis. It is your shit songs that is costing us money. I told you, we keep with the covers or write something with more energy and high vocals and we are golden. None of that slow... whatever the fuck you call it. It sucks more dick than your whore mother." He shot the drummer a glare through the rat's nest he calls hair as he took a long drag of the joint and passed it along. "And I'll give you whatever I piss out, so piss off."
"Bands are getting heavier, we need to move in that direction." Mavis retorted as he gripped his sticks tightly.
"Yeah, remember when you said grunge was a sure thing? That failed
hard."
"Because you can't sing it."
"You can't fucking play it! I can sing anything, you shit stain." The other bandmates nodded in agreement with their front man who sat up as he took another swig and passed the remaining whiskey off. "I don't think I have to remind you that I became the main singer because my vocals can break glass and idiots pay to see that shit."
The blond guitarist held a hand between the two as they made aggressive moves towards each other, acting as the usual buffer in their arguments over artistic differences. "Regardless, we need to pay the bills or the electricity is getting shut off and our asses are back on the street." He looked over at the leader who gave a resigned sigh. "I hate to ask it of you, Travis, but you are the only one that can actually earn a living."
"Yeah, how exactly
do you earn your money?" Mavis questioned as Travis pulled on his iconic jean jacket that was covered in patches.
"I know a guy, and what does it matter?" He snatched the joint away from being passed on to the drummer and took another hit. "I'll get the damn money like I always do since you are too retarded to even understand that we don't need to change our fucking image to make more money. Now just practice the old sets and quit your shit song writing." He stormed out of the apartment and rubbed his temples. The days of their living off of covers of all the great hair metal they loved as teens was long over, he knew that but he couldn't quite let it go. They each had the talent to play but not much in the song writing department. It is hard to make a name when you can't come up with hit originals. He gave a sigh as he walked around the apartment where no one would see him as he disintegrated into dust, drifting off into the wind. He eventually materialized at the back of a pawnshop where he washed his face in the employee bathroom. The eyeliner he wore had long since rubbed off making him look sleep deprived and sickly. He didn't like to go out and earn his pay looking like himself. After a quick face wash and the painful ordeal of brushing all the knots out of his hair, he went into the back room to a locker for a change of clothes.
The owner of the pawnshop was a respectable man to those who didn't know him, and a black market fence to those that did. It had been a couple years since he met him and learned that he can pawn off stolen goods for good money. Since he had his ways of getting the man whatever he wanted, he was free to leave his change of clothes there. The unfortunate thing was that he only paid really well for hired jobs, which there was none at the moment, so he just had to guess what would be good to take. When he left, Travis Hiscock no longer looked like the constantly drunk lead singer of a locally popular band, but a well dressed man. His long hair was brushed and held back in a neat ponytail and his face was partially concealed behind the classic black mask. He twirled the cane he came home with during a black out as he thought over where to go to earn money. He wasn't quite so well known but there were people referring to him by a nickname in the papers: the Magician. He supposed it had to do more with how he made jewels, priceless paintings and even luxury cars vanish before people's eyes. He didn't really care why they named him that, all that mattered was he was going to go steal some shit and make enough to pay the bills. Theft is such a chore when it serves a purpose other than entertainment.
Travis made his way to a bank, materializing inside one of the vaults after having made his way inside through the vents. He walked around looking at the lock boxes and different stacks of cash before pulling out a bag and beginning to stuff it full. Not satisfied with just the cash, he smashed some of the locks, disintegrating them in the process and dumping the contents into the bag. Inside were family jewels, a few Rolexes, and important documents which he dumped on the floor finding no interest in them. The whole time he whistled and chuckled until someone came and poked their head into the vault that still had the gate locked. He flashed the bank worker a grin before hefting his loot over his shoulder and flipping him the bird. He dissolved in front of his eyes as the man panicked and set off the alarm, but it was too late. Travis took his acquisitions with him through the vents and into the air where he didn't look like much besides smoke or a little dust cloud.
When he returned to the pawn shop, he materialized with a laugh and a slight stumble to his step. He could have been in and out without them noticing but where was the fun in that? He didn't even need all the money or even this other shit, he just wanted to take it to prove a point that nothing is safe. He blinked at the young man that stood staring at him, holding something he was looking at. Oops.
"Well now, aren't you a lookie loo?" He walked over, his buzz from the whiskey he chugged still slowing his logic as he sauntered over to the man. He looked younger than him. Is he in his teens? Twenties? He didn't know, nor did he care. All his alcohol riddled brain could make out was that he was rather attractive. He reached into his bag and pulled out a few hundred dollar bills and tucked it into the collar of his shirt, giving them a pat and a smirk. "Why don't you get yourself something nice?" He took a couple steps away before stopped and looking back at him. "And you never saw me." After another pause he opened his mouth and pointed at him. "How old are you?" He gave out a snort. "Seventeen?" He didn't even wait for an answer, he just spun on his heels and began humming along to one of his favorite songs by Winger, changing the lyrics as he adjusted his loot bag. "
Daddy says he's too young, but he's old enough for me."