Maker

Chapter: 1 The moment you relax, sigh, put your feet up, that’s when there will be a knock at the door. “Burn,” I growled, and a small bottle appeared in my hand. I didn’t look at it; I didn’t have to. “Come in,” I called out, gripping the glass bottle a little tighter. If whatever coming through the door of my office proved to be a threat, the contents of the vial would turn it—and possibly the entire block—into a torch. Funny that summoning a fire potion always caused a slight chill in the air. It didn’t look like a threat. It looked like a man in glasses and a dark suit and tie; a mop of neglected light brown curly hair above hunched shoulders and a slow cautious stride. He wasn’t the type you’d normally see strolling around this neighborhood. I still didn’t move. It looked human, but there was never any way to be certain. Lots of things looked human. “Mr. uhh Maker?” “Come in. Have a seat.” In the few steps between the door and the chair, he looked at me and then quickly looked away again—twice. One of those looks had a timid half-smile attached. The kind of smile people used when they wanted to be polite and didn’t know what else to do. After all, he was staring down a two-hundred-twenty-pound, muscular, grumpy, black guy. He only took a few steps, as the room wasn’t large. In fact, this “laboratory” was my smallest. I had five of them in abandoned buildings all over town. This room had just enough space for a couple simple wooden chairs, my desk, and a table against the far wall that looked like something out of a chemistry lab—or an old Frankenstein movie. All the furniture was used, beat up, or dug out of a dumpster. I was sitting with my hands behind my head, feet up on my second-hand IKEA Brusali desk, waiting for him to try something that would end in a murder. I stashed the vial a few inches up my coat sleeve. He sat down and immediately launched into a rushed torrent of words: who he was, who had referred him, and why he was here. His eyes darted around, and his breathing was fast and shallow. All very un-monster like behavior. I took a deep breath and stopped paying attention. Relaxation was far more important. Tension was a way of life, but it was also a good way to get dead. Besides, everything Mr. Robert Blan was saying, I’d heard before. Seriously, Bobby Blan? Kindergarten must’ve been hell. I focused on the sun caressing my face. It was streaming through the window behind him. Sunlight was always a comfort. The things that went bump in the night didn’t bump quite so hard in daylight. Most of them, anyway. “…and so… like, he said you could help me.” I was getting popular with the just past college crowd. Blan was about my age, maybe a little older. His suit was cheap—like everything else he was wearing. His glasses had tape on the side, and his short brown hair was unkempt. He was a nerd right out of someone’s favorite sitcom. I knew what he meant by “help.” He wanted me to give him an advantage that no one else had so he could cheat at life. In some circles that would be immoral, but I have a rule that dictates my sense of morality. I stole it from Scarlett O’Hara—the bit about never being hungry again. Most people have never been starving before. In the vignettes of my childhood that I could remember, it wasn’t unheard of to miss a week of meals. I’m not above love potions, money potions, make this guy grovel or that bully go away hexes. Weight loss potions, beauty marks—even breast and p***s enhancement. Whatever keeps the lights on. I’ve even been known to pull a rabbit out of a hat at kid’s parties when I get desperate enough. “Let me make sure I have this,” I said. “You have an interview with some firm in Research Triangle Park. You get the job, and you’re set for the next forty years. You don’t get the job, and life as you know it comes to an end. Complicating this relatively simple matter is that you’re a socially awkward, anxious kinda guy who’s guilty of solipsistic introjection, dissociative imagination, and generally learned all the wrong lessons from the internet. You came to me because you want enough charisma to get through the interview without breaking out in hives. That about right?” Blan flinched. Like, actually flinched. Apparently, he didn’t like hearing what someone thought when they didn’t pull their verbal punches, but few people did. I found it was a good test of someone’s character. If they couldn’t take hearing something that was painfully obvious to everyone else, it was kinda hard for me to take them seriously. Life was a crucible; for me at least. As a result, I didn’t have much sympathy for people who chose not to see how good they had it. He didn’t even answer; just dropped his eyes and nodded. I sighed. “Everyone thinks magic can solve their problems. Well it can. It will just create bigger and more difficult problems in the process. Then, you think ‘Hey, more magic!’ It’s like a drug that way, soon you’ll be wondering how you can even brush your teeth without it.” “Well I just—” Cutting him off, I continued, “For instance, have you even bothered to think about how you’re going to maintain this persona once you get the job?” “I—” “Is there a second interview? A third? Will you be back for the inevitable yearly performance review? What happens when your new boss ambushes you in the toilet? He’ll take the urinal right next to yours and strike up a conversation about the Pickadilly merger. Then you’ll wanna walk around with a potion in your pocket all the time. No doubt, you’ll wanna ask that cute new receptionist out at some point. First date? First love? Up for a promotion? Meeting the in-laws for the first time? Wedding? Baby? I can put courage, charm, fame, and money in a bottle. That doesn’t mean you should drink it.” I palmed the fire potion. I was fairly certain by now that I wouldn’t need it. Blan sat there processing, while I pretended to root around in my nearly empty desk. The drawer had a few glass and plastic bottles, but everything magical was in my pack at the base of my chair. My pack was a simple thing: black leather, unassuming, spectacularly old and spelled to be light as a feather. It made me look like I was off to college. The reality was, it held my vast collection of magic implements—and if Dr. Who doesn’t mind, yeah it’s bigger on the inside. I didn’t realize how big it had gotten over the years. I once went inside, and it was like a small bank vault in there. If not for air, water, and the inherent hazards of living in an extra-dimensional space, I’d have moved in. It was nicer than my apartment. “Charmer…” I said, as if I were looking through the drawer, making sure a few glass bottles clinked together. A chill went up my spine, and a new vial appeared between my fingers as if by… drumroll please… Magic! I sat back up and tossed him a small glass vial with a cork stopper. It was centuries old. I had a source that could get me a few hundred of those bottles from Mongolia once a year. They were ancient; great for potions. I leaned back in my chair again with my hands behind my head and my feet up on my desk. “That will turn you into a silver-tongued devil for about an hour. Don’t change the way you talk or behave—don’t bother. The potion will make sure everything you say or do is taken in the best possible light.” He reached for his wallet, and I held up a hand. “Like any good dealer, the first one is free. Like a bad dealer, I’m going to give you a disclaimer: Don’t drink it.” He nodded and got up to leave. He was staring at the potion; thinking so hard he didn’t even say thanks. I guess that was my good deed for the day. This lab was a place for people to come and see me. I kept semi-regular hours here, but I wouldn’t if I didn’t need the money. Potions were big business and nearly all profit. A few months to get the formulas just right, make them in bulk, then sell them off. The charmer potion Blan wanted was only twenty dollars, but that didn’t matter when I sold two or three a week. It was by far my best seller. That and love potions. The disclaimer was much longer for those. Almost always, the poor guy or girl came back because the person they loved turned out to be the “jealous type.” One man had just escaped after his new wife locked him in their house. I explain that superficial love is a fear of loss; that they should know how someone will handle that particular neurochemical cocktail first. I tell them that genuine love is based on vulnerability, generosity, and shared experience. Even if they could induce those feelings in someone, it’s all gonna end badly unless they feel the same way. No one listens. That’s why I charge everyone five thousand dollars for love potions. With an additional five-thousand-dollar deposit up front for the “undo” potion they will inevitably need afterward. I found out years ago that it just made life easier. Only one person had ever not needed it. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that it was because he loved her already; although I did refund the ten grand. I closed the door on Mr. Blan. If he was just out of college, then we were about the same age. Still, he was a child in other, less obvious ways. I went back to my desk, threw my feet up, and continued my relaxation endeavors. A sigh changed into a yawning-stretching combination and I hoped for another lazy day in the sunlight. I spent most of my days relaxing and studying, or at least I tried to. It wasn’t easy sometimes. People always had problems. I could never sit long before someone walked in with a problem magic had caused, or one they thought it could fix. In their mind, the fact that I was one of the only wizards around meant it was my job to do something. They were half right. I’m happy to dole out cures to people’s pathetically small problems—but only when the price is right. For all the problems magic couldn’t solve, I had my pistol tucked in a holster under my arm at all times, and under my pillow when I slept. A custom Desert Eagle .50 caliber and a clip full of hollow points. It was the Dirty Harry pistol for millennials, except I had seven in the clip, one in the chamber—and no one ever felt lucky. Against all rules of gun safety and good sense, I kept it chambered. I had also long ago gotten rid of the safety, trigger guard, and anything else that would keep bullets from flying immediately. Most people preach “ready, aim, fire.” My credo was “ready, fire, aim, fire, fire.” I get their heads down first, then I worry about finding a way to shoot them in it. I picked up my phone again. I’d been reading up on ancient mythologies and their influences across cultures, when a woman’s voice came from behind me. “Daddy I got a boo boo.” My hand instinctively went to my gun and fired while it was still in its holster under my arm. The advantage being, it was already pointed behind me. I felt the powder burns forming on my ribs. Looking on the bright side, I was still alive to feel it. My coat was bulletproof, but only if the bullets came from the outside. I heard a pane of glass shattering, the thunk of the round hitting non-reinforced concrete and a ricochet—though it couldn’t have happened in that order. I was out of my chair and had the Desert Eagle unholstered before I had finished wincing. I turned and raised my weapon only to have it twisted out of my hand. If it still had a trigger guard, it would’ve broken my finger. The pistol fell to my desk before I could even think to squeeze off another round. The magazine had been removed, and the slide pulled back. A gun without bullets would do me no good. I was about slam down my fire potion and torch the whole building when I saw that it was Zora. She was a caramel skinned woman with long black hair in a braid that went down her back. Zora worked out daily, watching cartoons while she did it. As a result, she had the look of a blood-splattered, cappuccino flavored, fitness model.