I've been seeing Mr. Houdini's shows for the past four years and I've never tired of the illusions, the spectacular mystery, or Mr. Houdini himself. Houdini is an artist, dare I say, enigmatic. His restricted affect intrigues me and I feel his cryptic hold on me. Houdini is nothing short of an underground wizard.
It's been a year since I started shadowing Harry after each show. That first night I followed him to a lively cafe for an autograph and a moment in his presence. As he sat at a small round table with a crew of people, he accepted my request with a smile. Something I hadn't seen before in his shows. I spent the rest of the night across the street peering into the cafe window at the man I admired. Who was he off stage? I imagined him to be the kind of man I would be friends with.
And so I got to know things about Harry...private things. I knew where he'd be any day of the week, I knew his friends that he saw every Friday night, I watched him woo frequent women, I even knew which cologne he preferred. In the beginning it started as an innocent hobby, per se. I'd buy a ticket to his show, get there early and stay until the end. I would follow Harry as he left his private exit at the theater to attend champagne dances and lavish lounges. But somehow along the way, I got lost in the envy of his seemingly glamorous lifestyle. He ate at restaurants I didn't even know I should care about, and he wore suits I couldn't afford... Why did he deserve to be paramount and not me?
After months of coveting Mr. Houdini, my admiration turned into bitter resentment. My lust had transposed to a dark grudge. Tonight, I too would be an illusionist. I would make Harry Houdini disappear.
... Poor fellow didn't see it coming when I snuck up behind him and put a knife to his throat.
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