Page 73 of Double or Nothing
Every time I come up empty-handed.
His talents are boundless—from mind-reading and levitation to an entertaining, though bizarre trick where he cuts bananas with thrown playing cards.
With each illusion, the stakes rise, each one more complex, more daring. Midway through the show, to the audience’s delight, he strips off his jacket and shirt, revealing the tattooed muscles underneath.
Whoa! Holy shit!
I’m not sure why he took his shirt off, but I’m sure as hell not complaining about it. Except the temperature in the already warm room has gone up another ten degrees, matching my flushed excitement.
And then the mood shifts.
The lights dim as Seven, bound in shining cuffs, suspends himself from a burning rope high above the stage. The glow from the burning rope illuminates his face, casting flickering shadows that dance across the stage. I’m sitting close enough to see there isn’t anything to cushion his fall if the stunt fails.
He writhes and twists, his theatrical struggle making the rope slowly succumb to the flames. I’m calm at first, recognizing the rehearsed tension in his act.
But when the rope burns down to two threads, genuine concern sets in. What the hell is he doing? The raw danger of the act pushes me to the edge of my seat. My logical mind races, considering all the things that could go wrong. Any movement of air on the stage might cause the rope to burn faster than normal. Even a slight burst of wind from the air-conditioning system could change the burn rate of the flame.
If he miscalculates the time to free his hands from the handcuffs, he’ll fall straight on his head. I can see every strained muscle in his arms working furiously, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. As the rope burns closer to its end, the tension in the theater becomes unbearable. I can’t believe he never told me he performs dangerous stunts in his show. It makes me wonder what else the guys are keeping from me.
I notice Leroy taking tentative steps up the stairs to the side stage. He looks worried too, ready to run over if he falls. Not that he could do anything but call an ambulance.
Whispers of worry ripple through the crowd. A sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. The crowd gasps as the rope burns through until there’s only one thin thread holding him up.
Was that supposed to happen? This can’t be right. The thread is too thin to hold up his weight for long. The rope is burning faster than expected.
Something is wrong.
His hands should be free by now. He’s genuinely struggling. My heart’s racing in panic. Stagehands emerge from behind the curtains, faces filled with worry and uncertainty. They cast desperate glances at one another, clearly unprepared for this twist.
There’s no backup plan? What the fuck?
I can’t bear to watch and yet I can’t tear my eyes away. My fingernails dig into my palms. Then, in a heart-stopping moment, he breaks free of the handcuffs as the last tiny thread is about to give way. He pulls himself up the remaining rope, his sweat-slicked muscles rippling with exertion.
The crowd erupts into thunderous cheers. I jump to my feet and clap wildly for him too, though I want to punch the shit out of him. The stunt was too close, too scary. Without a doubt, he miscalculated and took a very real risk with his life. A fall from the height he was hanging from would cause brain damage, if not death.
Is he insane? Why do my guys keep placing themselves in danger?
When he returns to the microphone stand, he’s still breathing hard. A female assistant throws him a white handkerchief, and he wipes his forehead and his glistening, muscled chest. I can’t take my eyes off him, entranced by every drop of sweat, imagining tasting it as I slowly lick it off his body.
“For my final trick, I need a volunteer,” he calls out, his voice filled with mischief. “Someone fearless. Someone adventurous. Someone ready to take a chance. Any volunteers?”
Every woman in the crowd, and even a few men, spring to life, arms waving. “Pick me! Me! I’ll do it!” they cry, their voices blending into a desperate chorus.
Seven flashes that devilish grin that always makes my heart skip a beat and signals to his director in the control booth. “A touch more light, please? Just enough to see the crowd. We don’t want to blind them.”
The overhead theater lights slowly brighten.
“Ah…much better,” he says. “Now that I can see your beautiful faces, I realize I can’t possibly pick by myself. I’ll let my trusty assistant do it for me. Where did she go? I’m sure she was right here a moment ago. Elsa! Where are you?”
He pats the seat of his pants, then tugs at the handkerchief he’d crammed into his front pocket. As he pulls out the cloth, a plump white dove magically appears in his hand.
Laughter erupts from the crowd, and I join in, amazed and clueless where the bird could’ve been hiding. She’s too big to have hidden inside his pants pocket. I’m close enough to the stage to spot any hidden compartments, but I see nothing.
“Here she is,” he says, holding up the bird in his hands. “The little devil. Hiding in my pocket. Elsa’s favorite job is to pick a volunteer. To be honest, it’s her one and only job. I must warn you though, she loves to land on shiny bald heads, so watch out, gentlemen!”
He gently tosses the dove into the air. She takes off flying, her wings a blur of white, in big, looping circles over the crowd, reaching higher and higher each time. A few bald men self-consciously touch their scalps, drawing more chuckles from the crowd.
“Uh oh!” he says. “Someone has forgotten to put Elsa’s pigeon pants on her. Did I mention she’s not potty trained yet? Incoming torpedo! Watch out below!”
