Phil W. Bayles

A silly story about a magic trick and a Hawaiian shirt

I’ve had this idea for a little scene stuck in my head for weeks now. By writing it out here, I’m hoping I can make some space in my brain.

Dashiell Jones felt the cold steel of the barrel first, pressing firmly into the back of his neck. Then he heard the slow whine of the energy coils as they began to charge.
 
“HANDS UP. SLOW.” The voice wasn’t so much gravelly as boulder-y.
 
He lifted his hands from the table. It took him a couple of tries; the wood was sticky with decades of spilt drinks, and God knows what other fluids. He slowly turned his head, and stared at the mountain looming over him. The ion cannon looked like a toy in its giant, rocky hand. It was wearing a bright blue Hawaiian shirt covered in pink flamingos.
 
“Doug.”
 
“DASH,” the mountain grunted.
 
“Nice shirt.”
 
The Ignean looked down at the vibrant pattern as if seeing it for the first time, then glacially turned his gaze back to Dash.
 
“BIRFDAY PRESENT.”
 
Another figure detached itself from the shadows, plucked a chair from a nearby table, and dragged it over to Dash’s corner of the bar. The steel legs whined as they scraped over the floor. The newcomer spun the chair around and straddled it in the kind of effortless motion that had probably taken loads of practice when he thought nobody was looking. His lean body was covered in glittering green scales, and a pair of scarlet crests stood proudly on the sides of his skull. A leather vest the same deep shade of red hung off his shoulders – carefully positioned so that the gun holstered under his left arm was good and visible.
 
“Douglas, if our good friend Mr Jones puts a hand anywhere near that holster on his thigh,” said the reptile, “shoot him in the head.”
 
Dash tried to rearrange his face into an expression other than one of abject terror.
 
“Hello, Basil.”
 
“You’re a hard human to find, Dash,” said Basil, voice dripping with fake concern. “Ever since our little job on the Saint-Exupéry went south, we haven’t heard a peep from you. No sub-messages, no broadcasts – not even a birthday card for old Doug here. He was just heartbroken, weren’t you Doug?”
 
There was a pause as the question wormed its way through Doug’s ears – did Igneans even have ears? – and into his brain. Then he nodded, with a sound like two tectonic plates rubbing against each other.
 
“We thought were dead – or at least that the Marshalls had gotten you. So imagine our delight when your old friend Bennie let slip you were all the way out here, in the arse end of the System.” He raised a clawed hand and gestured around the tiny, dingy bar. The only sounds were the ancient iJuke in the corner, and the squeak of the glass being studiously cleaned by the selectively blind bartender.
 
“You should really pick better friends – I only had to break two fingers before he sang.”
 
Dash’s eyes darted around the room. The front door lay just a few yards away, behind Basil’s stupid scaly head, but he knew there was a back door in the kitchen.
 
He flexed his fingers, felt the reassuring tension against his right palm. He’d only have one shot.
 
Basil’s yellow eyes flashed with annoyance, and his head crests began to quiver.
 
“Look, Doug – he’s not even listening to me! Too busy looking for a way out of here. It’s what he does best, after all: Dash by name, Dash by nature,” he added darkly.
 
Dash fixed Basil with his most winning smile and leaned back, resting his feet on the table. The barrel of Doug’s ion cannon dug further into the nape of his neck.
 
“Sorry, Basil – I was just looking for my date. Think she’s gone and stood me up.”
 
No smiles from Basil this time. He leaned forward, his chest almost touching Dash’s boot, and lowered his voice.
 
“You’ve got a date alright, Dashiell. With Madame Marie herself. And she’s not happy that you tried to abscond with her property. Not happy at all. Now, are you gonna come with us quietly, or does Doug have to start
dislocating limbs?”
 
Doug gave a low rumble that sounded like an avalanche. It took Dash a moment to realise it was laughter. He let out a long sigh, swallowed the rest of his whiskey, and held his hands up in defeat. He felt the pressure dig a little further into his palm.
 
“Alright, Basil. You came all the way out here to find me, I won’t make things any harder. I’ll come quietly.”
 
Basil blinked, nonplussed.
 
“You will?”
 
“Course I will, mate. But first, I’ve got something to show Doug.”
 
The mountain in the Hawaiian shirt looked down at Dash.
 
“ME?”
 
“I feel bad for missing your birthday, old pal. So let me make it up to you. Want to see a magic trick?”
 
Doug thought for a second. Then he thought a bit longer. Then his eyes glowed like pools of magma.
 
“I LIKE MAGIC TRICKS,” he said happily.
 
“Well, this one’s a doozy! I’m gonna make Basil disappear.”
 
He wiggled his fingers, and aimed an imaginary pistol square at Basil’s chest. Basil narrowed his eyes.
 
“Are you watching closely, Doug?” asked Dash. “On the count of three. No, don’t worry, I’ll do it for you. Three…”
 
“What are you playing at, you dumb sapien?”
 
“Two…”
 
“Stop messing around!”
 
“One…”
 
“Doug, don’t just stand there – ”
 
“BANG!”
 
Dash lifted his finger-gun high in the air. The fishing wire tied to his ring finger pulled taut. He felt the tug go along his arm, up his sleeve, down his side and out the bottom of his shirt – right to the trigger of the pistol that was strapped to his thigh.

Basil wasn’t the only one who practiced his moves.
 
Before he could even widen his eyes, Basil was lifted clean off his seat with a flash of green light and a deafening crackle. His body hit the wood floor and skidded to a halt halfway out the door of the bar. Smoke poured from a hole in his chest, giving off a smell like burnt bacon.
 
The bar was deadly silent. Doug stared at his partner’s corpse, his craggy brow furrowed. 
 
“HOW’D YOU DO THAT?”
 
There was no answer. The only sound was door to the kitchen softly banging as it swung back and forth.
 
Dash had already done what he did best.