Magic...

Magic. It's not what you think it is, and sure as fuck isn't what you want it to be. People think it's all circles and wands and words. In their minds, it's like two plus two, and it is, but it's not. It's so simple, but it's complicated. It's not a science, far from it. But there are a few things that can almost be considered a constant. Even then, they aren't. They only look that way because some old guy back in the dark ages said so and others taught it that way and here it is. Hardly science, barely logic. Fuck magic.

And it most definitely isn't what you want it to be. People see movies and T.V. and are like, "oh, I could do that but I would only do good things with it" or "I'd save all the little animals" or "I just want to clean my house." "Clean house" is all you want to do? Here's a question for you. Would you use a fucking 747 to go to the store, cause that's pretty much the overkill you are looking at here. Magic isn't for cleaning your house. It's not there to save all the fuzzy wuzzies, and it sure as fuck isn't there to do "good." Magic is power. Power corrupts. Period. No such thing as a "good" wizard, mage, sorcerer or whatever affectation you want to use. The best you get is "less bad than." I'm told by some that's what I am. I'm less bad than others, but I'm not. I'm just as fucked as the rest of the bastards who thought they could control his chaotic mess.

That's why I'm here in the rain in an alley behind a nasty wings joint waiting for my dealer. At least, that's what I call him. He doesn't care for the term, but that doesn't stop him from taking my money. Don't know his real name. As long as you have something to pay or trade, he'll answer to anything. Mostly, we refer to him as "the Chemist." He deals in all manner of things, most relatively normal, but there are a few things that are very abnormal. That's why I'm here. For the abnormal. A very potent downer. An antipsychotic that would leave most people shitting their pants and drooling in their cereal for days. For me, it keeps me grounded. Mostly. Like I said, magic isn't what people expect.

I hear a car door shut behind me. It's the Chemist. Short. Round. Obnoxious. His London Fog long coat is tattered and wet at the bottom where he's walked on it wearing it away one thread at a time. His pants look like he tried to hem them alone with no kind of tailoring supervision. Don't get me started on the black orthopedic shoes, ketchup stained shirt, and what I think was part of a French fry sticking out of his beard. His voice was nasal.

"Barry! How ya been?" He didn't mean it. He had the bottle of pills in one hand, the other was already fully extended awaiting payment. I dropped a small velvet pouch in his empty hand. The kind you get cheap game dice in. I reached for the bottle, but he stuck it quickly back in his pocket and frowned at me.

"Barry, this doesn't feel like cash," he said as he squeezed the pouch. Adjusting his glasses, he opened pouch and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid. Water. Putting it at nose length, he stared are it through his Coke bottle bottom lenses. His eyes darted to mine then back to the vial. Slowly and carefully, he removed the rubber stopper and held it under his nose. Then a sniff. And a smile slowly grew across his face. Quickly the stopper was back in the vial, the vial back in the pouch, and the pouch in his breast pocket. Almost as quickly, the bottle of pills was back out and offered to me.

"I'm impressed, Barry. Styx, for real? When were you in Greece?" He seemed genuinely interested. I didn't care.

Taking the bottle from his hand, I put it in the outer chest pocket of my black motorcycle jacket and zipped it shut.

"Haven't been to Greece lately, friend was," I replied. Mostly true, too.

"Really? A friend who can get to the river and get back with vials of water? That's a good friend to have. Might I inquire who it was?" I could see the greed in his eyes.

"Sure, you can ask, but I'm not telling." I turned to walk off. I had an appointment to keep.

"Oh, come on, Barry. I can make it worth your time." He peaked his fingers and rolled them quickly back and forth. "Two more bottles on the house for an introduction. What do you say to that?"

That was tempting.

"Can't do it. Not my place." I took a few more steps down the alley away from him.

"Oh, come on, Barry. Don't be an asshole!" He was getting pretty annoyed at this point.

I stopped and turned. I pushed the power, just a little.

My eyes lit up with a bit of fire and I reinforced them with a very stern "no."

I could see a flash of fear on his face, then it was gone. He turned and stomped off through the puddles to his car.

"Fine, Barry! Be an asshole, Barry!" He slammed the car door and rolled off into the rain.

"Fine, I will be," I murmured under my breath. Time to see a man about a hell hound.