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Michael Taylor woke when he felt little dots of pain burn ing into his right forearm. This time it was the Queen of Clubs, her empty eyes watched him as her small teeth worked on his arm. Michael beat at the card like a frightened child, the pips of the Queen gripped his skin like claws. A whimper escaped from his throat as the Queen fluttered, lifelessly silent, to the floor.
Momentary fear turned to anger. "Not a very nice way to wake someone up, fellows!" He yelled. Faint laughter whispered in the empty air.
Michael checked his arm. It bled some, but the injury from the card was minimal. So far, all of the cards had attacked singly. If they all organized together, then that could prove to be a problem. But then the Collections Department had yet to show much intelligence.
Searching the front room floor of his apartment, shuffling through a mixture of magic books, dirty clothes, dishes and old pizza boxes, he found the card face-up on a greasy plate. Taking the pasteboard by the edges, he fished the lighter from his pocket and brought the flame to life with his thumb. The card seemed to writhe as it burned, making Michael smile briefly.
Letting the burning card fall into a stained cereal bowl, he flopped back into the sofa sleeper and tried to clear his head. His foot tapped out an angry rhythm as he stared at the magic set on
the table before him. The words, "Dedi's Magic Set" - elegantly carved in black lacquered wood, covered the top lid. Egyptian glyphs decorated the sides. The set was still as beautiful as the
first time he'd seen it. A work of art, despite the numerous attempts to destroy the thing.
The mailman dropped several letters through the mail slot. They landed in a pile with other unopened mail. On top was another letter from Souls Incorporated, with a black "Account
Past Due" stamped on its face.
Michael threw the deck of Dedi's magic cards at the door, making a snow shower of white and blue.
"I won't pay! Do you hear me, Elzi!?" He stood and made his way to the bathroom as the scattered cards crawled across the floor, like caterpillars, toward the magic set. As he splashed his face at the sink, a small wax crocodile snapped its jaws at him
from the water-filled tub, unwilling to leave its pond.
"How do you like my little pet?" Webaoner chuckled deviously.
For whatever reason, the disembodied voice that claimed to be that of Webaoner, the ancient Egyptian magician, had decided to take up residence in Michael's bathroom.
"How do you like my pet?" the voice laughed again.
Michael stopped washing.
"Can't you say anything else!? That's all you ever say! Besides, that stupid wax thing can't do much from the tub," Webaoner cursed at the croc, who quickly disappeared under the water.
Toweling off, Michael caught his reflection in the mirror. His face exhibited the tension of the last six months.

In his early teens, Michael fell madly in love. His mistress was magic, and he, her fool. He plodded on, a simple neophyte obsessed with learning the deepest secrets of the arcane. In time, neophyte became narcissist as Michael used his knowledge of secrets to fuel his ego.
Eventually, he sought out a mentor, an old magician named Doc Ingram. Michael had first seen his show at a small dinner theater with an old Victorian stage. Doc came on, hunched over, with gnarled fingers and tufts of fine white hair circling his head like a ringed stain of milk in a glass. Ingrams was barely able to see the cards he held, but he enchanted the audience. He was old, almost
decrepit, yet once he started his routine, his eyes glimmered and he moved like no other.
Each beautiful antique magical apparatus he utilized told of performances ages past, adding a museum like air of dignity and mystery to the show. Not patient enough to put in hours of practice, Michael hoped to cull the secret of success from Doc quickly. Ingram promptly dismissed him for lack of discipline. That, and he had caught Michael pocketing one of his
silver coins.
Six months ago, the student had approached the master in the parking lot of the dinner theater, hoping to ask for a second chance.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ingram?"
"Not now, boy." Doc interrupted. "I have no time for you." Doc opened the trunk of his car, removing the small case of magic props inside.
"I...I..." Michael stammered, pulling on the old
mans sleeve.
"I said go on!!" Doc pushed Michael, hard enough to knock him down - amazingly strong for such a frail old man.
As Michael stood, the shock he felt turned to rage. "What's wrong with you!? You have no right to push me!"
Doc scrunched his wrinkled old face into an ugly mask of anger. "You're a young upstart with no manners! I said go; now get!!"
Doc made ready to push Michael again, and that's when Michael pushed back. Except his hands didn't meet with much resistance. It was like shoving a bag full of Styrofoam chips. Doc went flying through the air like a rag doll, landing and hitting his head on a metal light post.
Michael's mouth hung agape at the limp body before him. The next thing he remembered was running to his car with Doc' prop case tucked under his arm.