by Kezzy Sparks
“Old brown building with gargoyles and pilasters, you will find me at the back,” I say to him. He should be able to recognize it because our building is the oldest for many blocks around. It’s Victorian, built largely of brown brick, with purple awnings on doorways facing the front. It’s a rundown thing, pretty much, but some of its old-world charm still shows.
“I can’t hold it, Doc, I can’t.” Casey moans.
Vanished genitalia, how do you start solving that?
Two
You heard Casey calling me Doc, but you know I’m no MD, though it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if I was one.
His plea goes to show how desperate he is. Maybe he can’t even pee, for that’s a crucial job one appendage in that missing package does. But if indeed urination is one of his problems, then I can’t help. He must go to a proper emergency room.
My caring instinct says perhaps I should drive out to meet him and chauffeur him to the office. I like to pamper my clients in whatever way possible, and Casey might deserve this. But no, my other half says, driving out is not going to make sense; we might miss one another.
I consider his problem and glance at the tank. “Hey, sir, what do you think?”
Mr. Gillz is still lazily sending bubbles to the surface. He has the clumsiest ways to send his signals. Even so, I still consider him a good companion.
As far as familiars go, some witch-hunting associates of mine keep actual animals that walk the earth. They have hounds and felines. Others will possess some kinds of charmed birds.
Without any doubt, the popularity of birds or animals stems from the fact that they are superior at detecting any hidden evil magic. And even though they can’t talk, they have good abilities that allow you to take them on a ghost or witch hunt. Birds can fly, and animals will walk, run, or jump. Both species can sniff as well as peek, and so are a great aid.
Not so, unfortunately, with my cichlid. We don’t ever walk the streets of Buffalo together, but I still glean a lot from the signals he sends. Which is enough for me anyway, so he will be in here for the rest of his life.
The door is knocked.
In comes a chubbyish man, probably around twenty-eight, which incidentally is my age. He wears a gray long-sleeve shirt and black jeans. His face is flushed, brow sweating, and eyes bloodshot. The most striking thing is he walks uneasily with his hands covering his groin.
I stand up to greet him. “Casey McLong, I presume. Come on and take a seat.”
“You must be The Breaker.” He lifts one hand from his groin and accepts my greeting.
“I am Melanie Perkiss, but just call me Mel,” I say.
Still fearful his bladder could be full, I watch carefully how he will sit. Seriously, evil witches’ spells can cause just about anything.
Casey slumps onto the chair. He is distressed but not in real physical pain, and that gladdens me, but only slightly.
“So, tell me what happened?”
“I just woke up this morning.” His breath hitches. “And I went to pee, then to my utter horror…” He leans the elbow of one arm on my table and starts to massage his brow.
“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to say exactly. Did you pee, though?”
“Yes, I did, but through a tiny fibrous thing left.”
Dear Jesus, what a problem. “Uh, did you try a clinic?” I say, even though I know doctors can’t help victims of magic. If his organs have vanished for sure, no amount of X-raying or ultrasound scanning will bring them back.
“Didn’t see the need.” He swallows hard. “What could an MD possibly do? Patch me up with a donation?”
I smile wryly. I have once heard of donated genitals, but still wonder how an operation to patch them on could work out. Honestly, it’s a stretch.
“You want me to show you?” He motions at his pants.
That, in fact, was what I was coming to. “Yes, please,” I say.
Checking for myself would help prove that said organs were really missing rather than just invisible. “The restroom is off a corridor to the back. Is that where you prefer? We could go together.”
My office is not outfitted for seminude examinations. I have my inoperable window blinds almost fully open to confirm that.
Casey searches around, as if to satisfy himself that there is no one else in the office. I figure ensuring his full privacy in the confines of a washroom is not among his top concerns.
“Let me just lock, then,” I say as I see him reach for his belt.
I dart to the door and click the bolt, then come back. “Okay, show me.”
He unclasps his belt, pulls down his fly, then lets his pants open into a wide V. He wears a pair of white Calvin Klein underpants with an orange waistband. There is nothing there underneath when they go down, too.
“Oh my God.’’ I clutch my chin. This can’t be possible. This man is completely ruined. How could he ever live like that? It’s ugly. UGLY, UGLY, UGLY.
Three
It's been a while, and Casey still stands before me with his pants down. I’m too stunned to tell him to zip up.
Seriously, I hate to see anguish on people’s faces—my clients’ even more. It causes the spirits within me to roil, plunging me into a sea of depression. I sometimes catch myself having to hold back tears, and right now, I have no idea what to do to bring an immediate smile to this guy’s face.
Anyway, it won’t help to grieve. Something must be worked out, and my mind jumps into gear.
“Right, dress up,” I say, but calmly, “and take your seat.”
“Thank you.”
As he does that, something I hadn’t noticed flashes into my eyes. It’s uncommon among men, but this guy is different: he sports a gold band on his finger!
A more feminine part of me wants to ask, but I know I mustn’t pry. Even so, I still blurt, “Oh, you got that.”
A sharp stab mars Casey's face. “Engaged,” he mutters. “Wedding, this Sunday.”
Now I get why this whole thing is killing him more. This problem shouldn’t have occurred when he was looking forward to such a blissful time. I try to imagine something like it happening to my boyfriend. That would be like the world coming to an end for us, and I don’t know if I could recover from such a crisis.
Clawing for insights, I weigh things again. The unfortunate event could have been caused by any one of several possibilities, of which my first supposition is that it might be the work of a group called The Stealers. I busted that cult last year and imagined they were done for good, but they could be back.
For real, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was them, for they are a nasty bunch of witches and warlocks. Before I nailed them, they used to cause mayhem in this city. They took anything they wanted by magic. They cast spells on store clerks and security, and walked out with expensive jewelry, sex toys, brand name clothes, or exquisite cellphones. They raided liquor stores and got away with the priciest wines, champagnes, and cognacs, some worth a thousand bucks a piece.
But they don’t call me The Breaker for nothing. I ended all that when I was called into the ring. I flushed out the leaders, one of them a mysterious woman named Misty.
Regarding Casey, though, one thing troubles me about that supposition. For all the baddies they were, The Stealers never pilfered body parts. They were only into manufactured goods, and pricey ones, at that. Still, you can never completely rule anything out, especially where big money has been promised, and someone wants to show a lot of power.
Anyway, it's time I get on to the next step. I must let Zed, our leader, know of this.
“Give me a minute,” I say to Casey. “I need to call someone.”
My preference is that he doesn’t hear my conversation with Zed. He is in torment and the matter of our discussions could pain him worse. My guess is there is more danger around him than he realizes, and that is what we will weigh with Zed. Trust me, missing out on sex is a crisis, but an attack like this can lead to something far worse.
I therefore must go
somewhere away from him to call. The restrooms may be best. Ours are accessible via a tiled hallway in between the front and back offices. There are two of them, and the women’s faces west.
“Zed, are you there?” I relay every little detail about what I’ve seen.
“Body parts, what are you telling me, Mel?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s totally crazy.”
“Please, Mel, don't say this. Because, next, we could be picking up corpses.”
I hear him but must mention what crossed my mind before. “You think The Stealers are back—perhaps with a vengeance?”
“I don’t think so; they're not into organs. You can never say never, though.”
“Any dangers of repeat action?”
“Quite possible, depends on how evil the perp is.”
“I will start working on it right away,” I say, finishing. “I’ll keep you posted.” I put my cell back into my pocket and head back.
Casey is still seated, grave-faced. He needs to be protected and I shall try something, but for now it’s important to see the crime scene first.
“Come let’s get going, buddy. Where do you live?”
“Cheektowaga,” he answers as he stands up.
Working fast, I make sure I have in my unwieldy denim tote a sniffer wand that detects magical signatures, a claw hammer for curse breaking and a pixie ward for protection. Also, not to forget, I add a drop wand, which will be very handy should I need to do a magical locate.
“Let’s go.” I zip up my tote.
We must get there soon. Some ghosts, ghouls, and black witches leave behind a trail to be lost if one doesn’t act fast enough.
As we pace out, Casey is back to having his hands cover his groin. He isn’t limping however, and can walk well; thank God for that.
The Buffalo air currently feels around seventy. A light jacket would have been usable, but my blue flannel shirt and black slacks will do. The sky is clear and pristine; it hurts me to see that the beauty of nature doesn’t prevent bad magic from achieving its malicious ends.
The Crown Victoria awaits on the spot.
“Jump in.” I unlock the doors, then slam myself onto the driver’s seat. “Where exactly in Cheektowaga?”
Casey doesn’t answer. He just gazes into the windshield like there is a shadow of a hangman out there on the hood.
***
The tiny back parking lot is a pain to swing around, but in a moment, I’m on William. My passenger still just stares, and I can imagine the anguish he is going through. Unless we succeed, the life he faces is one no one could ponder.
“It’s my girlfriend I’m so worried about.” Casey moans as we go.
“What’s her name?”
“Megan,” he says. “Jenkins.”
“She will understand. It’s not something you caused.” I am only assuming here, because I don't know the truth of anything yet.
“Getting married without my…things.” He almost curses.
Sympathy whirls within my psyche. I give him a glance. “Yes, I can hear the concern.”
Too bad, time is running out for him. If the wedding is this Sunday like he said, then the days could go fast without a solution.
“I understand it’s not your call,” he speaks as if reading my mind. “But should I go ahead or just cancel everything?”
God, don’t do this.
What he is getting at is difficult. He wants to check if I can help him soon enough to not put the wedding off. Now, tell me, who can say that definitively? Magic is neither quantifiable nor predictable. The person who did this might even prove to be stronger than I. Or perhaps elusive.
My thinking is that the best thing to do in the meantime would be to bring the girlfriend, Megan, into the picture soon. Unfortunately, that’s an area that borders on family counseling and I am no expert there.
“Don’t postpone anything just yet,” I say, regardless. “It’s hard to come up with a time frame, but I’ll do my best.”
“Who, then, could talk to Megan? I swear I can't do it.”
“There is no need to rush just yet.”
Magic me, oh why? My client here looks like a nice guy to whom bad things shouldn't happen. And by the sound of it, the girlfriend seems a good enough person, too, who shouldn’t be facing a calamity like this. Whoever did this job?
A whiff of old liquor colors Casey’s breath. He has tried to suppress it with a flavor of lozenges, menthol or peppermint perhaps, but with minimal success. He tips his head onto the seat back, and I guess he has a headache. A hangover, he must be in. I fear this whole thing might have happened while he was completely wasted. Just my opinion, though.
Traffic is not thick as we head up Jefferson. Why don't I use this time to ferret for more details?
“Tell me, what did you do last night?”
“I went out drinking, alone,” Casey answers. “Megan was supposed to come but she got caught up in things. So, I went out and had a couple.”
Must have been way more than a couple, but I will skip that part for now. “Is that all you did? Did you meet someone? How did you get back home?”
“Honestly, I don’t remember. The Crooked got fucking packed. I spoke with a few dudes and some ladies, too.”
Ah, now we are talking. I cork an ear.
“Did you drive home, have a car?”
“I got none, but I can drive,” Casey says. “After parties, though, I will do Uber mostly—that is if some friends of mine don’t drop me off at home.”
“So, you took a ride back? Were you alone?”
“To tell the truth, I can't recall.”
What I am hoping for is that if he used a cab, we could ask the driver. I must force him to remember. “Casey, you will have to help me here,” I say. “I need answers.”
Four
A brand spankin’ new day.
“Wake up Queen of The Dark.” The Mage rouses herself. “You’re the greatest. Truly extraordinary.” She yawns as she says that.
The hour hand on the gold-rimmed clock hanging on the wall is inching toward midday. It isn’t unusual for her to wake up this late, especially if the day follows a night spent executing difficult tasks. She lies in her regal king bed, snug between cozy brown sheets. Her aristocratic quilted bedcover is a shiny black, as are her pillows. Black like the Depths, black like home.
Last night, after leaving Casey’s house with her loot, she was set to travel by public transit, but she didn’t. She had to abandon the cherished idea when she realized it was late, and the buses might be too far in between, causing her to wait unnecessarily. Riding with the public would have given her the feeling of being a wolf among sheep. How great! And no one of course would have known what she carried in her bag. A live, larger-than-life cock, and balls to go with.
What she ended up doing instead was walk back to the Crooked—where she bought herself a celebratory glass of champagne. It was almost closing time, and the servers had made their last call, but The Mage, being extraordinaire sweet-talked the bearded bartender into pouring her one. Said she hadn’t heard the announcement, and he swallowed it right there.
“To the happiness of my client, E,” she toasted, and sipped lazily.
When her glass was down to a half, she called her regular driver, a follower of hers named Fred, who said he would come. She sipped some more as she waited. The waitresses who tonight had seen Casey drunkenly hustle a svelte nineteen-year old would never know what happened. Or ever smell that she actually had his balls in that witching bag in a chair beside her.
Some acts were like something taken out of a fairy tale.
Fred picked her up in his Mercedes Benz at two a.m. Twenty minutes later, they’d reached Alden, and about four, she was in her blankets.
Today, like she might desire, is turning out nice. The wind is silent, the light bright, filtering in through her large curtained windows.
There isn’t much bird song, though, because the morning is too far gone for it. What she catc
hes instead is the sound of a big truck, possibly heavily loaded, passing by Exchange Street. Then there is also the faint thrum of a tractor engine, a John Deere precisely, coming from the fields out east.
A smell of coffee and bacon wafts from downstairs. There is a grille right beside her headboard, and she uses it to sniff any cooking that might be going on. Her Asian maid, Milyn, must be busy preparing breakfast. Or she could be finished, but there is the rule that she mustn’t interrupt her boss’s sleep, but rather wait until The Mage wakes up by herself.
Getting ready to seize the daylight before it’s gone too far, she half peels herself out of her blankets. A slight cloud of dizziness sweeps into her head and then ebbs. The bad energy from last night hasn’t all disappeared yet. That arrow that sank into her shoulder left some poison in her system, but she is managing. Overall, she can say things actually went better than she had imagined, for it sure could have been worse, oh boy, with two guardian angels to contend with.
The Mage isn’t going to waste her time debating whether the job was justified, or not. A witch-for-hire only does things she has been contracted to do; weighing the rights or wrongs is for the person who ordered. She could do it again and again if the right people asked.
Anyway, now she must announce to the client. Her name is E, and she must be dying to know what transpired. The instruction for her was that she not badger The Mage for the results, but to be patient until the news came.
She searches for her cellphone. The Huawei lies on the nightstand, partly concealed by an overhanging bed cushion. The phone’s color is black, so chosen because dark hues are the most favorite of hers.
Grinning smugly to herself, she taps on the keypad—it’s during report-back times like this that she is in her element. Her mission is always to bring tons of smiles to favored clients. And E deserves this good outcome, because she was wronged, wasn’t she?
“I got the goods, baby.”
“Oh Jove, you made it!”
“Yes.” The Mage smiles even more because the client is learning fast. Already she knows to swear by Jove, a coven requirement. “One dick and… guess what.” Vulgarity is not a sin in the Scarlet Coven.
