We're gonna have a magician party. Only magicians invited. Get them all into a sound-proof room. Enjoy the cocktail franks. Open bar. Everybody can relax. Put the rivalries aside. You're among friends, brother, among friends. Sure have another. Comfortable chairs. Low lighting. Just the right amount of rugs.

Real easy going for a good hour or so. And now that everybody's softened up, out come the written confessions. No big deal, no big production. Keep it light. Go around, shake hands, start collecting autographs. Why this here? This, Tom, says you're a real son-of-a-gun. Yes. Ha ha. Yes, sign and date. Yes.

And at the end of the night, you've solved all of the county's outstanding incidents. Felony and above. Yes. All those mysterious “disappearances.” Ho-Ho. And knifings and check kiting and cases of wire fraud. All done.

All while getting rid of these damn magic men once and for all. DNA can't save 'em. God can't save 'em, not a magician. Oh no.

This is a quiet neighborhood. It's gonna stay that way.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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