the majick of my heart quickens to hear from you, truest and dearest friend. As always, I knew I could turn to you for the most incredible ideas. A suite at the Luxor? You truly are a Prince of Ideas as well as a Prince of Midnight, my friend! Who could have thought of such a grand and original setting for our noble houses to meet?
On the subject of your apparel, I think with a costume such as the one you described you will scarcely have to "neg" at all to reap a harvest of "Proteans." I don't know what that sentence means, but my fat 20-something PA says it's a compliment and he has watched all of your tapes. I'm sure one of these days he'll have luck with the ladies, he just has to keep watching your tapes and wearing, what was it? A mohair tricorn? Fabulous!
Meanwhile, I will be frumpy as usual, with a pre-worn drover's coat covered with hand-painted crows, ripped jeans, a porkpie hat, and no shirt but my usual collection of necklaces both occult and decorative. We will have to coordinate eyeshadow so there isn't an embarrassing coincidence like last year.
I'm glad you enjoyed my idea for an illusion. I have since devised an even better thing to freak a mind.
Imagine...four beautiful women with raven-black hair and crimson bikinis ascend a spiral staircase while flocks of black swans circles overhead. They sit down together in a hot tub. Everything seems to be fine until I snap my fingers three times and... the hot tub disappears. Simple trickery? You may think so, but did I mention that ONLY the tub disappears? The water and the ladies will remain suspended in the air. I will climb the stairs and drink the water through a straw to prove it is really there.
Oh, by the way, your idea about the suite at the Luxor? Hated it. Totally. How about instead of that we gather at a haunted Pueblo and watch a laser light show about demons?
I anxiously await your reply.
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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