Smoke and Mirrors

“Release the captive! I have come alone, per your demands.” Growled the supposed “hero” peering up into the steel beamed rafters of the master's lair. “Although… I can’t imagine why you’d have me meet you here of all places.” He grumbled, his contempt palpable as he sneered at the repurposed warehouse.

I knew why, of course, but far be it from me to spoil the grand reveal - or rather many small reveals carefully arranged atop one another in an elaborate sequence, that ultimately would appear to be quite grand. Assuming all goes according to plan, that is.

I scrutinized the hero, feeling much like an omnipotent voyeuristic God from where I had wedged myself in the technical booth; far enough from the theatrics to go unseen, but involved enough to play a significant role in puppeteering the theatrics taking place below me.

From the shadows appeared the master, cackling frigidly. I groaned inwardly, fingers flying over the mixing console, scrambling to increase the bass and induce an echo that turned his comically villainous mwahahaha into an disconcertingly menacing echo, thanks to the elaborate sound system that the master had so graciously budgeted.

As the master strode toward the hero, his heels clopped loudly across the concrete floor, eliciting a cringe from both me and the hero. The shoes may have been an artistic lapse in judgement.

The master lifted his hands overhead, cuing my signal. With a whoosh, I flipped the spotlight on and it bounced off a series of mirrors, illuminating the master's silhouette uncannily, as if he were infused with the light of a heavenly body. It was quite an impressive technique we had cooked up. His arms were raised in triumph, his chin jutting smugly upwards, teeth flashing from beneath a bowler hat that deliberately hid the top half of his face (and his marginally too large nose which was unfortunately beset with an objectively hideous pair of tortoiseshell spectacles). He was, by all visible means, the picture of malevolent triumph – nary a glimpse of his nose and glasses could be made out. I made a note to ask for a raise for my skillful mastery in harnessing the concealing nature of shadows.

The master then proceeded to monologue “epically” (his words, not mine), and mercifully terminated his speech with a grand flourish that cued our next move. I scurried over to the release hatch, slamming down on the “eject” button with a grin. The captive tumbled out of the ceiling and hurtled to the ground.

Before the gasp of horror could finish leaving the hero's mouth, I was already back at the mixing board, amplifying the master's laughter. The captive was drawn up short, mere feet from the floor. The carabiner of her harness and the ropes suspending her from the ceiling groaned and clinked in the echoing silence as the hero panted in shock. The captive panted (mutely, due to the duct tape over her mouth) in the afterthrows of the fall induced adrenal rush. And the master panted in what seemed to be ecstasy at the most and gross overenthusiasm at the least.

I stifled a giggle in spite of myself. The incredulous expression on the hero's face was simply too good.

The master began to stalk toward the captive. With a few clicks of some keys, I triggered the dry ice machines which released a ghostly jet of milky white smoke. The master's heels click, click, click-ed.

The hero looked around wildly, and the master reveled in his confusion. The seemingly effortless manipulation of elements - smoke and mirrors, no pun intended - left the hero looking a healthy mix of befuddled and vexed, as if he’d found himself stuck in a sort of fever dream. While not the intended effect, I suspected it would be equally as effective in getting the hero to deliver us our sweet, sweet ransom.

The master produced a knife, from the secret pocket I had sewn into his sleeve. The hero stepped back, eye wide. It seemed to the untrained eye that the blade had come from nowhere at all. The captive strained dramatically against her bonds as the master held the blade up to her heart. The master had to stand on his tiptoes due to the captives' suspended state several feet above the floor, leading him to have inadvertently adopted the stance of a child reaching atop the cabinet for the prohibited cookie jar. His shoes clinked clumsily as he held the knife against the swaying captive. Ditch the shoes, I noted. At some point, the repurposed shoes being tested for their ‘intimidating and dramatic effect” had just become excessive, even for the master's extravagant taste.

I zoned back in just in time to catch the tail end of the usual “You’ll never get away with this!” shtick.

“Won’t I?” purred the master, brandishing the (dulled) blade. Little did the hero know that we had affixed a dozen capsule of theater grade fake blood inside of the captives clothes in case we had to pretend to torture her. Neither of us were worried - the good guys always caved before we even had to even consider actually hurting a captive.

Unbeknownst to the hero, 45 minutes before, the “captive” had been sprawled across the living room couch unceremoniously stuffing hot cheetos into her mouth. She was a willing captive and had actually denied the handsome cut of the ransom we were offered in recompense for her participation in duping her father, the hero (aka a popular millionaire “philanthropist” with a bratty punk-rock teen daughter who was more inclined to participate in our scheme for the mere thrill of pissing off her dad than any financial gain.)

“Fine, here’s your damn money,” snarled the father-hero-whatever, sliding a briefcase across the floor.

Grinning, the master crouched to examine its contents. As he bent to count the money his wide framed, unsightly spectacles slid off his unfortunate nose and skittered across the floor. In an awkward attempt to retrieve them, the master tripped over himself, clomping across the floor in his haste. Each resounding footfall clattered like a gunshot in the space. The very space that had been chosen for its excellent acoustics. The effect was not dissimilar to a sorority girl dropping her giant steel stanley waterbottle in an auditorium full of students. Mid lecture.

There was no hiding it now.

The hero cleared his throat. “Are those…” a pregnant pause. “Tapshoes?” he finished incredulously.

“W-what. Certainly not.” Stammered the master too defensively to be casual.

They were indeed tap shoes.

This was not part of our rehearsal, meaning that I had to act fast before the master could completely ruin our ruse with some incessant babbling. I didn't have cue cards for this.

Ignoring the master, the hero turned a keen eye toward his daughter. “Julie, do you have something to do with this?”

Julie wouldn't meet his eye.

“Excuse me!” squawked the master. “Do not address the captive. Address the captor.” He pointed to himself.

The hero blew out an exasperated breath. “Ooookay. Oh mighty Captor, does Julie have something to do with this.”

The master's mouth opened and closed rapidly, like a fish. “Noooo?” It came out sounding more like a question. I internally facepalmed myself.

The hero scoffed, snatching back the briefcase. “This isn't even the craziest thing that she's done just to irk me, by the way.” He turned to Julie. “You are so grounded young lady. Just wait until your mother hears about this.”

Julie maneuvered her hands easily out of her deceptively simple bindings, ripping the duct tape off her mouth. “But Daaaaaaaad,” she wailed.

The master, apparently having finally arrived at the same conclusion I had about the post mortem status of our ruse, abruptly turned. “This was not in the script!” He gesticulated angrily into thin air. Presumably his ire was aimed at me, and not at some unseen presence.

“I’m a bit more toward the left.” The staticky feedback of my voice emanating from the loudspeaker caused the hero to startle in surprise.

The master swiveled around, continuing to list his indignities as if I actually had any fault in the matter.

“To your left, not mine.” I interrupted, flipping on the warehouse lights and turning off the dry ice machines. Time to pack it up.

The master swung around to his left. Julie giggled heartily from her harness.

“E tu, Brute?” cried the master at Julie, dramatically clutching his pearls.

“I tried to tell you that the tapshoes were not a good idea but you insisted.” My sigh crackled through the speaker.

Julie wriggled out of her bindings, dropping to the floor and joining her father, who lifted an eyebrow and shook his head in apparent pity and condescension. I didn't even think he'd bother to file a police report.

And… scene, I thought wearily, beginning the process of shutting down the technical booth.

Within a few minutes I had vacated my perch in the booth and joined the master, Julie, and her father on the floor. Our silent quartet filed out the door of the warehouse gracelessly.

As we stepped out into the chill evening air, Julie's father placed a firm hand on the back of his daughter's neck, guiding her toward the car parked across the street. The master drew off his hat, turning to me with the expression of a dispirited puppy. I offered him a pitying pat on the shoulder, tender hearted in spite of myself. We set off, heading back to our shared apartment in the arts district of the city.

The master plodded down the sidewalk, clomping like a very dejected donkey with loose shoes. With a mix of begrudging amusement, I followed, pondering: What's a theater major to do if his actors are utterly talentless? All the special effects and theater department budgeting in the world can't shine a turd.