Seven men, six in custom-tailored suits and one in a suit straight off the rack, gathered in a dimly lit bar with only one shelf, and it was the tops. They were surprisingly good-looking for aspiring magicians, even objectively dashing. They conversated with each other in hushed tones, shallowly letting their tongues run ragged with their knowledge of classic American culture.
“Buster Keaton was a brilliant man, it’s a shame you can’t get away with artful blackface these days,” commented the tallest.
“Charlie Chapman, what a class act, I respect a man who is unafraid to fight a taboo, even if it was taking on multiple teenage wives,” said the most attractive.
The group communally complained that they don’t make beauties quite like Greta Garbo anymore, but the men all agreed Sofia Vergara was passable.
By this point, Steven, the young man in the hackneyed suit had zoned out — life leaves you at a certain disadvantage when you grow up with only basic cable and parents that exclusively watch reality television. Worried about his social stature within the group, he walked into the center of the informal circle and put on his largest, most genuine, stage smile.
The group gave him their full attention, expecting a magic trick, an illusion or a witticism of new heights that was reminiscent of old ones. With all the flare of years of magic lessons and social rejection, Steven took off his top hat and whipped it around to prove that it was empty. He flipped the hat back towards his body, tenderly reaching his hand in and taking out a dove.
In great jest he yelled, “Who let the doves out? Who, who, who?”
Steven was never heard from again.