The Last Hour of King Roger’s Sinister Reign

By L. G. Merrick
Illustrated by Steve Morris

Grand old theater, the Prestigium. Tonight its marquee glows not with the name of the performer, but instead only the curious legend OBLIVION TONIGHT FOR SOME. 

You find your seat. The red curtain is down, its gold fringe piled on the stage. Before it, on an easel, stands a placard: TELL NO ONE. 

After some delay, eventually a manager mounts the stage to stand before the crowd apologetically. A spotlight pastes him. He is ruddy, puffy-cheeked but thin-lipped, wringing his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have been asked — otherwise, I’m afraid, there might be no show — I am requested to — ah. An unusual request. Tonight’s performer has indicated he won’t go on unless we comply. With an oath, of sorts. He takes his magic seriously. Indeed. So, please, there is an oath, for all here to take. If you could repeat after me.” 

The man pulls from his tuxedo pocket a note, unfolds it, and reads with a shaking hand and uncertain tone: 

“I hereby swear allegiance to secrecy.” He pauses after each sentence to let the audience repeat it. “I shall never discuss what transpires tonight. Not with any person, not even those also in attendance. Not under duress, nor even on my deathbed. And I understand that if I violate this oath, the Sinister Master Geryon will know. He will bend the sacred laws of nature to reach me. He will exact his fierce price for my betrayal. And then may my blood slake the Indigo Lemniscate of Vanth.”

The crowd, vowing along amiably at first, trails off as it goes. Laughs nervously. You make it to “betrayal,” and note that the manager’s delivery is becoming assured, severe. When he finishes, he is not shaking. He stands at his full height, speaks without reference to the paper. His eyes are cold. You wonder what you will tell Alex when you get home, Alex who could not make it due to “aches,” Alex who is always faking some illness. To soak up all the attention. Alex is a drag. The manager slips off his tux jacket and drops it onto the easel.

But the jacket falls straight to the floor. Its touch has erased the easel from existence. The manager turns to glance at this occurrence — barely a full turn — and when he turns back, his face is not ruddy but marble-white, and skull-gaunt, punctuated by a curled waxed moustache over full red lips. 

You gasp, and are not alone in your reaction.

“And so we begin,” says the man, voice now icy.

As the curtain rises, the man — clearly The Sinister Master Geryon himself— strides under it. He gets ahead of his spotlight for a mere second, and when it reacquires him, he is wearing a burgundy cape, crimson shirt, purple pants. A gold watch chain glints across a plaid vest. The effect is that of a Victorian lunatic, too intense to be comical. Applause crest. 

An assistant emerges from the dark at the back of the stage. That’s disappointing, you think, because she is buxom. Jiggling out of her top, red nylons to highlight the shapeliness of her legs against the black air behind her. Your coworker Ellis sent you here with a promise of very different. “You need to see this Geryon, he’s in town one night. It’s not rabbits out of hats. Nothing throwback or cute. I caught him years ago in Montreal. Master Geryon. He ends his show with a stunning — listen, I can’t tell details. Just go.” 

Now it hits you — I can’t tell details.

“We’ve all played cards,” says Geryon. The assistant hands him a deck. “Thank you, Lavinia.” He tosses the cards in arc, one hand to the other. “Poker, blackjack, solitaire. Go fish. There’s also an ancient game called Hades’ Court. The object is to collect the court — the picture cards — but simple as it is, the last known hand of Hades’ Court was played in Chicago, 1896. It concluded with all players dead.” He pauses. “Perhaps ‘dead’ is not the right word. What do you say we play it here tonight?” He holds up the deck. “Someone, please, name a card.”

Many people shout cards. You do not. Alex would whisper to you, “Say the Ace of Spades.” And then later take credit if you did: “Ace of Spades was my idea.” It is so nice to be away from Alex. Somewhat defective, Alex.

The magician says, “I heard Two of Clubs. Sir, would you step into the aisle?”

There are a lot of people who have dressed for the theater no differently than they would dress for a barbeque. This man is one of them, in a peach polo shirt tucked into khaki shorts. As if to assure everyone he is nobody’s fool, he glances around with eyebrows raised high in skepticism over eyes that are half-shut in self-satisfaction.

“Sir, would you look in your left shoe? No, you will have to remove the shoe.”

The man kicks off a bright white Puma — and finds that he was, somehow, standing on a Two of Clubs. He looks at it again. Now it is a King. He is invited onto the stage. His name is Roger.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present the King of Hades’ Court.”

The assistant pushes an enormous throne out of the black. Purple cushions, high gold back, baroque with cherubs and serpents and goblins and death. Roger sits, eyes still dull, as if being ruler of all is merely what he is owed.

“From this vantage, your majesty, all of my works you will see closely, while the rest see from afar. Should you note any fakery, signal your judgment by raising your scepter.”

The assistant hands him a scepter topped by a crystal ball in which a frightening eye blinks.

“Oh, and — do you think fear is necessary to rule?”

Roger nods. “Definitely.”

“Then, Sire, look never once over your shoulder, for that is a sign of fear. Rule without a glance at the dark, as the sole person in my audience who is unafraid.”

Out of the darkness, Lavinia pushes a guillotine, signaling Shhh to the audience. She parks it behind the throne. Were King Roger to lean over the arm of his grand chair and turn, he would see it, but as the audience chuckles at his expense, he only smirks. You chuckle. Roger is plainly unlikeable, a self-righteous moron.

Lavinia wheels out two empty birdcages.

“Kings know well the red-in-claw art of falconry,” Geryon begins — but makes no further reference to Roger for the duration of the following trick. Roger becomes no more of a participant than you, and hovers on the verge of anger at it. Am I being made a fool of? seems to war on his face with I was born to king around.

Soon you realize that by watching his personal ordeal, you are missing opportunities to see through the tricks yourself. So you refocus. 

A falcon appears in one cage in the few seconds that a cloth covers it. When Geryon bangs on the second cage, suddenly the falcon is inside that cage instead. He puts on a long leather gauntlet and the falcon steps onto his wrist. 

It is demonstrated that the falcon can count, read minds, and see the future.

Eventually, Geryon returns his attention to Roger.

“Sire, shall we acquire for you a Queen? Or shall we relieve the women of the world from the burden of such a duty?”

“Yes, Sorcerer. Find me a Queen. A pretty one.”

The magician bows, saying, “Your command is sweet music to our ears.” Then says to the falcon, “Go find the woman with the darkest heart.” 

The enormous bird flaps out over the audience, and descends abruptly to pluck at a woman’s hair. She bats at it, and in frightened outcry the women to either side of her bat it. It is a real scene — you’d laugh, but can’t, quite. You rise halfway out of your seat in alarm. 

The bird relents, returns to a cage, and the woman stumbles into the aisle. Geryon asks her to pick any number.

Annoyed, she says, “One million, four-hundred thousand, sixteen.”

“And what time is it?”

She quits adjusting her hair and pulls up her sleeve to find a Queen of Hearts wedged under her wristwatch. On its back is written the number 1,400,016. 

The crowd, except her, gasps, applauds, forgives the bird attack.

“Thus we have our Queen.”

The King says, “She’s not bad.”

On stage she is asked to sit on a narrow wooden chair. 

“How come I don’t get a throne?”

“Arms in, if you please.”

She crosses her arms.

“If he gets a throne, I get a thr—”

Lavinia at that moment from behind the queen pushes shut a wooden box, hinged like a clamshell, its hinge at the back of the chair. As it closes, you glimpse leather bands descend and cinch across the woman’s arms to pin them still.  The contraption snaps shut in front, is immediately padlocked by Geryon, and so the queen is sealed within a purple box inscribed with peculiar symbols of arcana. Her head projects from a hole in the top.

“Hey, this is bullshit,” she says. 

“The queen does not speak.”

“I got news for you, Captain Magic. This queen says plenty. She says — mff!”

From behind, Lavinia has dropped a gag into the Queen’s mouth. 

She is wheeled beside the King and the show proceeds without them. Lavinia is levitated, then Geryon levitates beside her. He juggles a series of balls that change color and number. He bounces them repeatedly and, at a word between bounces, they turn to glass, and at next contact with the floor they shatter. Lavinia gets a broom, but he spins a finger and the glass twirls up in a sparkling tornado. The tornado shreds pillows they throw into it, becomes a whirlwind of shards and feathers. She pushes a window frame onto the stage and he sends the tempest through the window, closes the window, turns the frame so its edge faces the audience. The tornado is not behind it. Is gone. The astonishment of the crowd is palpable, you feel it like a change in air pressure. Next, whatever anyone names, Geryon pulls from a basket. People shout increasingly difficult items. An apple, a soda can, an open soda can, a kitten, a Subaru hubcap, a loaded .357, a newspaper dated 1974. He then works with eerie bottles, a mystifying door; he produces lightning, fire, snow, says each comes to him from a different land. “Mirrors are powerful,” he says, and passes a mirror across a banner. The letters on the banner reverse. He spins the mirror and passes it across again and now the banner reads THE MEEK VASSAL DROWNS IN THE LAND OF MURKY RIVERS. He asks everyone to check their wallet or purse. You check yours. It is safe.

“No one is missing a wallet? Then whose is this?”

Lavinia hands him a wallet. He reads the ID. 

“Could I ask a Mr. Bergstrom to check his pocket one more time?”

A man, presumably Bergstrom, yells from the back of the house, “It’s missing! I had it a second ago! There’s just a card in my pocket now.”

Onstage, Bergstrom is young and gawky, with an impossibly sincere grin. You see him as a hopeless specimen.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Jack of our court. Now our King must assign this Jack to a land. So, what say you, your majesty? Shall you send this Jack to govern the land of flames, or of whirling—”

“The Land of Murky Rivers,” King Roger says, firmly. 

“Mff,” says the Queen.

“Humbly, Sire, your Jack does not appear equipped with gills. Perhaps the King would consider air or—”

“If he drowns, he drowns,” says the King. “For the sake of magic.”

“Wow,” says the Jack.

Slowly, Geryon bends low. “Your command tastes of richest honey to us.”

Lavinia wheels out a chest. The Jack agrees it is solidly built and would be difficult to escape from. He agrees to crouch inside it. He just fits. Lavinia closes it and tightens leather belts around it.

Geryon hoists the chest using a winch. Lavinia pushes a glass tank of water under it. The winch releases. The splash is impressive. The chest sinks rapidly, bubbles leaking out.

“Now we must move quickly, your majesty, lest your cruelty spark other members of the court to rebellion.”

Lavinia wheels out a rack of swords. Geryon addresses the Queen.

“Do you still wish that it was you, on the throne?”

“Mff mff, nn nffm,” says the Queen in a fury. 

You imagine you would exert more self-control. You dislike her nearly as much as you dislike the King.

“Sire,” says Geryon to Roger, “the choice is yours. To rule by the sword, or with mercy see your Queen released unscratched?”

The King looks mildly puzzled. “What’s magic about releasing her?”

“I suppose — nothing. And when released, she might depose you. If so, you would be exiled to your former, much less grand seat.”

“Impossible,” he says. “Give her the sword.”

Geryon bows. “Your command smacks of such decadent nectar, we can hardly stand it.” 

Lavinia pulls a silvery hood down over the Queen’s head. She becomes a silver nubbin atop a wooden box. 

Geryon lifts a sword. With a flourish, he whacks it flat on the box to prove its blade unyielding. Then he inserts the sword into a previously unnoticed slot in the purple box. The sword, it seems, passes through the Queen’s body. 

Her hooded head wiggles, cries “Mf!” The tip of the sword emerges from a slot in the opposite side of the box. 

Geryon repeats this with the next sword, and the next. He depletes the rack. Swords pierce the sides, the front, the back of the box. The Queen articulates agony and terror throughout, though never using more than “Mff!” Each sword tip emerges gory. 

In the end her head lolls, emits moans. Geryon, the final sword in his left hand, places his right palm atop her head to steady it, and looks to the King.

“Dost the King want it thorough?”

Roger hesitates, pale, eyes slightly more open now. 

Then nods.

Geryon runs the last sword through the silver bundle. If her head is in there, the sword enters at one temple and exits the other. The tip exits smeared pink and red. Blood expands in circles on either side of the hood, what seems a red gallon flows out its cuff, runs across the top of the box, down the walls. The head flops lifeless when Geryon releases it. He bows to the audience. 

No one applauds.

You should leave. 

Of course it is only a trick. A sick one, but there will be a reveal. She has not been in the box this whole time. And Bergstrom’s chest was switched for an identical chest.

But you feel nauseated. The muffled screams, the blood. That is perverse. On Monday you will berate Ellis. You will not sit here for the rest of this. 

You stand to exit. You will ask Ellis how the tricks resolved.

“Ah!” cries Sinister Master Geryon, pointing at you. “The last member of Hades’ Court is revealed!”

You shake your head no. Move toward the aisle muttering, “Excuse me, sorry, excuse me.”

“But you do belong up here,” Geryon says. “You have a tattoo of a fish. I see it as clearly as a dream. Be so indulgent as to examine your tattoo.”

You do have one tattoo. On your calf, hidden beneath your slacks. Of a koi, red and white and gold. Against your judgment, you are intrigued. In the aisle, you roll up your pant leg. There is no koi. Where the koi has swum for years, there is instead a harlequin in wide-mouthed laugh, hat of dangling bells.

In a daze, wanting to know how this was done, you mount the stage. Certainly it is some kind of temporary tattoo laid over yours like a decal. But how? When? And it looks real.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the final member of Hades’ Court. The Jester.”

There is blood and water all over the stage. Lavinia wheels out two platforms. On one is a fainting couch. On the other is a coffin, upright, painted a merry harlequin pattern.

“As Jester, you have two possible fates.” You struggle to pay attention as Geryon speaks. It is so disorienting. He indicates the couch. “You might lounge there and be fed grapes by Livinia, and watch in comfort while I enact our royal finale.” Geryon gestures toward the guillotine. The audience reacts with sounds of anticipation. The King does not, as Geryon’s gesture is blocked from the King’s view. “But the grapes are only yours if your jests please our King. Displease him, and instead he may banish you.” 

Apprehensive, you nod. People laugh as if that is funny.

“Now you, Jester, have more say than Queen or Jack. You play for your supper, as does a humble magician. So, Jester, crack wise, and earn your grapes!”

A difficult silence develops on stage in which gradually you realize Geryon expects you to jest. You look to the King, whose face shows some adrenalized interest in you, then back to the magician’s cool eyes.

You say, “I don’t really know any jokes.” 

Absolutely everybody in the audience laughs raucously.

“Well done. Your majesty, is that well done?”

“No! Banished!”

You look over at King Roger and think, What a dick. 

Well, it’s magic, anyway. You suppose at least you’ll get to see one trick up very close. 

“Excellent decision, Sire, but to what land shall we—”

“No land! Nowhere! Outer space.”

“Your command,” Geryon bows to Roger, “is the sugar with which we bake our lives.” 

Livinia takes your arm and helps you step up toward the coffin. You think she might whisper a clue at the last second. When the floor opens, take the chute. She says nothing. You step backward into the coffin, blinking against the glare of footlights. The coffin lid bangs shut.

It is plywood. Painted plywood, that’s all. Mundane. You can smell the wood, paint, the solid ordinariness of it. You don’t want to mess up the trick, you want to play along properly. 

The last cracks of light seal as Geryon nails the lid down.

The coffin is knocked on, all around, to prove it is solid. You hear muffled incantations pronouncing you banished. Backstage you will ask Bergstrom how they switched him out, and tell the queen you felt ill when she bled. You are spinning. The coffin is being spun. The platform wheels squeak. How are they going to stage the guillotine? Will Roger proceed to it with dignity, or be revealed a coward? You hope you get to see. The coffin vibrates, not a smooth ride. It spins longer than you think it should. You can’t hear any more magic words. Only the squeak.

It goes on and on, spinning and squeaking. On and on. The plywood grows cold to the touch. You stand shivering in the middle. Floating weightless in the middle. There is no sound. It gets difficult to breathe. Then impossible. 

Your lungs are agony. Your eardrums burst. Your eyes go so cold and dry they can’t blink. 

It must be time for the lid to open. Time to step back onto the stage and be okay. Your face is tightening. The skin of your arms. You want to kick the lid off. You don’t have the strength. 

You understand finally that when the lid does come off, the audience will gasp. You are not there.

But take the lid off, Geryon, take it off now. Maybe you will see the footlights again. 

Or the stars.

The end