Zatarro the Magnificent was monumentally inebriated. Indubitably intoxicated. In other words, he was undeniably drunk. He lay on a dusty calico tapestry, unsure of his surroundings. He was resplendent in a tattered satin waistcoat, colored alternately in the vibrant scarlet of an eclipsed moon and the dark ebony of a summer midnight. The hues were, however, dimmed by a light coating of faintly aromatic ash. As the gaunt magician struggled to grasp the faint stream of consciousness whirling in his mind, he merely collapsed into a deep slumber.
Upon a rude awakening prompted by the unwelcome intrusion of sunlight through grimy windows, the illusionist grew increasingly concerned; the room he had woken in was not his own. The room was defined by its antediluvian tone, harbouring floral wallpaper, brass ornaments and portraits of Queen Victoria. His attempts to move were futile, reminiscent of a broken marionette, with its invisible puppeteer cursing at its tangled strings. Managing to stand, he was soon struck by the sheer gravity of his predicament.
"Oh God." he moaned, massaging his temples frantically. A look out the sooty windows revealed horse-drawn carriages cantering over cobblestones under the tangerine glow of gaslights. "FUCK!" he bellowed in enraged dismay. The walls, resplendent in their floral embellishment and dead monarchy trembled at the outburst. Exiting the room, he descended a flight of rickety wooden stairs, coming to an ornate door. He stumbled into the night, breaking free from the brick facade of the tenement he had woken in. He mentally retraced a series of events in his mind with the fervent conviction of a paranoid schizophrenic.
Memories of a disastrous performance at a senior's centre in which a keen-eyed octogenarian had exposed the fraudulence of his craft flooded his mind. So too did memories of his subsequent tour of various liquor stores. When he had returned to his apartment, it was in a state of liquid determination. He had found a tome, bound in black leather, stamped in fool's gold. This book had been abandoned since his ill-fated dabblings in "real" magic, but now he dusted its wrinkled cover, opened it, and begun to drunkenly leap over the hurdles of its ornate scripture.
With the pagan sacrifice of his sobriety and a copious ammount of burnt rosemary, he had miraculously summoned a Daemon Prince of the Third Realm. With slurred incantations, he bade the demon grant him legitimate magical powers, no, profound mystical abilities. He should have known better; demons are not to be trusted, forcefully subjugated, or fucked with in any other manner. So, when he woke to an evaporating sense of satisfaction and the sound of hooves striking stone, he was not surprised. He was merely confused, and now, even this was beginning to make sense.
In this day, made archaic within even a century, the mere contents of his pockets were Godly. The technological contraptions housed within the confines of his dapper regalia would outshine any contemporary illusionist. There was nothing he couldn't do. Grinning now, manically, previous comparisons of marionette and schizophrenic still wholly applicable, he walked to a nearby corner. It was occupied by a pale lady, who adorned a pale corset, altogether ghostly in the pale moonlight. "Evening ma'am." said Jack Zatarro, lascivious grin lurking at the furled corners of his mouth. She only smiled back...
