The Magic Island, Feb. 4, 2021

John Foley’s Irish House Bar

The Magic Island, February 4th, 2021

Patrick and Timothy have united again at John Foley’s Irish House on O’Farrell Street in San Francisco. They are wearing their powder blue tuxedos and drinking at the bar.

Patrick: So what is this about? Last time it was Jeff Bezos and his bodyguards. Who are you pulling out of the rabbit hat this time?

Timothy: You sent me a very nice birthday gift. The old voodoo book “The Magic Island” by W. B. Seabrook.

Patrick: That was a gag. I thought the voodoo might help your dick come back to life, or better yet, improve your writing.

Timothy: Yeah. I read your note. Haha; funny. But I’ve been reading the book and there is real power and magic in this voodoo.

Patrick: You’re kidding. We aren’t going into the shrunken heads business are we?

Timothy: Speak for yourself. No. I’m talking about voodoo, curses, spells. This is the real deal.

Patrick: You’re nuts. Okay. I’ll bite. So what’s the plan?

Timothy’s phone rings. He answers it and says, “You can come in now.”

The back door opens. A young beautiful black woman, well coiffed and dressed comes up to the bar. She’s about 39 and is wearing a skin tight leopard print outfit. She is carrying a black leather bag.

Patrick’s eyes widen. “What the hell?”

Timothy: Patience.

The young woman sits between the blue tuxedos at the bar.

“Hi. My name is Clarinda. Nice to meet you.”

Timothy: Glad you could make it. Did you bring the merchandise?

Patrick: Okay. Enough of the cloak and dagger stuff. I mean leopard skin? Really? What is going on?

Clarinda: He doesn’t know?

Timothy: I thought it best to keep Patrick in the dark until now.

Clarinda: Oh, I have the merchandise. You promise that you can make it work?

Timothy: Yes. I know the procedures.

Patrick: What the hell are you…

Timothy: Voodoo! Just like in The Magic Island book you sent me. I will cast a spell on… Well, you better tell him Clarinda.

Clarinda: I am a hairdresser and a damned good one. I do Nancy Pelosi and Kamala Harris’ hair and nails. I have their hair and nails in this black bag. I will give them to you Timothy. You are the Great White Witch Doctor prophesied in the Book of Voodoo.

Patrick is dumbfounded. “Is this a gag to get me back for the dick joke?”

Timothy: No gag. Once we have the hair and cuticles from Pelosi and Harris I can begin the Voodoo Rite of Death. But we will need some of your blood.

Patrick: What!

Timothy: Okay. A urine sample will probably be enough. I mean. You do want to get rid of Pelosi and Harris, yes?

Clarinda: I have brought a special African ebony wood vial to collect Patrick’s blood or urine. Whichever the Great White Witch Doctor requires for the Voodoo Rite of Death.

Clarinda puts down the ornately carved ebony wood vial on the bar. Bas reliefs of voodoo demons are carved upon it.

Mike the bartender wanders over.

Mike: I’ve been listening to your conversation. I can’t stand Pelosi and Harris. If it’s blood your needin’, I’ll be bleedin’ (Mike is from Ireland). Give me the vial. I’ll be right back.

Mike takes the vial and goes to the bathroom. A few minutes later he comes back. The vial is full of blood.

Clarinda: I think the spell would be stronger if we had some of Patrick’s urine to add. They are both Irish White Devils. I have another vial.

She places another ornate African ebony vial on the bar, which is also decorated with bas reliefs of Voodoo Devils.

Patrick: Okay. I gotta piss anyway. Give me the vial.

Patrick goes off to pee.

Mike, Timothy, and Clarinda share a quick shot of very expensive 40 year old Scotch whisky.

Patrick comes back. “There’s your White Devil Urine. For whatever good it does you!”

Suddenly Mike, Timothy, and Clarinda break into laughter.

Clarinda: Thank you oh great White Urine Devil!

Timothy and Mike are laughing so hard they can’t speak.

Patrick: I knew it was a gag. Goddammit!

Timothy: Give the boyo a shot of the good stuff.

Then the four of them laugh and laugh as they recount the joke. Soon enough the 40 year old bottle of Scotch is drained.

The lights are turned off in John Foley’s Irish House and the four go out into the city.


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