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Tesla: The Sequel

Here is a quote from the movie to put you in the mood for black capes, twilight, and Hugh Jackman, or at least mega magnetism and electricity:
“Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called “The Pledge”. The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course… it probably isn’t. The second act is called “The Turn”. The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you’re looking for the secret… but you won’t find it, because of course you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn’t clap yet. Because making something disappear isn’t enough; you have to bring it back. That’s why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call “The Prestige”.” – Michael Caine, The Prestige

When I rang the doorbell to the “vintage” b&b that houses the museum, I felt like I was an accessory to the pledge of a magic trick. It struck me as an eerie piece of dramatic flair. The museum entrance was the turn.
The inn-keeper gave us a tour of the b-and-b. The rooms include prime balcony views of Pike’s Peak, romantic sunsets from the hot-tubs, and authentic steam showers. These produce hot water like other modern appliances, but are powered by steam – just like a calliope, which is also powered by steam. Factoid compliment of the host.
After awkwardly pausing at door-ways and exploring the honey-moon get-a-way rooms, we trooped downstairs to the basement. And what awaited? Downstairs, the lights were off. The room was unheated. The table was covered in books and light-bulbish things, and fronted by a row of chairs. The room definitely upped the ante that the door-bell had slapped down. The museum master was the prestige.
He was a man who looked like a Monty Python Hitler in rumply black jeans, a tightish zippered black polo, and black Nikes with a white logo, just like a badly-dressed high school science teacher with a great grey greasy mop of pepper-and-salt hair. He was so awfully glad to see us he didn’t know where to start, and so excited to continue that he didn’t know where to stop.

By the end of the tangled web of conspiracies I actually was overpowered by a burning desire to know about Tesla. After a while I couldn’t resist. My hand shot up again and again. I was the prize student, the one that everyone really hates. I knew – or at least I should have known – all that St. Tesla wasn’t, because the Tesla Ex had made that very clear. Right now I am pretty sure that he was from Mars. But what was the name of the cat?
That was when the Tesla Ex turned on a movie and left me to it. I’m going to have to read one of those 500 page biographies, I guess. But I was his favorite. He asked ME to lick the light-bulb. It was a fuzzy taste, with a furry zap – like licking the swing-set in a playground. Like really, really dirty iron that has a nice zing.

When we left the Tesla Ex asked us all to return to be a part of Tesla: The Movie: a production to be filmed this summer. But since the movie won’t have a heroine so I can’t be her, and besides all of that sexy Hollywood jazz is a b.s. conspiracy, I’ve instructed my agent to decline.

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