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Andrew M. Reichart
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Akaz Maxo, Warlock
a supernatural horror comedy
short story
[excerpt]
I learned my new housemate was psychic by reading it in the weekly paper. The ad ran like this:
Find Lost Items. Uncover Hidden
Truths. Reasonable Rates.
Akaz Maxo, Warlock
...followed by our phone number. I recognized Max's full name from the mail. I didn't mind calling him "Max," I admit; something about the name "Akaz" gave me the creeps.
I'd only moved in a week previous, so I forgot about his WHERE'S MAX Bulletin Board. Newspaper in one hand, half-eaten pizza slice in the other, I went to his door. Without thinking, I knocked with the hand holding the pizza. A fleck of pizza sauce landed on his Board, right next to Do Not Disturb - Sleeping, right above the yellow pushpin marking his current status: Do Not Disturb - Meditating. I flicked the sauce away, knocking out the pushpin. It fell to the floor and rolled under the door. The door swung open.
Max stood there in black boxer shorts, frowning down at me. "Sorry," I said, my mouth still full. He picked up his pushpin and held it up between my face and his skinny breastbone.
"You explicitly agreed never to mess with my Board," he said.
"Accident," I said, chewing as politely as I could.
He turned back to the Board, stopping abruptly with the pin halfway to it. The stain from the pizza sauce stood out like blood on snow. Max glanced at me with daggers in his eyes, and stabbed the pin into the neat little hole next to Irritable - Disturb At Your Own Risk. He crossed his arms and glared at me.
"I didn't mean to knock," I said.
"You fell off the couch downstairs," he said, "stumbled up here and landed against my door."
"What the hell is this?" I shook the newspaper at him. I poked at the ad, smudging it with pizza grease.
"What is your question?" he sneered.
I took a big bite of pizza and ruffled the newspaper again. Chewing, I stared back at him expectantly.
"Yes," he growled, "I am a mentalist."
"Mentalist," I said.
"A student of the psychic arts," he said.
"Psychic arts."
He sighed with exasperation. "Clairvoyance, precognition, telepathy, astral travel."
"So why aren't you rich?" I asked.
"I'm just starting out," he snapped.
"You could, like, precogni...tize... the stock market," I said.
He glowered at me. "Ethics," he said.
"And why 'warlock'?" I asked. "Isn't that more like a sorceror or whatever?"
"It sounds good," he said.
I chewed and nodded.
"Anything else?" he asked. "What the hell are you doing in there?" I asked.
He narrowed his eyes. "Basic Postcognition exercises."
"Postcognition?" I asked. "Isn't that like predicting the past?"
"Your point?"
"What's that quote, 'Only an idiot tries to predict the past'?" I asked.
"'Any damn fool can predict the past,'" he enunciated. "Larry Niven."
"Right," I said. "So what's the point?"
He puffed out his cheeks. "Think hard," he said. "You might be able to conjure a use for such a skill at, say, the scene of an unsolved crime."
He moved the pushpin back to Do Not Disturb - Meditating and started to shut the door.
"Wait," I said, interposing my one-third of a pizza slice.
"What," he said through gritted teeth.
"You're a student, who the hell is your teacher?"
"Books," he replied, teeth still clenched, and shoved the door closed. I heard the clack of the deadbolt and the rattle of the chain.