Here's Mr. Trix's origin story. Since the rules allow, I wrote it in the second person.
8:45 A.M. feels way too early for you this morning. Dodging the umbrella points on this crowded sidewalk doesn’t help matters either. You dig into your soaked purse to grab your cell phone to call in sick and notice that you’ve received 17 unanswered texts from that magician you hooked up with Vegas a few weeks ago. “Oh Maybelline Trix,” you sigh to yourself, “Why do you have to be such a sucker for illusionists?” You hum the opening bars to “Europe’s, “The Final Countdown” inside your head as you free yourself from your daily obligations. Being excused from work doesn’t relieve you from that queasy feeling and it doesn't make that bitter taste in your mouth go away. An hour removed from talking to God on the porcelain phone you are both nauseated and starving. In the distance, through the mist and streetlights you see that Cajun restaurant that you’ve heard good things about. As you get closer to the glowing red signage, eating your first meal of the day at a place christened “Big Bad Demon Daddy’s” doesn’t bewitch you in the least. You’re starving and something laden with sausage fat with a side order of cornbread is what you want most in the world right now.
As you enter, to the tune of the door chimes ringing, you dance around to keep your heels away from the gaps in the wood floor. As you fixate on the counter, you notice an assortment of animal skulls and what look to be giant prawns or crawfish, adorning the walls but something seems to be slightly tilted about their design. As you reflexively sniff while you walk to the counter you identify the aroma to be a mix of Jimmy Dean and Tabasco, with a slight hint of rotten eggs. You balance yourself on a wobbly barstool just as the dread locked waiter slides a glass of water in front of you. Not wanting to waste your time with a menu, you look up and put in your order for jambalaya and corn bread. “Mr. Dreads” offers you the seperate jambalaya menu and explains they have 47 varieties of that particular dish. Annoyed, you tell him to serve whatever he recommends and to make it quick. As he acquiesced and then laughed you could have sworn that his forehead scrunched and grew at the same time and a small flame shot out of both of his ears. You try to forcibly remove that image by shaking your head back and forth. After 15 to 20 seconds you triumphantly sip on the glass of tap. As the water hits your empty stomach you feel a 2.5 Richter scale shake along your insides and think that food can’t come fast enough. You hear a vibrating in your purse, dreading the idea it’s from your job, you dutifully check your phone. It’s not your job, but yet another text from the illusionist who’s name you’ve already forgotten. You look at his text which reads: “So I said to Solieri Mysterioso, “Forget you and your curse! I don’t even have a garden, you dumb mother-father!!!””
Your confusion over the text message is interrupted by the tinkling of the plates you suddenly see in front of you. Mr. Dreads presents the dish to you as the House Special and asks you if you want to try it topped with his special mix of spices. You agree, but immediately have second thoughts as he takes the shrunken head that is hanging around his neck and shakes it over your plate. Hunger wins over reason and you grab a fork and start the Big Dig. The taste of chicken, shrimp, and duck sausage, mixed with the seasoning sends your eyes rolling to get a better view of your brain. You lean back and feel your shoulders tingle and your thighs feel like they’re floating. You regain your composure and as you eat, you feel the pressure build in your abdominal region. Remembering the teachings of Pauline Prissybritches' Academy for Pristine Girls you pulse your glutes as precautionary measure. As Mr. Dreads checks on the status of your meal you gush over the quality, especially over the secret spices. Fueled by appreciation, Mr. Dreads enthusiastically shakes the shrunken head in front of you with such abandon that your next breath draws in the secret spices. You grab for a napkin and hold it to your nose to maintain your lady like graces. As you sneeze, your other muscles relax, releasing the gas that has built up inside of your body. The gas decides to use all available emergency exits. The resulting sound is that of a traditional “Achoo” remixed with the sound of a bullfrog squeezing a fireplace bellows. As you sit there, evacuated, a glowing light engulfs your body. You feel yourself floating away from the counter and towards the middle of the floor.
You notice that you’ve just stopped moving and have no control over your extremities. You feel your legs being pulled apart wishbone style by some invisible force, as a slow undulating wave moves from your abdominal towards your midsection. You shake your head to get the sweat from out of your eyes and look down at your skirt. You see the blue spiked hair covered head of an infant with your thong undergarments draped over its eyes peeking back at you. Thankfully, all you feel is a tingle as you see the baby slide down your leg and crawl on the ground. Before your eyes the baby starts to grow through the stages of infancy, pubescence and finally adulthood. You don’t know what freaks you out more, the rapid development of a young adult or the orange and blue armored costume and sunglasses that covered him out of nowhere and grew in size with him.
“S’up Ma?” says the figure in front of you.
You take a second and think of an appropriate way to respond to this. The first thing that comes to your mind is, “Son, go be a hero and fight crime”
“Are you sure you don’t want to add anything about responsibility or serve up a platitude that can provide guidance when I have doubts about my place in the world?” he says to you in his best I’m-giving-you-a-do-over voice.
You contemplate this and realize that as soon as he leaves the sooner this will all be over. “No,” you repeat, “go be a hero and fight crime”
“A’ight then” he says as he motions his arms and disappears leaving the fading aura of an ankh.
You feel the force slowly lower you to the ground and you’re relieved as you regain the feeling in your feet. You take your seat back at the counter oblivious to the buzzing of the other restaurant patrons. Mr. Dreads cautiously looks you in the eye. As your eyes meet, you ask if they have any key lime pie.
Well Columbus was both wrong, cruel/genocidal/enslaving, and Catholic. The English were most definitely not Catholic, though just as blood thirsty and cruel. Combined with the fact that he didn't draw the maps of the Americas, Amerigo did and other map makers eventually named the new lands, in the new maps, as America. Amerigo was also the one to coin the phrase, "A new world".
