The First Rule: "Magic is alive."

That's what the man claimed. He told me, "Magic is alive. You can feel its pulse every time you use it."

"I think you've had enough," I said as I wiped down the counter.

"We've all had enough," he said, "but we all want more. That's what magic is about: want. What do you want? What do you desire? Do you have the power to take it? The power to grab a hold of something and just..." He paused and placed one hand on the counter. "The power to grab hold and cut!" He brought forth his other hand and I saw a silver knife just before he arced it downward and stabbed it straight through his other hand, going all the way through into the wood of the counter.

"Fuck!" I said and moved backward. "You're fucking insane!"

"Well, you'd have to be," the man said, grinning maniacally, not even wincing at his skewered hand. "Magic requires a certain instability of the mind, a mind that stands on the edge, just daring itself to jump!" He grabbed the handle of the knife and pulled it out, the blade coated with blood. Then he raised his hand - and I could see the indentation the knife had made on the counter - and with a flourish, the bloody wound on it disappeared.

"Shit," I said. "How did you do that?"

"You're a magician," he said. "You tell me."

"I'm an amateur magician," I said, "and full-time bartender. And if I knew how to do that, I would get a lot more gigs. Just...tell me, okay?"

"Of course," he said. "The first rule is this: magic is alive."

And that's how my journey to hell started.