[Veritas]

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mom? It's me, JD."

"Oh, hello, JD! How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Say, listen, there's something I have to tell you."

"What?"

"Christopher's got some crazy new stunt planned, one that's sure to get him killed."

A heavy sigh. "Oh, dear! What is it this time?"

"Well, it involves a mine shaft caving in on him."

"Oh, Lord! He promised!"

"Look, I'm as upset about this as you are, so I decided to get everyone together for an intervention."

"An intervention?"

"Yeah, you, me, Cos, George, Gerard, Dave, and maybe I can get hold of his girlfriend, Sandra. We're gonna confront him head-on and talk him out of it."

"And what if he refuses?"

A pause. "Well, then, we're gonna have to resort to drastic measures."

"What sort of 'drastic measures' are you talking about?"

"I'll leave that for later. Meantime, you meet us in Criss' suite at nine AM tomorrow morning, got it?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be there."

"Good. See you then."

"All right, good-bye. Love you."

"Love you, too, Ma. 'Bye."



"Holy Trinity, Father Mykolos speaking."

"Good afternoon, Father, this is Dimitra Sarantakos."

"Well, hello, Dimitra, how can I help you?"

A deep, heartfelt sigh, then, "It's Christopher, Father. He's planned another dangerous stunt for his show. He'd promised me he wouldn't ever do those things again, not after that Florida hotel escape. You remember that, don't you?"

"You told me about it, yes."

"Well, now JD tells me he's going to try to escape from some mine shaft that's going to cave in on him."

"Well, you tell that daredevil son of yours that he made a promise and he'd do well to keep it!"

"That's why I am calling, Father. JD is planning some sort of intervention tomorrow morning at nine. He wants us all to be in his suite by then to try to talk him out of it. It would help if you were there, too. He may not listen to me, but he'll certainly listen to you."

"Oh, he'll listen to you, Dimitra. You're his mother, remember?"

"Still, I wish you could be there, too. We'll need all the help we can get."

"All right, Dimitra, I'll be there. It's at the Luxor, right?"

"Yes, at nine o'clock. I'll meet you in the atrium."

"I'll be there. And don't worry, we'll straighten him out, I promise."

"Oh, thank you, Father! God bless you!"

"And God bless you, too. Until tomorrow, then."

"Yes, good-bye."

"Good-bye."




"Hi, there!" chirped a cheery female voice. "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but leave your name, number and a brief message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible! 'Bye!"

"Hey, Sandra, this is JD, Criss' brother. Look, I need to talk to you about Criss. Give me a call when you get this, okay? Number's ***-****. It's really important. 'Bye."




"Dave Baram here."

"Dave? This is JD."

"Oh, hey, JD, what's up?"

"Look, did Criss tell you about his plans for his latest demonstration?"

"You mean about the mine shaft escape?"

"Yeah, that."

"What about it?"

"We're worried he's gonna get killed, that's what! Listen, we're gonna try to talk him out of it."

"Yeah? Well, good luck with that!"

"That's why we need you to come to Criss' suite at nine AM tomorrow morning. We're holding an intervention."

"An intervention? Sounds serious."

"Damn right it's serious!"

"So who's gonna be there?"

"You, me, Mom, Cos, George, Gerard, Sandra if I can get hold of her, and anyone else we can get."

"So why are you having this thing, anyway?"

"Because Criss made a promise to Mom he wouldn't do any more dangerous stunts, and now he's going back on his word. Because I'm tired of worrying about Mom worrying herself to death. And because I'm fed up with Criss giving me a heart attack ever time he pulls a stunt like this!"

"Those are good reasons."

"So, you coming or not?"

"Well, okay, if you really think you can persuade him not to do it. But, you know, Criss can be pretty pig-headed when it comes to not doing things his way. You might not be able to get through to him."

"Oh, we'll get through to him, all right. Believe me, we will."

"Well, lotsa luck on that, pal!"

"So you gonna be there?"

"Yeah, I'll be there, bright and early. Just to see what happens.

"Okay, thanks, Dave. See you then."

"Yeah, 'bye."




"Hello, JD?"

"Yeah?"

"This is Sandra."

"Oh, hi, Sandra, glad you called."

"So what's this about Criss?"

"Well, we got word he's doing this really dangerous stunt, and we're trying to talk him out of it, so we're holding an intervention tomorrow morning at nine AM, and we need you to be there."

"What sort of dangerous stunt?"

"Well it involves a mine shaft and a cave-in."

"Oh, God."

"So, can you come in tomorrow morning?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, I'll be there. Nine AM where?"

"In Criss' suite. You can meet me by the office and I'll take you up."

"Okay, thanks."

"No, thank you."

"Okay, JD, 'bye. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah, 'bye."

[Smurf]

great chapter good luck jd trying to change criss's mind , can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

You'd have a better chance of cutting him in half than to change his mind

[Veritas]

Anyone else who entered the Luxor's casino would have been thrilled with what was inside. It was an ever-changing panoply of light, sound and color, its atmosphere charged with high expectaions and dashed hopes with every roll of the dice, spin of the wheel, turn of a card, or pull of the slot machine lever. Any distraction from gaming was unwelcome: the colorful carpeting muffled everyone's footsteps, conversation was brief and muted, save for the croupier's patter and the blackjack dealer's shuffling of the cards. Big Money spoke here, and everyone listened with undivided attention. It was the realm of Lady Luck, the place where fortunes were made and lost, usually the latter. Risk was the the name of the game, the common denominator which ordinary mortals chose to sacrifice their hard-earned wages, their savings, indeed their very futures in hopes of hitting the jackpot against all odds.

Angela Honi stepped timidly into this realm, overwhelmed by it all. In the past, the frail, shy schoolteacher had never so much as purchased a raffle ticket for school charity functions, and now here she was in a major casino in Las Vegas. Fear gripped her like a giant hand, paralyzing her. It was too much, too soon, she thought. Maybe she should have taken in one of the shows instead? There was a magic show playing here by that magician--what was his name again? Criss Angel, yes. She liked magicians as much as anyone--why not go there? Or maybe that red-headed comedian, Carrot Top? He was supposed to be really funny, and she could use a good laugh. Why not see his show? Anything would be better than standing here in a casino, cowering like a mouse.

A mouse. The very word stung her to the core in spite of having thought of it herself. That was what she had been all of her life: a mouse, scurrying to the nearest hidey-hole because she was too afraid to take on the world on its terms. Too afraid to take any sort of risk, too afraid to stand up for herself, too much of a coward to take control of her own life. Why did it have to be that way? she wondered. Why couldn't she show some backbone and take charge of her own destiny? Had she been too long under her sister's thumb that she no longer had the strength to get out from under it?

Angela looked around the casino with more confident eyes. Those people weren't afraid to take risks, she told herself. Those people didn't fear losing it all to the slot machines and the dealers. They didn't ask anyone's permission, they just went for it, and the devil take the hindmost! Why couldn't she be like them?

On impulse, she reached into her worn handbag and fished out a five-dollar bill. It wasn't much, but it would do for a start. Best to start out small and work up, she reasoned. She looked around again and decided the slot machines were the best choice. They afforded some privacy, and the wagering was small enough. Five dollars wouldn't be missed.

She walked up to the nearest row of slot machines and studied them carefully but discreetly, not wanting to disturb the gamblers sitting before them. She discovered that they had slots for taking paper bills, like today's vending machines, ranging from one dollar to twenty. Well, that's convenient, she thought. No need to ask for change. And there were no levers on them, either: the legendary one-armed bandit had been replaced by push-button, electronic devices designed to be tamper-proof. Even the slot machines are computerized, she thought.

The only problem was that every one of them were occupied; it would be a while before Angela could have a turn. Well, no matter, she was used to patient waiting. Besides, it would give her the opportunity to acclimate herself in this strange new environment, accustom herself to how it functioned, and familiarize herself with the rules. If she was going to gamble, she was going to make herself comfortable while she was doing it.

She strolled around the slot machines, watching desperate types feed the flashy devices with a steady diet of cash: tens, twenties, even fifties to Angela's amazement. She was appalled at first, unable to comprehend how some people could just throw away money like that. Then her shock gave way to pity; she had heard about compulsive gamblers who bet their entire life's savings on slot machines, blackjack or even lottery tickets. These poor souls ended up losing their jobs, their homes, even their families. Some even lost their freedom when they turned to crime to pay their gambling debts. Well, that's not going to happen to me! Angela vowed firmly. I've got five dollars, and that's it--when it's gone, I'm gone! I'm not going to fritter away all my money on some stupid machine!

She saw one disgruntled player get up from his seat in front of a slot machine farther down the row, disgusted as he was undoubtedly broke. She could hear his muttered curses above the incessant electronic chatter of the machines, grumbling about the slots being fixed so that no one would win. No one made a move to claim his spot, so Angela walked up to the machine and sat down on the still-warm stool before it. There, she had taken the first step. Now, all she had to do was play.

The large, flashing device before her waited patiently while she struggled to build up the nerve to insert her money. Angela drew a deep breath, steeled herself for the worst, and slipped the five dollars into the paper slot. The machine swallowed the bill swiftly like a strand of pasta. The screen flashed a message telling her she had three turns to win the jackpot, then a single word, PLAY, flashed on a large, angry red button on her right, demanding her response. This was it, she realized, the moment of truth. She had given the mechanical beast its due, and now there was no going back. With one desperate motion she pushed the red PLAY button and closed her eyes, both relieved she had committed the act and apprehensive about the consequences.

Three rows of digtalized icons rolled randomly on the screen. Angela opened her eyes and forced herself to watch them, bracing herself for the worst. This is only my first try, she tried to assure herself. If I lose this round, I have two more chances, right? I mean, it's just a game, right?

The first row stopped at JACKPOT!

The second one also stopped at JACKPOT!

Angela's mind froze, all thought vanished in that one instant, all her senses oblivious to everything except to that third row of rolling icons. Finally, it stopped rolling.

JACKPOT!

The machine whooped exuberantly, its lights strobing in celebration, its screen flashing WINNER! WINNER! WINNER! over and over again. Angela shrieked in shock, terror and confusion. What happened? her bewildered mind kept asking itself, what happened? What did I do?

Then came the staff and other gamblers, applauding and cheering as they surrounded her. A red-jacketed gentleman approached her first, his hand extended. "Congratulations!" he bellowed, pumping Angela's frail hand as if trying to draw water from a well. "You're our million-dollar winner!"

Angela trembled, not knowing what to make of all this. "Me?" she squeaked.

"That's right!" the red-jacketed man bellowed again. "You're our first winner in the Million-Dollar Slots!"

Angela's brain spun inside her skull. She felt as though she was going to faint. This can't be happening! she said to herself. This must be some sort of dream! She wanted to sit down. This can not be happening! Things like this don't happen in real life, do they? At least, not to me, of all people!

A burst of bright light brought her back to reality; someone had just taken her picture. "And what would your name be?" the red-jacketed man asked her with exaggerated courtesy.

Angela was stumped for a moment. My name? What is my name? Good grief, I've forgotten my name! Then it came back to her. "Angela," she whispered hoarsely. "Angela Honi."

"Angela Honey!" the man crowed for all to hear. "And a honey of a winner you are! Everybody, let's give it up for Angela Honey, shall we?"

Another round of enthusiastic applause. Angela tried bravely to smile and say "thank you", but the words stuck in her throat. Still in shock over what had happened to her, she sank down onto the stool, her knees too weak to support her. I'm going to wake up any minute now, she said to herself, and all this will have been a dream. This is not real! This is not happening!

The red-jacketed man gallantly extended his arm to her. "Now, if you'll just come with me, Angela Honey," he said, "we'll go into the office to claim your winnings. No big deal, just some paperwork, that's all."

Angela took the proffered arm, glad to be able to escape the madness surrounding her. The red-jacketed man escorted her out of the casino as pompously as if she was royalty. The applause still pounded in her ears, and all she could think was What am I going to do now? What am I going to do with a million dollars? And what am I going to tell Bianca?

[Smurf]

Great Chapter Angela don't tell your sister anything , can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

Keep your mouth shut it's your money

[Veritas]

The meeting in the casino office was mercifully short and to the point, to Angela's relief. They gave her some release forms to sign, including an agreement to a forty-eight hour waiting period before claiming her million-dollar winnings; the slot machine on which she had hit the jackpot had to be inspected for any signs of tampering. "Standard procedure, no big deal," they explained. "We have to make sure it was a legitmate win. You'd be amazed at how many people have tried to hack into the system."

Angela nodded numbly in agreement and signed the form. It was a good thing to wait two days, she told herself. That way, she could put off telling Bianca about her winnings for a while yet, sparing herself a nasty confrontation. God only knew what would happen when she found out.

If she found out.

Maybe she didn't have to tell her at all. She hoped against hope. Maybe she could quietly arrange for her winnings to be direct-deposited into her own personal savings account, and no one, especially Bianca, would be the wiser. Maybe this would work out after all. Maybe.

She signed the publicity release form and handed it to the red-jacketed man who had so grandly escorted her out of the casino, whom she had just discovered was the casino manager, formerly known as the pit boss back in the day. Then there was the tax forms to fill out for the proper state, local and federal taxes to be deducted, the acknowledgement form stating that she had not used any type of deceit or device to tamper with the slot machine she had played upon, and other bureaucratic fol-de-rol that left her bewildered and overwhelmed.

Once all the paperwork was out of the way, they shook her frail hand in congratulations and sent her on her way. Angela made straight for her suite, glad that it was all over. "I filled out fewer contracts than that when I applied for my teaching job!" she muttered to herself.





Angela lay on her bed, recovering from the trauma of the afternoon. The peace and quiet soothed her frazzled nerves. Bianca had not yet returned; a relief in itself, because she knew from long, painful experience that had her sister been there waiting for her, she would have been interrogated like a POW to account for everything she had done while she was out. With luck, she could stay out of Bianca's way long enough to enjoy a quiet evening.

She heard the click of the door latch, followed by a dreamy humming. Bianca had returned, fresh from the spa. The massages, the seaweed wraps, the mani-pedis, the long soak in the hot tub, always put her in a good mood. As far as Angela was concerned, it was well worth the expense to be spared her sister's ill temper for an hour or two after a trip to the spa or the salon. There, she could be pampered and catered to like a princess, her every wish fulfilled. It was the life to which she felt entitled, a world of her own where everybody lived only to serve her.

If Bianca had her way, Angela thought, she'd live at the spa for the rest of her life, going out only for shopping trips, clubbing, and meals at five-star restaraunts. Unfortunatly, her trust fund allowed her only two thousand dollars a month, far too little for the lifestyle she craved. She had to make do with occasional weekends at different luxury hotels, splurging on spas, new clothes, and entertainments to satisfy her craving for the good life. It was only a stroke of luck that she had won this weekend at the Luxor, the only hotel she hadn't tried yet. The only downside was that she had to bring Angela, the bane of her existance, along for the ride because of the contest rules. Other than that, she was free to indulge in her pleasures to her heart's content.

Bianca sailed into the suite, humming and smiling. Angela peeked out of her bedroom, not daring to disturb this rare tranquil moment with her presence. Bianca, however, brushed by her as if she wasn't even there, going into the master bedroom to prepare for an evening out. It seemed that she had not yet heard about the million-dollar jackpot. If Angela's luck held, she never would.

Angela ducked back into the bedroom while Bianca flounced around in her sheer white peignoir, flipping through her extensive wardrobe to decide what to wear. She finally decided on the blue suit, the very one Angela had forgotten to pick up from the dry cleaner's yesterday and had suffered for it. With a knot in her stomach, Angela closed the bedroom door behind her. She just wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and shut out the whole world entirely. At the same time, she wanted to escape this gilded cage, just go somewhere where she could start her life over again without her domineering sister lashing out at her just because she forgot the dry cleaning. Somewhere. But where?

Well, she had just won a million dollars. There was that. Even after taxes, there would be plenty left over for her to make a fresh start. She could buy a new car (or at least get a better one), buy some new clothes, get an apartment or look into some townhouses or condos somewhere as far from Bianca as possible. She could finally start living again. No, that wasn't entirely accurate. What she meant was that she could finally start living, period. The life she was living was no life at all, merely a hand-to-mouth existance on her teacher's salary until her trust fund became available. But somewhere out there in the big wide world was a place she could call home, where she could wake up every morning without her sister screaming for her to do this or that, where she could watch TV without the channel being changed suddenly if not turned off altogether--a place where she didn't have to live in fear and apprehension. A place where she could be...alive.

The room was quiet again. Bianca was gone, and who knew when she would return. Angela left the bedroom and made a light dinner from the complimentary fruit basket provided by the hotel. After tipping the bell attendant that morning and five dollars in the slot machine, she didn't have much money to spend on a restaraunt meal, and besides, she wasn't all that hungry. After eating, she settled down with the large-screen TV, her only companion for the evening. It would have been nice to go out and meet someone, but her lifelong shyness all but crippled her social life. Indeed, if it hadn't been for her volunteer job at the shelter--

Angela shot up. The shelter! She looked up at the clock: five-thirty. She had thirty minutes to get to the shelter for her evening teaching job. But how was she going to get there without her car? In desperation she phoned the director on duty that evening, Pastor Bob Beaman. Maybe he could help her get there once she explained matters to him. He had to. She had no other choice.

The phone on the other end burred twice, then a click. "Sanctuary Shelter for the Homeless," she heard Pastor Bob's voice answer mechanically. "Pastor speaking."

"Oh, Pastor Bob," Angela breathed. "Look, I need help getting to the shelter tonight. I'm at the Luxor Hotel, staying with my sister, and I don't have my car. Can you give me a lift or something?"

The pastor was perplexed. "The Luxor Hotel?" he repeated, puzzled that Angela of all people should be at such a place. "What are you doin' at the Luxor?"

"Well, my sister won this contest, see," Angela explained, "and I sorta got roped into going with her. I didn't want to go, but, well, you know Bianca. She can be...very persuasive."

She heard Pastor Bob chuckle. "All right, Angela," he said warmly. "I'll reroute the shelter bus to come pick you up. They should be there in about ten, fifteen minutes, so you just sit tight there, all right?"

A huge weight rolled off Angela's shoulders. "Oh, thank you, Pastor," she said gratefully. "I really appreciate it."

Both said their good-byes and hung up. Angela began to prepare for her evening class by changing into her crisp white middy blouse and knee-length navy blue skirt, an outfit approved by the conservative clergymen who co-operatively ran the shelter. She grabbed her old handbag and school satchel and left the suite to go down to the main entrance to wait for the shelter bus. At least she wouldn't be alone this evening.

She rode down the elevator and stepped out into the atrium. Had she stopped at the casino level, she would have seen the LED marquee lights rolling out CONGRATULATIONS ANGELA HONI WINNER OF THE MILLION DOLLAR SLOT GAME!! over and over again.

[Smurf]

Great Chapter poor Angela she really does have it rough , can't wait to read more

[RACHEL02189]

They may have to ask Criss for a straight jacket when Bianca find out about her sister's winnings

[Veritas]

Saturday morning, seven AM. Criss trotted like a thoroughbred racehorse on the treadmill in his personal gym, pacing his steps to the rhythm of the tune coming through the earbud headphones of his iPod. Light sweat clung to his forehead, the red bandana tied around his brow no longer able to absorb any more moisture. His muscular torso, clad only in a tank shirt, gleamed in the flourescent lighting, his chest heaved with every breath he drew. He checked the timer on the treadmill's handlebar: only five more minutes to go. It didn't do to rush it; he had to maintain a steady pace to avoid injury.

Criss wasn't too keen on working out as a rule, but the physical demands of his art, as he called it, required he be in top form at all times. His muscles had to perform at peak capacity, his reflexes had to at their sharpest--one slip-up, one missed cue could spell his doom. That meant early morning workout sessions in the gym provided for him by the Luxor Hotel whether he enjoyed it or not. Besides, he needed to stay healthy for the sake of the investors of his show; they had laid out one hundred million dollars for it and they expected a return on their investment. A healthy Criss Angel was a productive Criss Angel, and what he produced on stage paid off handsomely for the Luxor and its shareholders.

The treadmill timer went off, signalling the end of the run. Criss hopped off the leathery conveyor belt and reached for a small towel hanging from a rail on the treadmill. He wiped his stubbly face, took a few deep breaths (slowly, so as not to cause dizziness) and headed for the shower room, peeling off his tank shirt, drenched with sweat, as he went. He felt a slight rush of adrenalin course though his veins--post-runner's high, they called it. He always felt it after a run on the treadmill, and it felt good.

As he approached his locker, he noticed a small yellow sticky note attached to the metal door. This wasn't unusual; indeed, he found it annoying. Sometimes his staff left him small memos during his workouts regarding the show or to contact somebody ASAP. He wished they would just leave such messages in his office where he was better able to attend to them instead of invading one of the few truly private places he had in the Luxor. His post-workout rush faded as he pulled the sticky note from the door. "What is it now?" he muttered irritably.

Criss, meet us in the suite at 9:00 AM sharp. Urgent!! JD.

Criss was puzzled. JD? What the hell does he want? He crumpled the note and tossed it aside, then prepared for his shower. If it's so urgent, why does he want to meet me in the suite? Can't he wait until I get to the office? He knows I'll be there this morning. What the hell could be so urgent, anyway? It's only--what? He checked his watch. Seven-ten? If it's so (bleeping) urgent, why wait until nine?

He peeled off his shoes and shorts, wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for the shower stall. Once in the glass-enclosed stall, he whipped off his towel, draped it over the door, turned on the water and let the hot spray soothe away the aches and pains from his workout. He grabbed a bar of soap and lathered himself from head to foot, all the while still wondering what JD wanted that was so important, and why to meet him in his suite, of all places. Normally, JD would have left a message with one of his assistants if it concerned business--

Criss stopped lathering. He froze where he stood. The showering cascade of water continued its course down his naked flesh. Maybe it wasn't business, he thought. Maybe it was something more personal. Is Mom sick again? he worried. Oh, God, I hope not! She already had one heart scare; she doesn't need another.

But the note said to meet him at nine, and it wasn't even seven-thirty yet. If it did concern his mother, JD would have come into the gym personally and told him so instead of leaving a note stating a two-hour delay. It just didn't make sense.

Well, there was only one way to solve this mystery, he thought as he rinsed the lather from his body, turned off the shower and toweled off, and that was to play it by JD rules. Yes, he would be at the suite at nine AM sharp, as directed, and he would demand an explanation about whatever it was his brother wanted. In the meantime, he would catch up on some paperwork in his office. One thing was certain, he said to himself: this had better not be a joke.




When he got to his suite at the appointed time, he discovered nothing amusing. Instead, he found his mother, his brothers JD and Costa, his cousin George, his manager Dave Baram, his consultants Banachek and Gerard, his girlfriend Sandra, and, to his greater surprise, Father Stefan from Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church, sitting in the living area of his suite. Bewildered, he looked around. "What's the deal?" he asked. "I didn't schedule a meeting or anything, did I?"

"No, Criss," JD said seriously, "this isn't a meeting. This is an intervention."

Criss was aghast. "An intervention?!" he exclaimed, glancing wildly at the assembled company in his suite. "What the hell--oh, excuse me, Father--I mean, why do I need an intervention? I'm not a drug addict or anything like that!"

"We know you're not, Christopher," Father Stefan said calmly, "and we are all very proud of you for that, but this is just as serious." He stood up and motioned to Criss. "Please, sit down."

Criss was miffed that he should have to take orders inside his own suite, but he reluctantly complied; the grim faces of his family and friends told him he had no choice. He lowered himself onto the sofa between his mother and the priest, stretching his long limbs out before him. "Okay, what's the deal here?" he demanded. "Why are you staging an intervention on me?"

JD leaned forward. "Two years ago, when you did that hotel demolition escape, you promised you would never again do any more death-defying demonstrations," he began. "You promised Mom to her face that you'd stop doing the dangerous stunts like you've done in the past. Since then, you've been walking through a live minefield, nearly flattened by a Hummer, buried alive in snow, sent yourself crashing over a cliff in a desert--"

Criss held up his hand. "I know what I've done, JD," he interrupted. "You don't have to relate my whole career for me."

"Well, the point is that now you want to bury yourself alive in a mineshaft," JD went on, his voice rising.

"And your point is?"

"My point is that it's time we said enough's enough!" JD said sharply. "You can't go on like this, Christopher! You've cheated death so many times, it's not even funny! You've been driving Mom into an early grave from all the worrying she'd done over you! And I can't count how many times you've nearly given me a frickin' heart attack from your crazy stunts! This is it, Chris, this is the end! I can't take it anymore--none of us can! Either you scrap this demonstration, or I quit!"

Criss' jaw dropped to his chest. "JD!" he cried.

"I mean it, Christopher!" JD said adamantly. "You scrap this mineshaft stunt, or I walk!"

"You can't be serious!"

"I was never more serious."

In desperation, Criss turned to his mother. "Mom, do something!" he pleaded.

His mother sighed. "I'm afraid I have to take JD's side on this one, Christopher," she said somberly. "You promised me no more dangerous escapes, but you broke your promise again and again. You said you were not a drug addict, and I thank God for it, but you are addicted to danger, Christopher. You get high when you are close to death--you said so yourself once."

"I never said anything like that!" Criss protested. "What I said was I feel the most alive when I'm close to it."

"You see?" his mother said. "It's an addiction to you!" She took her famous son's face in her soft, withered hands. "I do not want to lose you, Christopher," she said, tears filling her eyes. "Time and time again, I have watched you try to kill yourself for the sake of your 'art'. I can't take it anymore, Christopher Nicholas! I don't want to watch you die again and again and again! A parent should not have to outlive her child!"

The tears fell down her aged, wrinkled face. "Please, for the love of God, Christopher," she beseeched him, "don't do this stunt, or any other dangerous stunt! I can't stand it anymore! When you promised me you would stop after that hotel demolition, I believed you, and I was happy for the first time since you became famous. But you broke that promise more than once." She sighed heavily. "I don't know if I can trust you again after this," she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

Criss put his arm around his weeping mother. "Mom," he said softly, "oh, hey, Mom, don't cry, okay? Everything's gonna be all right. Don't cry, okay?"

"Your mother loves you very much, Christopher," Father Stefan spoke up. "Your whole family does. Now, I know you've made a reputation for death-defying escapes that surpassed anything done before, but it's costing you your family's well-being. It's making your mother ill with worry and anxiety. You should stop to consider their feelings about the things you do. If I were you, I'd cancel whatever harebrained scheme you got planned and go on to something else. Something less life-threatening."

Criss turned to the clergyman sitting next to him. "If I do cancel the mineshaft demonstration, what am I going to do in its place?" he argued.

Father Stefan laid a hand on Criss' knee. "You're an intelligent, creative magician," he said. "You'll think of something."

"Just don't come up with anything that threatens life and limb, okay?" Costa chimed in. "Otherwise, I'm with JD and walking out on you."

"Cos!"

"I mean it."

In desperation, Criss turned to his cousin sitting adjacent to him. "George?" he said almost pleadingly.

"Sorry, Chris," George said, "but I'm siding with the majority here. Family comes first, you know."

Criss then turned to his manager. "Dave?"

Dave Baram shrugged. "Nothing I can do, Criss," he said. "I'm just your manager. They dragged me in here for moral support."

"Gerard? Banachek?"

The latter leaned forward across the coffee table. "I've been with you for five or six years now, Criss," he said, "and I gotta admit, these demonstrations of yours are starting to wear on me, too. I'll stay and help you plan another demonstration, but this mineshaft idea of yours is way off the hook! I mean, look at your mother there--she's tied herself in knots over you since you lit yourself on fire on her birthday in Season One! Have a little pity for her, willya?"

"You set yourself on fire on your mother's birthday?" Father Stefan echoed disbelivingly.

"I'll explain later, Father," Criss said to him. "Look, guys, Mom, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, okay? But it's just my nature to push my own envelope like this--I do what I do to challenge myself, to see how far I can go. I'm sorry if I've caused you a lot of grief over the years, especially you, Mom, but if I'm not allowed to express myself through my art, I get all depressed and angry--and believe me, you don't want to be around when I get angry!"

"We won't be around when you get angry," JD retorted, "because we won't be around at all! We'll all be heading back to New York, and you'll be on your own with your 'art' as company!" He leaned back in his chair. "Your call, Christopher."

In a last ditch effort to garner sympathy, Criss turned to his girlfriend. "Sandra? Babe? Help me out here!" he pleaded.

Sandra could only lower her eyes in sorrow. Realizing that no one present would rise up to defend him, Criss sank back into the sofa, feeling defeated. "Oh, dear God," he whispered. "I can't believe this is happening to me! I can't believe you'd all just get up and walk out on me like this! I don't know what I'd do without all of you! I thought you were all with me!"

Father Stefan wrapped a paternal arm around Criss' shoulder. "We are with you, Christopher," he said gently. "We all want you to live a long, healthy life, but you're not going to if you persist in risking your life doing these dangerous stunts. One of these days, this 'envelope' you keep pushing is going to land you into an early grave."

He pulled Criss closer to him affectionatly. "God has been good to you, keeping you alive as long as He has, but one day, He's going to withdraw His hand from you and let you fall to your doom. He gave you the life you have--don't play 'chicken' with it by doing these stunts. If you love God, if you love your mother and brothers, give up this stunt you're planning. Think about their feelings for once--about how they worry about you and pray for you to survive all these stunts you do."

He turned Criss' stunned face to him with a single finger. "You don't have to do these stunts anymore, Christopher," he went on, emphasizing every word. "You've already proven yourself to be a great magician. You can do so much more alive than dead. Look at your mother there! She's already lost her husband, your father--think how she would feel about losing her son! Please, we're begging you, cancel this stunt--for her sake, if not for yours."

There was silence in the room as Criss looked at his beloved mother with tears streaming down his eyes, then at his eldest brother, JD, grim as a judge, then at Costa, who nodded; then at his cousin George, who gave him the thumbs up; then at his manager, Dave Baram; then at Gerard and Banachek, the latter telling him to "do it for your mom"; then at Sandra, who had burst into tears herself over Father Stefan's speech. "Cancel it, baby," she rasped. "Please?"

Criss was still for a minute, his demonstration notes still in his hand. Everyone waited to see what he would do next: would he give in, they hoped, or would he be obstinate and go on with the mineshaft demonstration? Criss himself simply sat there, staring at the floor, stunned. His family had supported his every endeavor to make it as a magician, in spirit if not financially, and just when he had planned a demonstration that would surpass everything he had done up to this point, they were just going to give up and leave? He looked up at the stern faces around him. JD's expression was set in stone. Father Stefan looked at him with the patient expectation of all clergymen. His mother dabbed her eyes with a tissue, while Costa simply waited for a response.

Suddenly, in one angry, impulsive movement, Criss tore up his notes and flung them up in the air. "Okay!" he shouted furiously. "You win! I won't do it!"

Everyone cheered. Criss simply fumed. Dimitra flung her arms around her son and embraced him tightly, but for once Criss didn't feel the need to respond. His will had been thwarted and it stung him deeply, yet deep down he knew they were right. He had made a promise to his mother not to do any more dangerous demonstrations and he knew he was duty-bound to keep it, career or no career.

Criss managed to pull himself together, then drew a deep breath to collect his thoughts. "So, what do I do now?" he asked. "I have to do something for the next episode. I mean, I am under contract, you know."

"You'll think of something, Christopher," Father said to him. "I know you will. If you need help, my door is always open to you."

"Thanks, Father." Criss murmured, feigning gratitude but still resentful.

Satisfied, the priest rose from the sofa. "Well, my job is done here," he announced. "I guess I'd best be going now." He leaned down to face Criss again. "Remember your promise, Christopher," he said sternly, pointing an admonishing finger into Criss' sullen face. "I don't want to hear about you risking your life in some crazy stunt, understand?"

Criss nodded wearily, defeated. Father Stefan nodded approvingly and turned to leave. George rose quickly and rushed to his side. "I'll see you out, Father," he offered.

George escorted Father Stefan out of the suite and walked with him to the elevator bank. "Great job you did in there, Father," he said. "You shoulda been here five episodes ago." He laughed a little. "Shoot, you shoulda been here five years ago! It woulda saved us a whole lotta worry with all the crazy things Criss has done! What got me was what you said about God letting him fall to his doom--I mean, that was scary to think about--Sheesh! I mean, I've heard about guardian angels who are supposed to watch over us and all that, but Criss? If I was his guardian angel, I'd hand in my resignation!"

Father Stefan smiled. "Well, it's said that God looks out for fools and babies," he said jovially.

"Which one's Criss?" George quipped.

Father laughed at that. The elevator door slid open, revealing an empty car. "Take care of yourself, George," he said as he stepped into the elevator. "And call me if your cousin gives you any trouble."

"Thanks, Father," George said, waving good-bye, "and don't worry--I'll take care of Criss."

The elevator door slid shut. George returned to the suite. "I'll take care of him, all right," he mumbled to himself, striking his fist into the palm of his hand. "We'll all take care of him real good if he goes back on his word."

He checked his watch: nine-twenty. He had to get to Linehan's gym for the day's training if he wanted to qualify for the next exhibition match coming up at the Mirage. His suspension from the Excalibur match for decking the notorious Las Vegas Flasher still rankled him a little, but he was determined not to let that small humiliation get in his way of victory. In retrospect, bringing down that pervert what's-his-name for exposing his ugly naked carcass to his Aunt Dimitra was almost worth losing a shot at the title. He deserved a broken nose for what he did, and to hell what the boxing officials thought! That (bleeper) broke the law and assaulted a member of his own family, a double offense in George's eyes. (1)

He strode back to Criss' suite to fetch his jacket. The door was left ajar, allowing him entry without having to use a keycard or to knock. Inside the suite he saw his cousin Criss sitting dejectedly on the sofa, the torn remnants of his mine shaft escape notes littering the floor around his feet. Dave, Banachek and Gerard had already left; only Sandra and the family remained. They all looked up the moment he came in.

George picked up his jacket. "Uh, well, I guess I'll be leaving now," he muttered. "I got to get to the gym. See you guys later."

He took time to kiss his Aunt Dimitra good-bye and shake hands with JD. "Thanks for coming, George," JD said with a smile. "I really appreciate it."

George smiled back. "No problem."

He turned to Criss and nudged his depressed cousin on the shoulder. "Hey, Gloomy Gus," he said half-jokingly, "get off the pity pot and get back to work. You got a show to do."

Criss looked up at George. "Doing what?" he retorted crossly. "You guys already scotched my plans for the mine shaft demonstration. What am I going to do now?"

George patted him on the shoulder. "You'll think of something," he replied optimistically. "Just nothing that'll involve losing life and limb, okay?" He pulled on his jacket. "Look, I gotta get to the gym. I'll see you at the next meeting, okay?"

Criss feebly waved good-bye to his cousin, still glum. George took his leave and headed for the elevator bank, promptly dismissing the entire morning's events out of his mind. Ah, he'll get over it, he told himself. The guy's like a rubber ball, always bouncing back. I ain't gonna worry about it. I got other things to think about right now, like qualifying for the next exhibition match.

Down the elevator, through the atrium, and out the door, George made his way to the gym, paying no heed to the guests and staff coming and going in and out of the hotel. He brushed past bell attendants with their brass luggage carts laden with suitcases of every description and walked past the busy reception desk surrounded by newly arrived or just departing guests. He didn't even notice the almost ghostly presence of a frail-looking woman with dirty blonde hair in a pale green shift three or four decades out of fashion creeping silently toward the main dining room for the breakfast buffet, who, unknown to him, had won the Million Dollar Slots just the previous day.

(1) See Risque Business