2022-02-07 - The Uri Geller Grift

"I'll order in a minute," Ravn tells Della the day manager as he approaches the counter with a small, lopsided smile. For once the Dane does not begin his visit to Espresso Yourself with ordering a black coffee and suffering the humiliating defeat of being handed the most wickedly sugary dessert in a cup that Della can devise at the moment. Instead, he scans the room until he spots the new barista -- the redhead who likes whales.

He raises a hand to wave her over. Only one, because he's got a teaspoon in the other -- a metallic one, and not the kind that the coffee shop issues. "I promised you to sing for my supper, as I recall. So I brought my lute." He waves the teaspoon, then offers it to the barista. "If you'd be as kind as to confirm that this is a teaspoon, nothing but and nothing less, and that it is intact and entirely, well, teaspoon-y in form and shape."

A couple of heads turn at nearby tables. That's one weird way to say hello, and the tall guy in black must be up to something, Maybe he's about to try to scam the new barista out of a free croissant.

"Let me get you a straw, kiddo," the barista in question is telling a youngster dealing with a tall hot chocolate just a little too hot for little hands to hold. In her Espresso Yourself apron and a plain black thermal, blue jeans, and work sneakers, Ariadne has her hair up in a cascaded twist-clip-up high on the back of her head. She turns and as she walks back towards the main counter, she spots a waving hand -- and Ravn attached to it.

The sight of the Danish academic makes her lift her brows in plain surprise for a second before she laughs; she's spotted the teaspoon in the other hand and recognizes it as not one of the ones belonging to the coffeehouse. Holding up a pointer finger towards the man -- one second -- she goes back to deliver the straws to the little'n and then meanders through the tables over to the counter. Singing for supper, is it? The redhead can't help the grin, though she tries to mute it. This has the potential to get ridiculous. Brilliant.

"Well, that's a different kind of lute," she comments with another bright laugh, arms lightly folded beneath her chest as she considers the teaspoon. With it being offered out, she takes it and turns it over and over on itself, observes it from all angles, runs fingertips along its lines and curves, and declares: "Forsoothe, it is indeed a teaspoon in form and shape. Not a spork or anything else." The teaspoon is offered back to Ravn in turn and she leans a hip against the counter, trying to not look overly amused about proceedings.

But still: magic tricks. Oooh.

It's been a while since Ravn scammed anyone out of a free coffee, croissant, or anything else by this means and he can only hope that he's still got the touch; if he doesn't, well, that'll be a little embarrassing but also funny, he tells himself. It's no big deal.

He holds up the spoon in one hand and moves his other hand back and forth a few times, making mock magical gestures. "Behold the magic of the silver spoon. You've seen it on TV -- if you happened to accidentally turn on some late night show about scam artists and how we used to believe them. Uri Geller managed to convince half the world that he could literally bend spoons with his mind. Let me show you how he did it." The Dane's tone is more than a bit tongue in cheek -- after all, unlike Uri Geller, he's not trying to convince his mark that he really has telekinetic powers. Just that the hand is in fact faster than the eye.

And it is. When Ariadne's gaze travels to the gestures hand for an instant he switches the spoons; the unbroken one goes into his sleeve and the two halves of a similar spoon is produced from the same place. Deft fingers hold the (second) spoon up, front facing up towards the ceiling. The handle is held perpendicular, making it appear for all intents and purposes that it is the same spoon, and that it is in perfect condition.

"Pretend, if you like, that I am grunting with a lot of effort because obviously, bending spoons with my mind is very difficult." Ravn grins slightly as he gradually changes his grip on the spoon in front of Ariadne's eyes. The handle falls back; the spoon appears to bend, one little bit at a time. Given that he is holding it in just a few fingers it must be a supernatural force at play -- mustn't it? No one possesses that kind of finger strength, to bend a steel spoon between two fingers!

He passes the other hand in front of it again -- exchanging it for spoon number three (really, finding three identical spoons in the thrift shop was the hardest part of this trick). The broken spoon halves disappear up a sleeve and he holds out the crooked (third) spoon for Ariadne to inspect. It bends neatly at a 45 degree angle. "I am obviously very powerful," he says with a soft laugh. "You'd better call the TV stations now, tell them you know a bloke who can bend spoons with his mind. Shall I unbend it the same way, or have you seen enough?"

It's not magic or telekinesis -- just simple sleight of hand, and there's one or two people sitting behind Ravn who might be able to tell Ariadne how exactly he did it. At least they seem to have decided to be good sports about it for the moment. And maybe it is no coincidence that Uri Geller was picky with how his audience was positioned.

Between the cheeky tone and the theatrical gestures, Ravn manages to summon up another grin from the barista. She's trying so very hard to dubiously unimpressed, but it's not working.

"Oh, yeah, that guy," she comments quietly -- the name 'Uri Geller' does ring a bell even if there's no immediate knowledge forthcoming. The Dane reminds her nonetheless: sleight of hand artist, scam artist, somebody with quick fingers. She watches his hand gesture and blinks at the spoon now, glancing then to the man's face. It's absurd, yes, the commentary about effort necessary for mental manipulation of a spoon like this. It's steel. There's not even anybody who can do it with their bare ha -- whoa.

Observe, how Ariadne's mouth parts in plain surprise at the appearance of the presently, animatedly bending spoon. She titters once before bringing the knuckles of a closed fist to her mouth, looking up at Ravn's face again. The scientist has been -- been -- bamboozled! How?! When the (third) spoon is offered, bent at its angle, the barista immediately reaches out to touch at it.

"Well, holy crap." It is, in fact, a solid if bent spoon, all the way through. "I mean, you can't just say something like that and not follow through, Jedi Master Ravn," Ariadne then retorts, laughing quietly again. "Go on then, yeah, bend it back the other way with that powerful brain of yours." A little lift of her chin and brows both, sending good-natured challenge back at the man with the bent teaspoon.

"That's Darth Ravn, Sith Apprentice, thank you very much." Ravn winks -- and then adds, "There's a couple of folks in town who started calling me that, actually, after I took lessons from the one and only Emperor Bartender, Vic Grey. And I do believe you owe me a cup of plain, black coffee."

He radiates smugness. Take that, Della. One point scored for justice, order, and puppies. "Unbending it will cost you another."

"Ooh, tough customer," Ariadne says, shaking her head again with one of those muted smiles. It makes her cheek perk and lips purse. "But alright, alright..." A hand appears from where it's been hidden away in her folding of arms and she seems to wave away any sort of hesitation. "You keep your bent spoon then and you show me next time that you can unbend it and you'll get your second cuppa coffee." Her golden-brown eyes strafe down and up Ravn before she shakes her head again, still smirking to herself.

"And yeah, minus one geek point to me. How on earth did I call you a Jedi when you're dressed like you are?" In all black, she means, or at least insinuates of the academic's general sartorial habit. "Bummer though! I'm solidly on the side of the Jedi. Though..." She hips off the counter and walks around it, clearly intending to follow through on her half of the bargain. There's a surreptitious glance-about for Della and then, looking theatrically innocent from over by the drip coffee, Ariadne begins making the quite-simple order. "Look, I like the idea of the Force Chokehold thing Vader does, except without the whole making people's eyeballs bug out of their skull. Can you imagine? Some jerk's in your way and you just..." She does the vaunted hand gesture and directs an invisible person off to one side. "Out of the way now, boop, done, I can walk on. Surely this Emperor...Vic? -- would approve," Ariadne then laughs, checking on the pour of the coffee into the shop-mug.

"I think that might be too subtle for Vic," Ravn replies earnestly. "She's more the this is my baseball bat and these are your kneecaps type. When the tourist season begins I recommend going for a beer at the Two If By Sea on a crowded night, just to watch her glare patrons into submission. I worked there a couple of months when I first rolled into town. I still have nightmares about the screams of the Olympia banker who tried to grab her butt in passing."

He seems to consider something a moment. Then he shrugs. "I can show you now, and you can owe me the second cup? Saves me walking around with sleeves full of spoons for a week." So much for mind tricks.

Ariadne glances over at Ravn again, brows lifted. Ah, Vic is a she, duly noted -- it would have been an embarrassing assumption to make otherwise when showing up at this Two If By Sea place. Pushing the STOP button on the machine, the barista then does a quick wipe-down with a rag to keep the place clean before grabbing the mug full nearly to the brim with freshly-poured black coffee, straight as can be: no room for cream or sugar, since neither was requested.

"Good on her for making the banker regret it," she notes, voice studiously even and more than a little steely. The joys of working in the public sector; there must be stories from her as well. Either way, Ravn will find that mug of plain black coffee placed down before him at the counter and Ariadne giving him a grin. "I'm good for you showing me now if that floats your boat. I'm sure having spoons rattling around in your sleeve is probably not something you intended to do for a week, yeah." Trick busted! She's still intrigued nonetheless. "Show me your moves, Darth Ravn." Again, the redhead takes up a comfortable, hips-akilter stance, arms folded under her chest, as she watches this second round of reversed sleight-of-hand.

"Ah, but now I have to up my game," Ravn notes with a lopsided smile. "Now you know the spoons are in my sleeves, mm?"

He holds up the bent spoon between two fingers. "Watch it carefully," he says, and knows full well that misdirection will not work a second time. There's a reason that stage magicians never repeat their tricks to the same patron, and this is it: Now that she knows what to expect, any seemingly inconspicuous movement of his other hand -- abra cadabra, nothing here -- will reveal any attempt to palm one spoon and replace it with another. If he was doing this for real, this is where he would need a partner in the audience to create a distraction -- just about now.

The spoon unbends. His other, gloved hand rests on the counter, having been nowhere near the first and the bent spoon.

He offers the spoon to Ariadne for inspection. "And that, my dear audience, is what Uri Geller claimed he was able to do with the powers of the mind."

Keenly, Ariadne watches this time. It's entirely true: she's in the know about the sleeves. Surely it can be noted how her gaze has flickered quickly to them more than once. Ravn holds up the bent spoon and she waits, truly curious as to how he's going to bypass his own confession. There are two other spoons in that sleeve. How is this spoon going to return to its -- WHOA. Her mouth drops open more this time, eyes brightening.

"Holy ffffffffff...!!!" Yes, it's exactly the impolite word you think it is which never comes to fruition because she knows she's on the clock and at work and there are precious customer ears within reach of any cursing. Reaching out with a hint of tentativeness, she takes the teaspoon and turns it over and over, feels along its surface, grunts as she tries (and fails) to bend it with one hand as well as two. "Uhhhhhhh." The uncertain sound breaks into chuckles and she hands back the steel spoon towards Ravn, other hand raised in defeat. "Yeah, not going to argue against that second cup of coffee. You earned it. Well frickin' done. That's just...really impressive," she stresses, "Especially that unbending bit. Magnets?"

Someone still refuses to drink the local Koolaid, as it were.

"It's a lot simpler than that. You'll work it out." Ravn allows himself to bask a bit in the flabbergasting of an innocent barista -- she'll work it out soon enough, after all, and when she does, bending a spoon will seem like a mundane and trivial thing compared to some of the things people around here can do. He doesn't open doors to other worlds, mend broken bones, throw fireballs, or talk to animals. He floats lighters and bends spoons. He'll take the moment.

Then he dips two fingers into his sleeve and fishes out spoon number one (unbent) and spoon number two (both halves). "Those are actually kind of uncomfortable to keep hiding up there. It's not a difficult trick -- that's why Uri Geller was able to fool people as long as he did. When you think stage magic you expect something complex -- smoke and mirrors and obvious misdirection. Not something as dull as a bent teaspoon. He really did have the media convinced he bent it with his mind for a very long time, until someone finally called him out on it."

"Not much is simpler than magnets," Ariadne half-murmurs, but then lets it go. The scientist in her will be puzzling over it for a while. Google searches will be done. Forums will be scoured. Samwise will wonder why she's still awake at 2am, human, what the hell. She turns away to see about cleaning more of the counter in order to be nearby enough to keep up a conversation, her attention flicking back to Ravn as he continues.

The appearance of the spoons has the barista pausing and snort-laughing to herself. "There you are, little bastards," she murmurs under her breath. Gotcha. Trick definitely busted -- at least, the first half of it. She nods to hear about how long Geller managed to keep everyone fooled. "Yeah, it's one of those things where the simple answer is just too...simple? A little insulting. And you want it to be so much more complicated than it is, which is half the reason why you're fooled by something like spoons up a sleeve. I can make a pen go through a desk myself and it's all misdirection, like you used there." She glances over again, her smirk a means to gently self-deprecate. "I'm not that good at it, not smooth like you, but most people are fooled by it."

Ah, bliss. Black coffee, (dis)honestly earned. Take that, Della the Day Manager. Ravn all but purrs as he curls long, gloved fingers around the mug and lets its heat warm them. He sniffs the brew and inhales the scent and feels like for once, he came out on top.

"I've seen the pen trick," he agrees with a smile. "I haven't tried it myself. You could show me sometime -- never too old to learn new tricks and all that jazz. My true forte is the shell game which is honestly even simpler, you just need to be really good at palming a walnut fast. Everyone knows how the shell game works. They know the walnut is in my hand. And yet they fork over a dollar to play, hoping to catch me in the act. It paid my bus tickets from New York to Seattle. People like a show, and a dollar is not much killing time waiting in the bus stop."

"Hey, if people want to shell out a dollar for that kind of trick, more power to them."

And Ariadne smirks because pun. Hey, she'll entertain herself all damn day long with word play. Wait until the other staff members of Espresso Yourself realize what monstrosity they've brought into their midst.

"I'll show you the pen trick, sure. It's nothing fancy, but it's won me some shots at the bar before. I really want to figure out the one with the dollar bill. Have you seen that one? Where you hold your hand flat higher above someone else, both hands above a twenty on the bar top, and you can beat the other person to snatching the twenty about ninety percent of the time?" A lift of brows and laugh. "Now that...that one I need to get good at. It's something to do with the delay in visual processing and the fact that the other person is convinced that because your hand is higher than theirs, they're going to get to the bill first."

"I've seen it, but I've never tried it." Ravn sips his coffee -- dark, undiluted, undefiled bliss -- and fails to mention that he'll never try to pull a trick that might or might not get his hand swatted by someone else's because the yelp would be loud and embarrassing. "From what I have seen, though, you're right -- the misdirection there is that people think in distance, rather than in the speed with which to react. And because they are not as accustomed to the game as you are, they will tend to be reactive -- moving after you do, which buys you the time back that you sacrificed in greater distance. Add to that that they know you're trying to cheat them, so their senses will be on high alert for anything you might do -- instead of focusing on their hand and the bill."

A bit like the shell game, really. Many players are so focused on the inevitable distraction that when it doesn't come, it might as well have. Less skilled grifters will have someone bump into the tourist or talk loudly while they palm the nut. Ravn will simply move his hands easily and fluidly, and glue the nut to the underside of his palm with that special power he's always had, and never talked to anyone about until he came to Gray Harbor thinking he was the only person in the world who could do things like that.

"Well, yeah, all that factors into it, but it's literally the delay in visual processing. I could show you the trick and you'd know how it works and you'd still run the big risk of me getting to the bill first," Ariadne shares, grinning a bit more cheekily now. "Our brains just aren't meant to overcome that situation, plain and simple. Sure, it's stacking the odds for me, but hey: if I'm not going to lose five dollars over it and the next sap bets me twenty?" She shrugs. "More stash-jar money for me and a cold day and some comfort-shopping. A nice sweater for Sam," the barista then muses, momentarily frowning in distraction at the little alcove-sink meant for washing prep utensils between orders.

She moves sideways over to it, still within easy conversational distance of Ravn as she turns on the water. "How's your drink?" A glance up at him is brightly curious as she gets to rinsing off metal stir-spoons. He earned this plain ol' black coffee and hopefully it's worth it.

"Pure and unadulterated bliss in a mug." Garnished with the extra sweetness of having it under Della's nose and there is nothing she can do about it, at least not if she doesn't want to break the unwritten rules of the game they've played for a year and a half. "Let me give you a tip, straight from the expat horse's mouth: Don't ever leave your head on the table over there and start telling somebody American how American things work. Might as well start lecturing an Italian on proper pizza baking, or a Swede on meat balls. Although I'll take that second challenge, because Denmark and Sweden are the nations in the world that has spent the most time at war with each other through-out history, and I will guarantee you that the difference in how we process meat balls is a big part of it."

Gate to the Baltic, Sweden on one side and Denmark on the other. Not hard to imagine how the two countries must have fought over the rights to levy taxes on ships passing from one ocean to another.

He taps his fingertips against the mug and smiles a little. "I prefer the tricks where the mark knows they're being grifted. Where the game is not really the grift itself but them trying to work out how you do it, and you trying to do it well enough that they can't. It's more honest in a way -- you don't cheat them out of their money, they pay you to challenge them in a game of wits. Less risk of someone getting upset and causing a scene, too."

"Glad to hear it." And by appearances, the barista is. It's not some trite aspect of public food retail. The man looks genuinely pleased by the plain ol' cup of black coffee and that's pleasing to her in turn. Utensils make muted metallic clanks in the little sink as Ariadne works, splitting her attention between them and the conversation. When informed of the lack of wisdom in telling Americans how to American? She smirks and shrugs, agreeing by these motions. "Meatballs," she then notes lightly, still amused. There's a portion of her wanting to know just how rabidly someone from Denmark might defend the honor of their meatballs, but another time -- it seems a bit personal of a joke at the moment.

Ravn's point about the honesty of a grift makes her pause in placing aside the utensils to drip-dry in their racks. "Aw, see, now you're making me feel like some hard-bitten troublemaker. My trick's got enough challenge in it," and she puts hands on her hips, tilting her head to one side and lofting a brow. There's still that half-present smirk. "I guess I figure common sense has a roll to play in mine. If you can't beat the fact of your brain not being fast enough, why keep trying? You're better people than me regardless," she then decides, going back to finishing the last few metal steaming pitchers. "I'd be tempted to take my trick far."

"Oh, take it as far as you can when playing with friends at the local bar," Ravn suggests, hands curled around his mug still as if he's trying to absorb its contents by osmosis, through the porcelain. "Swindle every one of them out of a beer, and then one more for good measure. At worst they'll call you a scummy little cheat and make you buy the next round with your winnings."

He chuckles again. "If you're working the street at a bus stop or a boardwalk, though, you need to know when to stop. I guess it's a little like working in a place like this? Some patrons won't flip their lid if you forgot the teaspoon -- it's just a minor setback, like losing a dollar to some guy with three shells. And some will go full metal Karen on you, and threaten police and child protective services and the National Guard, and before you know it, their uncle is the local sheriff and you're spending the night in the slammer explaining to someone in uniform that yes, Denmark is a country, not the capital of Norway, and no, your name is Ravn, not Raven, and you're not some kind of goth punk drug dealer just because you wear black and have a funny name."

"Hey, whatever placates their poor, wounded pride," the barista opines of beers bought with trick winnings. She upturns one of the steaming pitchers to get the remaining clean water from it and then sets it aside to dry on one of the mats. Another glance over at Ravn as it's on to the next pitcher. Losing a dollar isn't the end of the world to her, but she knows precisely what he means by 'full metal Karen' and ends up laughing quietly at it. Mental note: use 'full metal Karen', make it a thing around here.

But then the academic goes on to expound about what might be an actual incident and she ends up pausing again, mouth parted. "...this actually happened to you, didn't it? Tell me you quoted Hamlet at them for the ultimate irony." Coy little grin.

"As it happens, the answer to 'why's you wearin' all black, then' is not to touch your forehead and reply, I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth," Ravn returns with a chuckle. It's possible he has not actually given some small-town sheriff the full 'what a piece of work is man' monologue in response to an inquiry about his fashion choices. It's possible that he has.

He shakes his head and sips his coffee (bliss!). "They never go too hard on a bloke like me. Tall, obviously white, British accent or something close enough. Some of the blokes I travelled with, though -- Romas, black guys, Middle Eastern guys. Those get the full fun-time experience in a situation like that. Appeasing the fuzz is practically an art or a science, to them."

A sharp little laugh from Ariadne at confirmation of her wonderment. "They probably weren't sure what 'wherefore' meant...or mirthful about it," she muses as she sets aside another steaming pitcher. She's on the last one in there now, a quick task soon to be finished but critical nonetheless to keeping things rolling smoothly around here. There's a loud bump from over by the supply closet and she pauses, leaning back to see line of sight and --

-- oh, just Della, bumping a box against the door. No customer has suddenly wrapped themselves half-around a chair and the rest on the floor, very good.

"Were you able to help your friends then?" the barista asks, glancing up from rinsing out this final pitcher.

"Not often," Ravn admits and curls his fingers around his cup again, instinctively twistins his body a little as to make it not quite so obvious to Della's line of vision what he's drinking. He doesn't really expect the Day Manager to give the new hire a hard time for losing a wager. No point in testing it, though. "Most times, though, the cops just rough you up a little, remind you who's boss and that they don't want you making trouble. Just nod and smile and agree to get your arse out of town and keep on moving, and everyone's happy. It helps if you can show a bill that you've paid for a bed in a hostel or motel somewhere -- even if they know there's probably five of you in that room, it still means they don't have to do the paperwork for dealing with a vagrant. Patrol officers are like any other blokes, they don't want to do more work than they need to. Every so often one of them is a fascist asshole looking to get off on shoving someone around, and you get to spend the night in the slammer saying yes sir and no officer and will do, mister policeman."

"I guess it's good everyone was able to do something like flash that receipt from the hostel. Doesn't exactly make me want to go traipsing around again, but hey, I'm also glad someone else thinks it's outlier kind of thing. Folks don't complain or have terrible stories about the middling batch of encounters, where it's just like you said -- agree to get out of town, keep moving, nobody's in trouble." That last pitcher is set aside and Ariadne pulls her phone out of her back pocket to squint at it. "Oh, nice," she murmurs to herself, noting the time in particular. It's optimal to take her break now and make herself her own drink of the day -- her second coffee, something far more quality than what's been served at the Murder Motel.

Great name. She's already...so enamored with the place. Except not really.

"So, duly noted: don't do the shell scam in front of police officers," she then lightly jokes as she moves down the counter to collect up a mug. "What other sleight of hand can you do?"

"Oh, this is Gray Harbor. You want to entertain the tourists on the boardwalk in summer, they won't stop you -- this place needs every tourist dime spent, and if you fleece a couple of rich blokes out of Olympia, you're going to go spend them at the Safeway later." Ravn cracks a small grin. "My house mate makes most of his money that way -- performing sleight of hand for the tourists in summer. He's far better at it than I am."

He leans back on his chair. He didn't expect the barista to lounge around and swap travel stories after he'd earned his coffee, but he's certainly got nothing better to do with his time. His schedule is one to drive a lot of people nuts; up super early in the morning to field questions from students on the other side of the planet -- and then the rest of the day and evening is his own, as long as essays are graded and emails answered before it becomes day in Copenhagen again.

"Tell you the truth, the shell game is my big one. I can do a number of card tricks and make coins appear out of your ears. Mostly, though, I relied on the shell game and on busking with my violin." He offers a small smile at that. "More complex magic takes remedies -- pigeons, rabbits, costumes -- things you don't have when you live in a backpack. Where did you learn the pen trick? Are you into this sort of thing, or was it just a great way to scam a couple of overconfident and hopeful blokes out of a beer or two?"

Ariadne shrugs as she works at her own drink. It looks like it's starting with espresso, at least, by the single shot puddling into the mug. "I guess if people aren't going to miss the money, why not return it to the city? Makes sense to me," she opines as to fleecing summer tourists. There's a fleeting mental note to wander down to the boardwalk and see about this roommate and the tricks on display. She won't bet anything, of course, but it's free to be an audience member too.

She glances up again as Ravn explains what he can do besides bend spoons without explanation. "Oh, the pen trick. I like watching those shows about magicians, the ones where it's half reality day-time TV that rots your brain and one-half displays of what tricks they actually get up to. I think the show was called Chris Angel? Something like that. He'd take time to show some simple tricks and the pen one was one of them. It was easy for me to figure out. The card stuff? Not so much," she shares with a side-smirk. Two pumps off of one bottle, three pumps off another, and then she's steaming milk off to one side in another metal pitcher. "It's a neat little trick, kind of a one-off deal, useful for showing off and maybe winning a bar bet, yeah, but not much else."

"That kind of describes all of it." Ravn chuckles. "Sleight of hand is like your machine there. It's a lot of fancy for what's basically a cup of hot bean water with or without cream. You don't pay for the hot water and the coffee grinds -- you pay for the extras, the syrup, the fancy mug, the printed menu, and the privilege of drinking it here instead of just making instant coffee at home. Or you pay for the story, the over the top dramatics, and the now you see it, now you don't. It's all frills and showmanship. None of it really is very useful if you want to get down and practical about it."

He flicks a cigarette out from a pocket somewhere and sticks it between his teeth; on closer inspection it turns out to be made from plastic. It's not even a vape -- just a plastic faux cigarette.

"No one believes I can actually bend or straighten spoons with my mind. I am going to tell you, of course, that I can. Who knows? Some day you might even believe me." He winks.

Admittedly, for a split second, Ariadne sported an acutely-judgmental squint at the appearance of the cigarette -- before she realizes it's fake. This being observed, she lets it go. No need to get potentially awkward and remind the man that smoking is outside and off the premises, thank-you-very-much. Belatedly, she also wonders about why on earth someone with asthma would even consider cigarettes, but, again, it's a fake one. Maybe it's an oral fixation kind of thing, she wonders to herself as she stirs in the steamed milk to the contents at the bottom of her mug.

"Yeeeeeah. I'll believe you when pig fly and people stop calling my current digs the 'murder motel'," she replies drolly after that wink. "I still think it's magnets." Can't convince her otherwise...for the moment. Done stirring up her drink, she slips the utensil and steaming pitcher into the sink. Ah, the never-ending sink. The scent rising from her mug wafts on a chance shift of air: chocolate, mint, more like a grasshopper drink than the holiday peppermint. She sips and deems it adequate by her expression. "Next time, a card trick," the redhead then suggests, lifting her brows.

"By all means." Ravn chuckles and toys with his cigarette. Maybe that's the point of it -- something to do with his hands. He lets it wander across his knuckles, in a slightly, well, awkward imitation of the old trick of letting a coin dance -- the plastic device is the wrong shape for it. It doesn't appear to be a conscious thing -- a habit, ingrained, during endless hours of boredom, perhaps.

He sips his coffee; he's taking his sweet time with it because it's black and delicious and dishonestly earned, and maybe he wouldn't mind at all if Della grits her teeth and feels that he's finally found a way around her evil manipulations. He's pretty damn certain that Eleanor Røn will be laughing her pregnant backside off when she hears.

And then, because the Devil takes the hindmost and probably also the Danish, Ravn can't resist to murmur, "Or maybe I'll just show you a flying pig, mm?"

No chair for Ariadne behind the counter. She's leaned a hip again, mug in her hands, idly scanning the café and the tables to make sure no one's wanting. It's still quiet, one of those lulls either sure to keep or sure to break in the next hour. A deep breath of the steam rising from her drink and then she catches that murmur. It makes her give Ravn a look that should have been over a pair of glasses.

"I don't think you can make a pig fly, but if you can, you are going to have to show me how you do it because defying gravity with an indignant porcine assistant is going to be a helluva show no matter how you frame it," she replies before laughing.

"If you will allow me to use a toy or plushie pig I definitely can," the Dane returns with a sly smile. "I'll not want to subject a live pig to neither downtown nor that kind of shenanigans." Animal rights defender, him. Or maybe he just doesn't want to drive a pig downtown. Maybe it's just that he's very well aware that his psychic power, his shine, whatever he chooses to call it -- does not work on living matter.

Naw, it's totally the animal rights. Yessir.

"Aw, but shenanigans." By her tone of voice, Ariadne is entirely joking. In no way is she going to encourage the use of a live pig for any sort of sleight of hand because those critters are way more difficult to manage than a rabbit or dove. There's reasons the latter two creatures are more commonly used on stage as is. Those folks who use tigers and lions? Entirely too ballsy, in her private opinion. "And technically, I do mean a live pig flying, but if you want to use a plushie pig, sure, I'll go easy on you. Safeway's probably got something. You go get one of those guys and you show me it can fly, no wires and no magnets?"

She tic-tics her pointer finger nail on the ceramic mug, still smiling. "I'll believe you used your mind to bend the spoon."