Nice to be asked. Thank you.
The one that comes to mind is more of the "it’s a tough job, but someone's got to do it" variety.
In spring 1994, I went to review a little magic show at the MGM Grand for the Advisor Entertainment page. It was only a few months after the heavily Hollywood-themed megajoint'd opened and the whole lobby inside the lion's-head entrance at the corner of the Strip and Tropicana was occupied by this hokey simulated Oz. (The MGM Grand has come a long way since then.)
I shelled out my $4 admission fee to a cashier at the entrance to Oz, who sat on a stool with a metal money box in her lap, and proceeded down a winding "yellow-brick" path, passing silly cornfields and mannequin munchkins and wax witches. Then I came to the "castle," where the magic, I supposed, took place.
I happened to be early, so I stood at the gate, all alone, feeling dubious. A few other Oz-bound pilgrims started trickling in behind me; when they asked me if I knew anything about the show, I just shrugged. Eventually, the doors to the castle opened and the handful of us were ushered into a tiny theater in the round, 50 seats, no stage, no backstage -- strange. Growing more skeptical by the minute, I claimed a seat in the back under the exit sign, just in case I had to beat a hasty retreat.
The lights went down and the sound system came up: thunderclaps, drum roll, fanfare of brass, with laser lightning bolts flashing across the ceiling. Then a tall man dressed all in black swept through the exit door, brushing me with the corner of his cape. In the center of the theater, on the floor, this magician proceeded to do tired old tricks with scarves, cards, cigarettes, rings, and rope, warming up for the bigger illusions. Soon enough, a bikinied assistant -- Wanda, of course -- pushed a coffin through my door and down to the floor. She climbed in and in short order was run through with swords to tepid scattered applause.
Then it was out with the coffin and in with the -- can you guess? -- guillotine. Rolling it in, the near-naked Wanda oversteered and bumped my chair, knocking my knee. She leaned over and whispered, "Sorry! Y'alright?"
"Unh," I grunted.
I knew the real damage had been done when it came time to pick a victim out of the audience to lend a neck -- and Wanda came right for me. The next thing I knew, I was having intimations of mortality.
I mean, we've all seen this trick done a hundred times, but when it's you who's the object of guillotine juju, trust me, your mind's eye quickly betrays you.
Me, I recalled a scene from the French Revolution. Just before dropping the blade, the black-hooded executioner whispered into the nobleman's ear, "You're free! Get up and run!" Then whack! Off came the head, which rolled into a ghastly basket. But the body responded to the instilled hope and the executioners used to book the over-under on how far the headless runners would get. (The record was two full blocks.)
Anyway, there I was, on my hands and knees, a turtle head poking out of a thin shell, wondering if a rusty contraption from a low-rent magic show in a pre-fab little theater in an ersatz Oz would hold up one more time.
That's when I heard the click, then sensed a whiffet of wind on the back of my neck -- and damned if that trick didn't fail! The blade sliced into my skin, through my spine, and out my Adam's apple, and the last thing I heard was a gasp from Wanda before I was decapitated.
Killed instantly. Never felt a thing.
