Even amidst Las Vegas’ constellation of stars who sank or soared nightly based on fickle fortune's whims below neon marquees promising unattainable dreams eternally, none burned brighter in 1954 than master illusionist Balthazar “Blinky” Blackwell and his showstopping array of spectacular flammable stunts and sleights defying natural law. Where else could one glimpse death-defying vanishings inside erupting firestorms followed by levitating ladies wreathed in living flames? Only the Euphrates Theatre dared showcase such imaginative arsonry without risking hellfires razing whole city blocks!

Yet peer deeper and Blinky's flawless stage sorcery barely concealed traumatic scars bonding him far more intimately to stifling heat and choking darkness than any soul should rightly claim experience enduring. Childhood barn fire tragedy may explain these cauterized psychosomatic links between blistering flashpoints and fleeting fame’s embrace in later years. Perhaps blazing illusion proved cathartic subconscious counterphobia against being rendered fragile collateral damage amidst capricious chaos once more? Surely magician audiences gleaning momentary godlike powers over physics and fiber alike offer equal parts therapy and intoxication?

Alas eventually even burnproof magi outpace quenching balms when flirting too closely with existential flames licking eternally at sanity’s gossamer curtains. One fateful 1958 performance found Blinky unveiling his riskiest stage improvisation yet - after stepping into the centre fiery rune between four white hot braziers to display his immunity from worldly harm, he would vanish instantly, only to reappear high above spectators through explosion flash paper pyrotechnics floated by counterbalanced rigging. A guaranteed showstopper climax!

Initially the stunt unfolded flawlessly as always - Bilnky waved arms akimbo amidst firestorm unscathed while gasps turned cheers as swirling sparks rendered his form briefly transluscent....but sudden hydraulic failure caused the automated winch lines above malfunction, plummeting the concealed magician violently earthward ahead of flash sequence completion just as emergency responders triggered water suppression. The resultant bedlam immolated all visuals for blocks as power transformers chain reacted. Screams barely preceded the following cloying darkness.

When hotel generators restored partial visibility after interminable minutes, dazed witnesses beheld only smoldering aftermath - charred velveteen cape fragments scattered across blackened stage marking Blinky Blackwell’s solitary visible remains following the horror. Investigators eventually chalked “accidental suicidal spectacle” whilst closing the case hurriedly. For who truly controls the moment illusion slips irrevocably into fire and brimstone no bucket brigades stem? Crowds moved on until neon beckoned brighter spectacle afresh the following weekend.

Yet performers recant strange happenings ever since haunting the semi-restored theatre precluding top tier headliners returning despite obsessive electrical and equipment upgrades. Novice stagehands report strange mishaps blurring border between macabre pranks and directed paranormal saboteur - objects levitating and tools gone missing being least of management concerns after fly lines disengage dropping heavy sandbags and entire lighting arrays crashing atop empty decks during shows as if shoddy safeguards failed ordinarily. Equally disturbing, some tearful actors whisper sensations of being shoved aside roughly only to glimpse ethereal figures bowing flamboyantly where none should stand possible when regaining composure. One mentally unraveled prop master turned shooting gallery target claimed spotting an immolated stage magician spectre chuckling silently amid the smoky rafters preparing matinee mischief beyond human comprehension...

Thus relegated now to third rate magic revues and fading memory pits, the rebranded Pyrite Theatre endures as reluctantly shunned hall of smoke and mirrors occultists dread investigating too deeply after sundown. For who truly fathoms what spells split realms irreparably when hubris alights uncaged forces lying dormant between endless reflection planes mirrors conjure? Reality and fantasy maintain slippery detente at best where sleight of hand manipulates perspective. Perhaps doomed Blinky gambled celestial design embraces him forevermore behind the illusion's diaphanous veil eager unveiling encore feats still more shockingly infernal for captive crowds unable escaping his phantom dominion. The true sorcerers yet recognize that once one soul departs blazing into legend's annals too abruptly, no barrier bars their wayward return to mortal footlights aging poorly.