In 1926, the legendary escape artist Harry Houdini took his final bow. Exactly one hundred years later, he finds himself standing in the middle of Times Square.
The Handcuff King’s Great Return
Harry Houdini adjusted his lapels, expecting the damp chill of a Detroit theater. Instead, he was hit by a wall of artificial light so bright it shamed the sun. He didn’t gasp—Houdini was a performer; he simply checked his pocket watch. It had stopped a century ago.
The Illusion of Connectivity
He watched a young woman walk past him, staring intently into a glowing shard of glass. She was laughing at something invisible. Harry’s first instinct was to look for the wires.
“Pardon me, miss,” he said, tipping his hat. “Is that a spirit cabinet in your palm? A trick of the light?”
She didn’t look up. “It’s a TikTok, grandpa. Get with the program.”
Harry frowned. He spent his career exposing “mediums” who claimed to talk to the dead. Now, everyone seemed to be talking to ghosts. People walked with small white pebbles in their ears, arguing with the air. They weren’t possessed; they were “on a call.”
The Ultimate Escape
He wandered into a massive store filled with sleek, silver machines. He picked up a tablet. With a flick of his thumb, he found his own name. He saw his own face—moving, grainy, black-and-white—on a screen thinner than a deck of cards.
“I escaped the Mirror Cuffs,” he whispered, watching a digital version of himself disappear into a water tank. “But I never escaped time.”
The Reaction: A Professional Review
How would the Great Houdini react to 2026?
Disbelief in “Magic”: He would be annoyed that we have all the world’s knowledge in our pockets yet still use it to watch videos of cats. He’d see the internet not as a miracle, but as the world’s largest, most complex smoke-and-mirrors routine.
The Loss of Mystery: Harry loved a secret. Today, he’d find the world uncomfortably “un-secret.” Everyone’s location is tracked; every trick is explained in a ten-second tutorial.
A New Challenge: He wouldn’t be defeated. He’d see a digital lock or a facial-recognition gate and feel that old itch in his fingertips.
The Final Act
By sunset, Harry stood atop a skyscraper, looking down at the glowing grid of the city. In 1926, he was the only man who could disappear. In 2026, everyone is trying to be seen, yet everyone is hiding behind a screen.
He took a deep breath of the smog-tinged air, checked his wrists—no shackles—and smiled. The world had become a giant, glowing Chinese Water Torture Cell.
“Well,” he murmured, rolling up his sleeves. “It’s a bit flashy for my taste. But I’ve gotten out of worse.”
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 