i'm still standing

i'm going to fuck it up a little . me too .

They sat in the middle of flashy agglomerations in the desert sprung up out of nothing. Enormously deep pockets lined up single file for chips and awaited their turn amid the excitement of pitching brows and colliding frowns; rumbling dice with throwing arms, all the hope on the floors penetrating like screws through the tiny cashiers’ opening as if the anus of the cash seas were opening out, causing great pain to the sphincter muscles.

The ribcap of Vegas was Benedict’s.  

A syphilis infection of hotels, never quite degenerating into tabes dorsalis.

Two people had a better chance of picking out the same grain of sand from all the beaches and deserts on earth than running a black bag job here.

That’s what he thinks is a good idea. When the song of sirens stirs some déjà vu thing for a bunch of James Cagney boys, motes of dust turning in a shaft of blue and red SWAT land rover light, they’d stop getting further away from the future born for them. It’s being jolted back from feeling you’ve lost something, not knowing what it is. It just happens.

So he’d rather pick apart the watch while it’s running.

‘   All right,   ‘   The slap of thick glass somewhere adrift on the table rattles through to his cheekbone. He lifts his face to take a giant swig of it.

‘   What else don’t I know about the job?   ‘

That's furious Rusty.

“Look, I get the pull of it, man, but…” He looks uncomfortable for half a second before his face smooths over again.

he blinks, shaking his head just for a second as if clearing his brain as if he’s pressed play on the world again and cory’s face comes back in clear.

“what?” he acts affronted, as if he wouldn’t have have missed a single word that cory has been throwing at him.

' Come on, how old are you? '

' How do you have so much history up there? '

1984. July. He knows the date, too. Reuben Tishkoff said it in his journal. God, he still writes like Hemingway paints a blank page, only on the influence of Beluga caviar, sturgeon-fished from the Caspian Sea and warmed in the same mouth that fired the banks before they wouldn't lend him.

I admit I can’t shake the idea that there is virtue in suffering. Whereby if you embrace success, happiness, and comfort, these things must be paid for.