#zyrynd1

After winning a whopping $10 on the scratch off ticket he bought every time he dropped his brother off to work at the Gas Station, Peter could hardly deny that luck was on his side today. Not every scratch off yielded results. Statistically, most didn't. Had to be a sign of fortune favoring him that this one would. With at least eight hours to kill he thought to himself, Fuck it. Might as well, right? and deliberately drove his rusted out van past the exit that would have taken him to the trailer park, home. The old beater rattled and clanged, hitting potholes Peter sped over right to the casino parking lot.

When the engine powered down it made a sigh that sounded like it was not long for this world. Peter slapped one hand affectionately on the dash, with the other he felt around blindly in the back for the handicap parking pass he had for his medically diagnosed laziness and chronic liar syndrome. Both, he was told, were terminal.

He hung it on the rearview mirror, between the fuzzy die and air freshener that had not given off scent since sometime in early 2014, but the woman on it was tastelessly nude so it seemed a shame to toss it. "You wait here," The side of his fist bumped the hood of the van. "Papa's gonna buy you a new coat of paint."

Before he knew it he was 45k up at the Tails table — a card game so named after the sirens who were just as likely to lure a man to his death — and delirious with glee. He wrapped a long arm, surprisingly strong from manual labor, around the man next to him as another 2k came his way. "Did you see that?" he boasted too loudly. "Did you see that? Wheeeeeeew!" Peter whistled, pointed, hugged the man tighter to his side and suddenly let go to push the hair back from his eyes. By now, it stuck up at a hundred angles. "Every dog has his fucking day!" Woof, he barked. Woof woof.