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Unwashed Village / New piece I'm working on
« on: September 08, 2008, 11:41:12 PM »
and this time I swear I'm going to stick to this piece and keep adding to it instead of writing the beginning and then getting distracted by video games and booze.
Also, Blue, Solwyn, I'm totally using some / a lot of the stuff that we worked out together as the basis of this piece, so, uh, yeah! If you guys want to get back into it that's cool, if not, that's cool too! I just started a new job that I suspect is going to have a lot of down time in front of the computer with nothing to do but write, so I'm really going to try to develop this into something.
So, yeah.
I was working on the day the space station exploded. It was a Friday, around two in the afternoon, and I’d been having a rough week with some unavoidable losses. I hate to end the week in the red, so I was working much harder than usual for a Friday, which meant I’d only had two or three beers. I think.
I’d been investing heavily on some long shots that my instincts told me could pay off big, hoping to erase my losses for the week with one or two big scores. It was overcast that day, with the damp, dark scent of rain and freshly cut grass in the air, but all I could smell was the sour aroma of my fifth or sixth cold one and the disgusting smoke of the man next to me’s cigarette. Honestly, some people have no common courtesy. If I smoked menthols I’d have the decency to do it somewhere the smell wouldn’t be noticed, like over by the port-a-johns.
I was thinking about trying to bum a smoke off my neighbor (hey, I’d been losing all week) when the lights came on and the gates went down. My money was on Lord Wellington, which was a pretty weird name for a racing dog, considering they usually had names like Champion Tipp and Dasher John. I had a good feeling about Wellington, though I’d never seen him race before and I usually never put money down on a race where I hadn’t checked out every dog in action. Wellington was a slim greyhound with red overtones, and ever since I’d learned he was an Irish import like his namesake I’d been itching to throw a couple bills behind him.
So the gate went down and the dogs were tearing off down the track, blazing away like grey comets (I won a lot of money on a dog named Grey Comet once) after the stupid little mechanical rabbit that I’d christened Hare Metal. Hare Metal had been the undisputed ruler of the South Richmond Raceway for about forty years, which made him a decade older than me. I’d seen him circle that track more times than I could count (and a professional gambler has to be able to count pretty damn high), and he’d won every race with ease. I always wondered what would happen if one of the dogs managed to catch the old iron rodent. The obvious answer is that the dog would seriously injure his mouth, but I liked to think that Hare Metal would actually bust off his track and really show the dog who was boss.
Hare Metal streaked by and I tipped my beer to him in a salute as he passed. Fancy Pete was the first dog to pass me, but Lord Wellington was only half a body length behind and was inside the curve. Fancy Pete was a dark, fast son of a bitch who’d been winning a lot lately, and his eyes seemed to be bulging a bit more than usual as he turned the corner. I fancied that old Pete was a bit astonished that his upstart newcomer had the temerity to stay right with him through the first bend. Lord Wellington had to have been drafting off of Pete (though I somehow doubted the rust-colored dog knew it), and I started really thinking my instincts would pay off. The odds on Wellington were great, and if he won this one for me I’d have a nice chunk of change heading into the weekend, which made my eyes light up and my taste buds tingle in anticipation. You hear a lot about people’s hearts and minds conflicting, but in my case the two were firmly allied in their support of Wellington while my liver listlessly prayed for him to lose and get it a couple days of rest.
I gave my liver something else to think about by polishing off my whatever-th beer, tossed the cup over my shoulder, and cupped my hands around my mouth. “Smoke ‘em, Wellington, you beautiful Irish bastard!” I shouted. “Waterloo, baby! Waterloo!”
I watched my menthol-smoking neighbor out of the corner of my eye as I cheered. Fancy Pete was favored to win, which meant a lot of people had money on him, and cheering against someone’s dog in a close race is a great way to start a fight. I wouldn’t have minded a fight, of course; I never bet on the favored dog, and have nothing but contempt for people who do. If I actually think the lead dog is going to win, I just hold my money for other races. People who bet on the favorite have got no soul.
Plus, if the man started a fight, I could kick his ass and steal his cigarettes without feeling guilty. Of course, I’d had enough beers by this point that I doubted I’d feel that guilty anyway.
My neighbor either didn’t have money on Pete or tuned me out, because he didn’t react when I started screaming. I returned my full attention to the race. Wellington and Pete were dead even by then and were heading into their second and final lap. I decided I wanted to be near the finish line for this one, and started around the corner towards the line in the dirt. For purely scientific reasons, I picked my neighbor’s pocket as I walked by and secured what felt like half a pack of cigarettes. It turned out my hypothesis was correct and I had enough brew in me that I didn’t feel guilty about it at all. I didn’t take his wallet; I mean, the guy clearly had enough problems.
I guess the space station exploded around then, because a lot of people seemed to be moving towards the televisions mounted here and there around the track, and it looked like they were showing something other than the usual race listings and odds. I glanced at the nearest one and it seemed to be some kind of news bulletin, but I figured Wellington deserved my attention more and I continued around the track, patting in my coat pockets for my lighter. I found it and stopped to pull a cancer stick out of my new pack and light it with Gracie’s pure blue flame. I’ve always liked butane lighters, I don’t know why.
I looked up from lighting my cigarette, took a long drag, and blew out a thin stream of disgusting menthol smoke that was still the most delicious thing I’d tasted all day. Give me a break, I hadn’t been able to afford cigarettes since Tuesday.
I was watching Hare Metal barrel towards me around the curve I’d just vacated when he flexed the legs I’d never seen move before, snapped the iron bar that connected him to his track, and launched himself straight at my face.
Also, Blue, Solwyn, I'm totally using some / a lot of the stuff that we worked out together as the basis of this piece, so, uh, yeah! If you guys want to get back into it that's cool, if not, that's cool too! I just started a new job that I suspect is going to have a lot of down time in front of the computer with nothing to do but write, so I'm really going to try to develop this into something.
So, yeah.
Paradigm Shift
I was working on the day the space station exploded. It was a Friday, around two in the afternoon, and I’d been having a rough week with some unavoidable losses. I hate to end the week in the red, so I was working much harder than usual for a Friday, which meant I’d only had two or three beers. I think.
I’d been investing heavily on some long shots that my instincts told me could pay off big, hoping to erase my losses for the week with one or two big scores. It was overcast that day, with the damp, dark scent of rain and freshly cut grass in the air, but all I could smell was the sour aroma of my fifth or sixth cold one and the disgusting smoke of the man next to me’s cigarette. Honestly, some people have no common courtesy. If I smoked menthols I’d have the decency to do it somewhere the smell wouldn’t be noticed, like over by the port-a-johns.
I was thinking about trying to bum a smoke off my neighbor (hey, I’d been losing all week) when the lights came on and the gates went down. My money was on Lord Wellington, which was a pretty weird name for a racing dog, considering they usually had names like Champion Tipp and Dasher John. I had a good feeling about Wellington, though I’d never seen him race before and I usually never put money down on a race where I hadn’t checked out every dog in action. Wellington was a slim greyhound with red overtones, and ever since I’d learned he was an Irish import like his namesake I’d been itching to throw a couple bills behind him.
So the gate went down and the dogs were tearing off down the track, blazing away like grey comets (I won a lot of money on a dog named Grey Comet once) after the stupid little mechanical rabbit that I’d christened Hare Metal. Hare Metal had been the undisputed ruler of the South Richmond Raceway for about forty years, which made him a decade older than me. I’d seen him circle that track more times than I could count (and a professional gambler has to be able to count pretty damn high), and he’d won every race with ease. I always wondered what would happen if one of the dogs managed to catch the old iron rodent. The obvious answer is that the dog would seriously injure his mouth, but I liked to think that Hare Metal would actually bust off his track and really show the dog who was boss.
Hare Metal streaked by and I tipped my beer to him in a salute as he passed. Fancy Pete was the first dog to pass me, but Lord Wellington was only half a body length behind and was inside the curve. Fancy Pete was a dark, fast son of a bitch who’d been winning a lot lately, and his eyes seemed to be bulging a bit more than usual as he turned the corner. I fancied that old Pete was a bit astonished that his upstart newcomer had the temerity to stay right with him through the first bend. Lord Wellington had to have been drafting off of Pete (though I somehow doubted the rust-colored dog knew it), and I started really thinking my instincts would pay off. The odds on Wellington were great, and if he won this one for me I’d have a nice chunk of change heading into the weekend, which made my eyes light up and my taste buds tingle in anticipation. You hear a lot about people’s hearts and minds conflicting, but in my case the two were firmly allied in their support of Wellington while my liver listlessly prayed for him to lose and get it a couple days of rest.
I gave my liver something else to think about by polishing off my whatever-th beer, tossed the cup over my shoulder, and cupped my hands around my mouth. “Smoke ‘em, Wellington, you beautiful Irish bastard!” I shouted. “Waterloo, baby! Waterloo!”
I watched my menthol-smoking neighbor out of the corner of my eye as I cheered. Fancy Pete was favored to win, which meant a lot of people had money on him, and cheering against someone’s dog in a close race is a great way to start a fight. I wouldn’t have minded a fight, of course; I never bet on the favored dog, and have nothing but contempt for people who do. If I actually think the lead dog is going to win, I just hold my money for other races. People who bet on the favorite have got no soul.
Plus, if the man started a fight, I could kick his ass and steal his cigarettes without feeling guilty. Of course, I’d had enough beers by this point that I doubted I’d feel that guilty anyway.
My neighbor either didn’t have money on Pete or tuned me out, because he didn’t react when I started screaming. I returned my full attention to the race. Wellington and Pete were dead even by then and were heading into their second and final lap. I decided I wanted to be near the finish line for this one, and started around the corner towards the line in the dirt. For purely scientific reasons, I picked my neighbor’s pocket as I walked by and secured what felt like half a pack of cigarettes. It turned out my hypothesis was correct and I had enough brew in me that I didn’t feel guilty about it at all. I didn’t take his wallet; I mean, the guy clearly had enough problems.
I guess the space station exploded around then, because a lot of people seemed to be moving towards the televisions mounted here and there around the track, and it looked like they were showing something other than the usual race listings and odds. I glanced at the nearest one and it seemed to be some kind of news bulletin, but I figured Wellington deserved my attention more and I continued around the track, patting in my coat pockets for my lighter. I found it and stopped to pull a cancer stick out of my new pack and light it with Gracie’s pure blue flame. I’ve always liked butane lighters, I don’t know why.
I looked up from lighting my cigarette, took a long drag, and blew out a thin stream of disgusting menthol smoke that was still the most delicious thing I’d tasted all day. Give me a break, I hadn’t been able to afford cigarettes since Tuesday.
I was watching Hare Metal barrel towards me around the curve I’d just vacated when he flexed the legs I’d never seen move before, snapped the iron bar that connected him to his track, and launched himself straight at my face.