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Array
(
[sid] => 12180
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Night Crawler, Part 2
[time] => 2003-02-08 11:00:00
[hometext] => This is part 2 out of seven or eight of my Night Crawler tale.
[bodytext] => The buy-in was one hundred dollars.
The winner got sixty percent, the runner up, thirty. The house kept the rest, and turned profits Off of drink services and lap dances. He felt perfectly natural in this man-haven. He sat down at the table nearest the rear exit. He wanted to be prepared, in case a fight broke out. Within the hour, he was up two hundred, Mostly due to some foolish bluffing On the part of some poor guppy. Normally, he would have walked away. But tonight was tournament night. He had to stick it out. His ears would spend the next few hours Full of the sounds of shuffling cards and rattling chips. By sunrise, the tournament was over. He walked outside with twelve hundred dollars in his pockets. He could have had twenty-four. He could have had none. All in all, he had accomplished nothing. He still missed his wife. He walked a few more blocks To the doughnut shop by the interstate. They had just opened. It was during that brief window when the night owls Had to co-exist with the early birds. He hated early birds. They had no appreciation of their own personal freedom. He looked around, however; and saw nothing but. He could tell that they were all early birds. They were all drinking coffee. He hated coffee too. He ambled up to the register and asked for a maple, whatever they’re called. All he had was quarters and hundreds, So he gave the cashier a tip of ninety-eight, fifty, And she gave him a free glass of milk. It had all worked out perfectly. By noontime, he was passed out on a park bench, Scraggly like a hobo, and carrying eleven hundred dollars cash in his pockets. A few hours later, he was startled from his sleep by a police officer Warning him that the park had closed for the evening. It was dark once more, and he had work to do. He sat up, thanked the officer, and had Three cigarettes before heading on his way. He went to the nearest pay phone and called up a friend he hadn’t seen in years. They set up a meeting and abruptly ended the call there. Once again, he had some time to kill. He wandered without caring through The musty and dank alleys of the old business district. He had a broken pocket knife to defend himself with Just in case the need came up. The more he walked, the more the unending puddles seeped into his shoes. He worked his way down to the Smithfield Harbor. The smell of dead fish washed over him Wave after sickening wave. The air reeked of brine and disease, And he still had twenty minutes to wait. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 158 [topic] => 31 [informant] => Butterat_Zool [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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