Post by Tuxedo Max on Feb 9, 2021 13:22:24 GMT -6
(OOC: Apologies to Church and everyone else for my abridged rp. I shouldn't have procrastinated. Will do better next time. Scout's Honor!)
Immediately after Night Three of Black Pyramid Wrestling:
I can’t believe that worked!
It took a case of three cases of bubbly (Andre’s, ‘coz I ain’t made of money) but me and my crew outsmarted, outhustled, and outfought the Bastard of the Badlands.
If I had thought I would have survived it I would have paused to take a bow. Instead we beat feet outta the Luxor, piled into the Aaapex limousine van and took off.
There were buckets of Coors and a couple of six footers from Subway waiting for my guys as a reward.
As the van weaved through the post event traffic I collapsed unmoving into one of the van’s seats. The adrenaline rush had worn off and I was feeling every lick Corey Bull laid on me.
I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. No way I could let my employees see me like that. They had just risked everything to help me beat Bull and his goons. I couldn’t let them know how much pain I was in: how close I was to giving up and trying to figure out some other way to keep the business afloat, or even giving up on the business outright and abandoning them and their families to the cruelties of Las Vegas post Executive Directive 51.
My agonies had levels.
Larry, my trainer, knows my pain. He sits down and hands me a Fresca. What a mensch, he even popped the top for me.
“You cost a lot of people a lot of money tonight, Max.”
“Even you?”
He laughs, “Naw, I bet on you to win!”
“How much?”
Larry’s shrinking grin lets me know it wasn’t enough to retire off of, no matter how lopsided the odds were against me.
“Good for you,” I grunt, “Save your cash, Larry. Don’t go wasting it on a longshot.”
“Don’t neg yourself, Max. You’re doing great, and you’re getting a lot of attention. Inquiries to gym membership is way up and I know it’s because of you.”
He’s right. Aaapex is getting more bookings on account of my resurgent celebrity no doubt. It’s a drop in the bucket but compared to what it once was, but every little bit helps.
Still, I’m one hundred percent right. Larry, or anyone, shouldn’t be investing too much in my chances. The odds are stacked against longshots for a reason, and as savvy as any gambler might be, and how much of a run you might be on, the House is always ahead. They always find a way to screw up your streak of good fortune, and remind you exactly of your place in the cosmic order.
In the city’s parlance that’s known as ‘sending for the cooler’.
Ain’t that right, Church?
Immediately after Night Three of Black Pyramid Wrestling:
I can’t believe that worked!
It took a case of three cases of bubbly (Andre’s, ‘coz I ain’t made of money) but me and my crew outsmarted, outhustled, and outfought the Bastard of the Badlands.
If I had thought I would have survived it I would have paused to take a bow. Instead we beat feet outta the Luxor, piled into the Aaapex limousine van and took off.
There were buckets of Coors and a couple of six footers from Subway waiting for my guys as a reward.
As the van weaved through the post event traffic I collapsed unmoving into one of the van’s seats. The adrenaline rush had worn off and I was feeling every lick Corey Bull laid on me.
I wanted to cry, but couldn’t. No way I could let my employees see me like that. They had just risked everything to help me beat Bull and his goons. I couldn’t let them know how much pain I was in: how close I was to giving up and trying to figure out some other way to keep the business afloat, or even giving up on the business outright and abandoning them and their families to the cruelties of Las Vegas post Executive Directive 51.
My agonies had levels.
Larry, my trainer, knows my pain. He sits down and hands me a Fresca. What a mensch, he even popped the top for me.
“You cost a lot of people a lot of money tonight, Max.”
“Even you?”
He laughs, “Naw, I bet on you to win!”
“How much?”
Larry’s shrinking grin lets me know it wasn’t enough to retire off of, no matter how lopsided the odds were against me.
“Good for you,” I grunt, “Save your cash, Larry. Don’t go wasting it on a longshot.”
“Don’t neg yourself, Max. You’re doing great, and you’re getting a lot of attention. Inquiries to gym membership is way up and I know it’s because of you.”
He’s right. Aaapex is getting more bookings on account of my resurgent celebrity no doubt. It’s a drop in the bucket but compared to what it once was, but every little bit helps.
Still, I’m one hundred percent right. Larry, or anyone, shouldn’t be investing too much in my chances. The odds are stacked against longshots for a reason, and as savvy as any gambler might be, and how much of a run you might be on, the House is always ahead. They always find a way to screw up your streak of good fortune, and remind you exactly of your place in the cosmic order.
In the city’s parlance that’s known as ‘sending for the cooler’.
Ain’t that right, Church?
