Post by Astor Thompson on Oct 19, 2014 15:34:20 GMT -5
ain't nobody givin' up
because nobody gives a fuck; there's nobody prayin' for me
"Fold." Chips down, too. The suit-clad, black-haired patron of Lady Luck's scooped what pittance he had left into his hands, spilled them into his pocket, offered a brief, cold smile to the dealer, for nothing more than a dead and emotionless thanks as pure formality dictated, and left the table.
Astor Thompson was never a gambling man. His luck had never been particularly good with games of chance. Leisure was their purpose for him; killing time, since they apparently had eons of it, up here in the city. He slid out a smoke from his pack and lit one with as stoic a face as one would ever see, lighter and box returned to their respective sheaths in a matter of seconds. Phone, next. Glaring white digits at the top of the screen stared back into the cold blue of his eyes, harder than he could muster. 03:04AM. The operator made no noise save for an apathetic grunt under his breath that none around would be able to hear. Poker table was line of sight from the bar. It was time for a drink.
"Double vodka on the rocks." The bartender hurriedly nodded his head and got to work, sweeping along the top shelf and pouring two measures of the clear liquid over the ice. It always fucked with him how they never hung clocks on the wall or got any natural light in here. For the addicts it just meant one thing; their hall of engorged self-indulgence was open all hours. A 24/7 line on self-destructive affairs of the mind; three hundred and sixty five days a year, the barriers open on a train offering a one-way journey. Express. First and last stop, catastrophe.
Clack. Chilled glass on the table. Chilled liquid over ice. Astor took a sip, drew back his lips as it burnt its way around his mouth and down his gullet. The way it should be. For him, the lack of any kind of temporally relative device on the walls of this dubious institution was disorientating more than anything else. His internal clock went more or less haywire after an hour or so; the blaring of the halogen bar lights above the 'pit' -- so it was called -- wore on his eyes after two, but still told him to remain one thing above all else: awake. It was subconsciously unnerving. Unnatural. Unreal. But what wasn't in this forsaken town?
Here he was again, a line crossed, once more finding himself on the wrong side of nowhere.
Astor Thompson was never a gambling man. His luck had never been particularly good with games of chance. Leisure was their purpose for him; killing time, since they apparently had eons of it, up here in the city. He slid out a smoke from his pack and lit one with as stoic a face as one would ever see, lighter and box returned to their respective sheaths in a matter of seconds. Phone, next. Glaring white digits at the top of the screen stared back into the cold blue of his eyes, harder than he could muster. 03:04AM. The operator made no noise save for an apathetic grunt under his breath that none around would be able to hear. Poker table was line of sight from the bar. It was time for a drink.
"Double vodka on the rocks." The bartender hurriedly nodded his head and got to work, sweeping along the top shelf and pouring two measures of the clear liquid over the ice. It always fucked with him how they never hung clocks on the wall or got any natural light in here. For the addicts it just meant one thing; their hall of engorged self-indulgence was open all hours. A 24/7 line on self-destructive affairs of the mind; three hundred and sixty five days a year, the barriers open on a train offering a one-way journey. Express. First and last stop, catastrophe.
Clack. Chilled glass on the table. Chilled liquid over ice. Astor took a sip, drew back his lips as it burnt its way around his mouth and down his gullet. The way it should be. For him, the lack of any kind of temporally relative device on the walls of this dubious institution was disorientating more than anything else. His internal clock went more or less haywire after an hour or so; the blaring of the halogen bar lights above the 'pit' -- so it was called -- wore on his eyes after two, but still told him to remain one thing above all else: awake. It was subconsciously unnerving. Unnatural. Unreal. But what wasn't in this forsaken town?
Here he was again, a line crossed, once more finding himself on the wrong side of nowhere.
words: 421 • tagged: open • colour: #1979e6
