# July 2016 - LM - The Gambler



## kilroy214 (Jul 2, 2016)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*
*The Gambler*​
The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.  

This is a Fiction writing competition, and the prompt is 'The Gambler.' Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt. 

 The Judges for this round are: P*rinzeCharming*, *A**msawtell*, *Smith*and *bdcharles*
 If you want to judge and I left you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

 All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the LM Workshop Thread.

 All Judges scores will be PMed to*kilroy214*. 

All anonymous entries will be PMed to *kilroy214*.


*Rules*








*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word is the standard for checking this. If you are unsure of the word count and don't have Word, please send your story to me and I'll check it for you.







*There are a few ways to post your entry:*








If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *Workshop*  which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.





Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send the scores one week after deadline it will ensure a timely release of scores and minimize the overall implementation of porkforking. Please see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*

Friday, the 15th of July at 11:59 PM, GMT time. 

Scores would be appreciated by Friday , the 29th of July. 

Click here for the current time.


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## AtleanWordsmith (Jul 3, 2016)

*Roulette *(569 Words) [Language, Drugs, Violence]

"Never tell me the odds."

One of the more memorable quotes from _Star Wars_, never really fit my worldview, though.  I'm a pro-intel kind of guy.  I generally like to plan things out.  I... look, you get it.  I'll be honest with you, though... you kind of came in at a bad time.  Let me take care of something first.

"Mitchell.  You take the one on the left.  Connolly, take the one on the right."

I guess I should explain the situation.  See that guy there, in the white suit?  Big player in the drug game.  He thinks we're part of his protection detail... but we're not.  There was really no optimal time for this.  Kill him too early or too late, people will know.  Kill him in the middle of a drug deal?  On top of the net gain in money and grade A pure Colombian booger sugar, it'll look like he got killed in... well, a drug deal.

Unfortunately, that means... hold on.

One, two... and they're down.  Mitchell has the money, Connolly's got the coke, time to split.  Those two are great.  You can't really do better than Australians.  They have a capacity for chaos you can't find anywhere else.  Okay, so where were we?  Right.

Unfortunately, we're about to have some heat on us.  We ran with the artist formerly known as El Jefe long enough to know that he doesn't trust anyone.  He'll have had back-up somewhere, but I'm not sure-

Shit.  I... okay.  I'm all right.  Car got T-boned.  Mitchell is up.  Don't see Connolly.  Where the fuck did my gun go?  Okay.  Got it.

Shit.

Vehicles are some dangerous shit, kids.

Shit.  Sorry, I don't know how many times I'll keep saying that, but Connolly is... well... I'm not going to describe it.  You'd have to be a fucking doctor.

"Mitchell, let's go!"

"Fuck you, I'm not leavin' him!"

God damn it.  Okay, maybe not.  I just spotted a subway entrance.  One of the things I love about Mitchell is that he's quick on the uptake.  He's grabbing the cash, I've got the coke, and-

Okay, sorry about that, things were getting too hot up there.  Too dark, too crowded.  Basically, we grabbed Connolly's sorry ass and hauled him down into the subway station, so we're just waiting on the train.  The platform's empty.  Funny how people don't stick around when they see guns.

"He looks bad, Mitchell."

"Been through worse."

He _does_ look bad, though.  We would have been lucky just to get away with the money, the coke, and the death of a drug lord, but now we've got Connolly complicating things.  Mitchell is becoming a liability, but... shit, I don't know.  Here's the train.

"Let's go."

The crew reached us just as the door shut.  We were already on the floor, but that's not saying much.  Bullet beats sheet metal any day, and there were plenty coming through.  It's a wonder none of us got hit.

"If we get out of this alive-"

"We will."

"If we do, no more taking fucking chances."

"Look, mate, it was your idea in the first place.  Don't be a cunt about it."

He has me there.  Shit.  This is what happens when I gamble.  Look, adrenaline's wearing off.  I'm starting to hurt pretty bad.  Just gonna close my eyes for a bit, all right?

Wake me when we get there.


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## Potty (Jul 3, 2016)

Scratch.

He can't see me watching as he scratches, I made sure of that. He didn't even see me pass as I entered the shop, too busy matching symbols. Couldn't help but judge him as he fumbled a penny out of his pocket and set to work on the thick wad of card. His clothes are almost worn out, his face unwashed and his hands calloused and well worked. I watch him through the shop window between a gap in the hand written adverts as he demolishes one card after another. Three, six, nine, twelve quid gone and still no return. Two hours wages scratched away without a thought when it looks like he can barely scratch a living. He turns over a fresh card and I wonder if this time he'll find some joy, if not this time then surely the next. The last card reveals no winning numbers, no pot of gold or four leaf clover... His numbers will never weigh more than the numbers shown. 

_But_, I slyly think as I watch him bin his fortune, _perhaps mine will._


"Can I get a number three please?"


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## King (Jul 3, 2016)

There’s a woman sitting across from me. She’s got pale skin and eyes dark enough that I’m calling them black. Same goes for her hair, and it’s emphasized by her bold eyebrows. I love that: the pale skin and dark features look. It makes her look even prettier when she’s crying – like right now, as if she should be the one crying – with her mascara running, darkening her features more.

 In between us is a table. It’s long – long enough that I couldn’t immediately grab her if she were to run. 

    On top of the table are just five items. They’re the only things that matter in this house. There’s a bottle of red wine in the center, half empty. In front of each of us is a wine glass, each filled to the top. The only difference is this is my fifth drink and she hasn’t taken a sip. She’s just staring at me with those leaking Bambi eyes. 

“Drink,” I say in the same manner as I’ve done multiple times. Red splashed the table – everything she does has a tremble to it – as she raised the glass to her lips. It’s funny: the effect the fourth item on the table has. Before, she’d just shake her head when I told her to drink. Now, me just placing my hand on the gun changes everything.  I don’t even know how to use this thing. It’s her husband’s. 

  She’s pouring herself a second glass now. I’ve always been able to hold my drinks better, I’m glad she’ll be joining my head in the fog soon. As she drinks, she’s staring at me, glancing at the fifth item every few seconds. Trying to communicate, I’d imagine. I told her not to speak and she’s good at following directions.

    I said the five items are the only things that matter here – that’s a lie. Her husband’s a cop, or well, he _was_ a cop. He’s in the corner in the room next to us, dead I think. 

***​“Is that him?” I asked, dragging her towards the window, hand over her mouth. She nodded.

“Make a sound and I’ll kill him.”

I ran downstairs, grabbing the fire iron next to the fire place on the way. I fumbled for my coin when the front door opened and I hit him before I had the chance to do anything else. Then I hit him again. And again. And again. . . 

***​
Oh yeah! The coin! The fifth and most important item on the table. Hell, the oldest and most important coin in the world, as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure there are more historically significant coins out there, but this one I’ve had since I was eight. Dad gave it to me and it’s made all – or almost all – of my big decisions since then. Everyone who knows me has seen me use that coin. And because of that it’s the most important coin in the world, because I’m the thing that matters most. I hear that changes whenever you have children. I doubt I’ll have them now. I planned on it with the woman in front of me – before I knew she had a husband. 


So now we’re sitting here, waiting for me to flip the coin. Heads. Her phone is under my name, if I kill her, take it and leave I can get away with it. If I’m fast enough I’ll get away. It’s only one of her phones, and I’m the only person listed as a contact. No trace of me would remain. Tails. I just run. Try to disappear.

Red and blue lights begin flooding the room, and now I’m the one trembling and staring. Someone must’ve seen me hit him.

As I did before, I fumble for the coin and this time I have the chance to throw it in the air.
_Knock knock knock_​


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## Rookish (Jul 3, 2016)

The Gambol of Gern [650 words][Language][Violent themes]


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## godofwine (Jul 7, 2016)

All In by Godofwine (650 Words)


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## kilroy214 (Jul 7, 2016)

No Quarter
by Anonymous
650 Words
Mature Content


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## KnightPlutonian (Jul 10, 2016)

*Wager (648 Words)*


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## Mr mitchell (Jul 10, 2016)

http://www.writingforums.com/threads/166787-July-2016-The-Gambler-Workshop?p=2016272&

The Gambler And His Demons
410 words.


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## Bard_Daniel (Jul 11, 2016)

*Aces (615 Words)*

It is only me and him now. Every other player at the table has been eliminated. Some were not lucky, others were plagued by their emotions and a fraction of them were picked apart. I am still here because I am calm, calculated and even a little bit lucky.

   Prowess only extends so far.

   The private room of the casino is illuminated by a neon light which gives the table a rustic appearance. This is despite the fact that the tournament had a ten thousand dollar buy-in. Even initially, as everyone sat down, it was clear they we all were very serious. The game was clear and I had practiced it thousands of times: Texas Hold Em'. I know I am a gambler but I consider myself a careful one.

   Our hole cards are dealt. _Play it cool,_ I tell myself. I do not look at my cards and he does not look at his. Instead, we size each other up. Despite having looked at this man many times in the past few hours it seems like I am viewing him for the first time. He is middle-aged and his hairline is receding- just like me. The unknown man, for he has not spoken except to the dealer, wears sunglasses and his face is as solid as a Greek statue. There is not even the hint of any expression along the contours of his features. The dealer shoots each of us a glance that makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable. She almost does not exist in this moment of intense concentration and judgment. I wait for him to look first and, finally, he uses his left hand to gently bring up the corners of his two cards. His face betrays nothing. It is his move. He looks at me and reaches out for a poker chip, twirling it in between his fingers. Then, carefully, he pushes forward half of his chips towards the center of the table.

    I look down at my cards: two red aces. I try to avoid looking at the dealer, who is staring at me. I feel a slight chill and my eyes ache. I push my cards down and look over at the man, who matches what I think is an empty expression. I wonder if he knows what I am planning on doing and then decide that it does not matter. In my head the die has been cast and there is nothing but fate left.

   "All in," I say and push my stacks towards the center of the table.

   The man looks at me for a long time. The chip is in his hand but he is not moving it anymore. He takes off the sunglasses and I see that his eyes are pale and blue. The sunglasses are placed on the collar of his shirt and he looks down at the table, very hard, before pushing the rest of his chips towards the center.

   We show our cards and, to my surprise, the hands are the same-- only his aces are black. The only way to win now is with a flush: only the colors of the cards matter now. The flop comes and two black cards and one red card appear.

   I bite my lip.

   The next card comes out red. We are even. 

   There is a pause and the man and I stare at each other. It seems that there is some sort of respect between us now, as if we have crossed a boundary that can never be restored. We have put in everything. There is nothing left but failure or glory.

   The dealer is silent when she slowly begins to draw the last card.


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## Greyson (Jul 11, 2016)

I Fought the Law (650 words)

Mature content


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## Makili (Jul 12, 2016)

*The gambler's redemption (645 words)*

A stout, black-clad man was looking at gamblers around the room with a glint in his eyes. He was smiling as if he assessed the odds and concluded they were good. He rubbed his hands, went for the bar and ordered a drink.

Bartender, a young, smooth boy hesitated: "But... you're a priest..."

"Oh, really? What gave me away? The beard? The robe? This cross around my neck?"

Bartender blushed:  "You know what I mean... Aren't priests supposed to be in monasteries, praying 'n' all...? Not at a casino bar, ordering alcohol."

The priest smiled:  "And aren't bartenders supposed to have seen people from all walks of life and to know when to say nothing and pour the drink?"

"I only started recently..." bartender started to apologize.

"Yes, you do seem like someone who still has lots to learn... So, now our roles are established, how about that drink? If you bring it in under a minute, I will reveal why I am here, and you'll be step closer to being a better bartender."

Soon enough the drink was in front of the priest. Bartender lingered: "Sorry, but have you just made a bet with me?"

The priest chuckled. "It may seem so. But, no, my boy, it wasn't a bet. Know why? Bets require two terms - one if you win, one if you lose. And we never mentioned what would happen if that drink took more than a minute... Plus, I knew it couldn't take you longer, and I wouldn't bet if odds were so against me. I wanted to tell you." 

The bartender smiled. "So, then, what's your story?"

"Well, I am here to catch lost souls. To prey on the sinners gathered around gambling tables, so I can bring them back to the right path. Which is what us, priests, do, isn't it? And as you can see, I don't really need to be at the monastery to do my work." 

The bartender was thinking for a while. "To be able to do that, you have to know the soul of a sinner, the nature of a gambler, right?"

Priest gave a wide grin. "Sharp one, aren't you? And so right! But who would know the soul of a sinner better than a sinner himself?"

"You mean you were a gambler yourself?"

"Were??? I still am, my boy!" His eyes sparkled.

"But, I don't understand... "

"Oh, it's easy... You see, I was a gambler for as long as I can remember. It didn't matter to me what the game or reward was, as long as there was a challenge. But I was so good at winning, that soon no game and no opponent posed a challenge to me. Until one day I met Him..."

"Him?" the bartender raised an eyebrow. 

"The devil, my boy, who else? I can see you don't believe me. But have no doubt - he is as real as you and I. The fact you haven't encountered him means your soul hasn't been genuinely tempted. And that is an achievement, so keep it that way, OK?  My story should be your counsel."

Bartender nodded. "So, what happened?"

"He offered me a wager, in his favorite currency - human souls. He said that if by the end of my life I bring back more souls from the gambling table than he manages to corrupt and send there, my sins will be erased and I will earn the salvation of my soul. Ergo, here I am - playing for my redemption ..."

Priest's eyes started to feverishly sweep the room, but bartender interrupted: "And what if he beats you?"

"Ha, a quick learner, aren't you? Of course we settled the terms for the case I lose. But that, my boy, is simply not an option ", said the priest, and downed his drink with a winning smile.


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## kilroy214 (Jul 12, 2016)

Pick'em
by anonymous
http://www.writingforums.com/threads/166787-July-2016-The-Gambler-Workshop


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## Wandering Man (Jul 12, 2016)

The Gamble (649 Words, NSFW – language, violence) (based on a true story)

http://www.writingforums.com/thread...ler-Workshop?p=2016992&viewfull=1#post2016992


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## Sleepwriter (Jul 13, 2016)

Life's A Gamble  635 words


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## rcallaci (Jul 13, 2016)

Secrets of the Bayou (650 Words)

     Jumping Jack Jimmy Jam Jones lived in a mud shack deep down in the bayous of Louisiana. Jimmy Jam was a Crawfish trapper.  He made a living catching the little mudbugs with specialized traps he designed himself. He was a big man and was mean as a rabid wolf. He didn’t take kindly to strangers and was none to friendly on those he already knew. But he did love his hounds, Rufus and Maxine. Like him, they were as mean as mean can get. When you heard his hounds howling it was best you run the other way. Old Jumping Jack Jimmy and his hounds weren’t much for socializing, if you get my drift. 

     You might be wondering why anyone would be interested in a mean old character like this. Well let me tell you a secret about old Jumping Jack Jimmy Jam Jones. He talked, danced and sang to the animals and they talked, danced and sang back. I’m not making this up; I swear to you, I’ve seen this with my own eyes. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that he and the devil were the best of friends.  

     First off, let me tell you how he got his name. My granddaddy, myself (I was nine at the time) and a few of his friends were night hunting for boar down by the marshlands. It was around midnight when we heard the strangest sounds coming from the marshes. It sounded like some primal jam session, a rhythmic scat-fest. It was eerily intoxicating. It was like the siren songs you read about in the Greek myths. It was bedazzling. We were drawn to them like those bugs that fly towards the light seeking the road to heaven, a nirvana epiphany or some bug Armageddon. What we saw and heard when we reached the marshes defied reason, and is something that will remain forever etched in the pit of my mind. 

     We felt like, we was in a dream, as our eyes and ears feasted on what lay before us. The marsh was alive with a cacophony of sound. Jimmy’s hounds were howling, alligators hissed and bellowed, turtles clucked and cackled, frogs moaned and croaked, all to the disharmonious beat of a drum and a fiddle. In the middle of the marsh was Jimmy, whooping and hollering, jumping up and down, like some jackhammer, banging away on a snare drum, while hipping and hopping on the back of an alligator, hence his name, Jumping Jack Jimmy Jam Jones.  On the giant turtle next to him, playing the fiddle was the most beautiful and fierce looking woman I ever laid eyes on. What frightened me most about her were her eyes, they were as red as the fires of hell. Old Jimmy was playing and dancing with the devil. She danced like a demon and played one mean fiddle.  

      We knew we were seeing something that we shouldn’t be seeing. Something this bizarre wasn’t meant for everyone’s eyes. The music stopped, the marshes went silent. The devil was staring right at us, and she wasn’t smiling. As a matter of fact she looked as angry as a bee without honey. We, was in a pickle of a predicament.

     Now my granddaddy was a gambling man, he knew how to play the odds. The odds here were definitely not in our favor. He knew we needed to make a bold move, not cower and scamp away, which would only lead to our demise. Rather than plead with the devil, he addressed Jimmy instead, and said,  

_“Jimmy that was one mighty fine jam session, I hope you don’t mind if we start calling you Jumping Jack Jimmy Jam Jones.”
_
     The devil laughed and Jimmy just smiled. They let us go so his name would be known. Granddaddy gambled that Jimmy and the devil had a sense of humor. Thank God they did.







The End​













RC
07-13-2016
©2016 Robert F. Callaci All rights reserved.


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## gohn67 (Jul 14, 2016)

*Mr. Coffee (648 words)*

Li Guangcheng lived and worked in a bakery. At 4AM he would sneak downstairs from the worker's dormitory to read the newspaper with his friend Hu Yang in the kitchen. Today they read of a man who turned ten yuan into ten million selling cough formula. 

"This could be us," Li said.

"Can you believe it? He didn't even go to university," Hu said. 

"The son of an egg farmer too."

"I bet his skin's darker than mine."

"He probably has rough hands as well," Li said as he scrubbed and washed his hands. 

Two months ago they had come to Beijing in search of the Bare-Handed Fortune. This job baking cakes, however, was all Hu's idea. He figured they could learn the trade and start their own bakery with his parents' savings. To Li, this job would merely be a landmark of his humble beginnings for which to tell reporters in the future. 

To surpass the Americans Li believed that the people of China only needed to work harder than their counterparts. It'd be a collective effort. Not in the old way under Mao, but in the new way as declared by Deng Xiaoping two decades ago. He'd unlocked the first gates of Capitalist Hell. But it was a necessary step. Individually they'd compete to make their riches, but collectively they'd be rewarded, as one-by-one fortunes were made.

"Have you heard of the American story about the tortoise and hare?" Hu pushed a cart with blocks of butter and bags of flour and yeast from the store room. 

"Yes, the tortoise wins. Slow and steady."

"Not exactly. America, you see, is the hare, but they think they're the tortoise." 

Last night Li had come up with an idea so brilliant that he couldn't sleep. "Aren't you going to ask why I haven't made coffee yet?"

"I didn't want to say anything, Mr. Coffee." Hu poured the flour and yeast into an enormous mixing bowl. 

Li glanced at the dormitory stairs before saying, "Business cards."

"What are we going to do with those? Let's not put the cart before the ox."

How had Hu not understood what was intuitively clear to Li? They'd been best friends since the age of five, but now Hu seemed like a hindrance. It no longer mattered who in the village could throw stones the farthest. "Do you have the brain of a pig?" Li said.

Hu dropped the butter blocks in a big pot over the heated stove, then dragged a hose over the mixing bowl. "Can you turn on the water?"

Despite Hu's simple-mindedness, he did have money that could be invested in Li's idea. Plus Hu was a hard worker. Not to mention loyal and trustworthy. Even the Business Card King would need soldiers. "Why don't _you_ turn it on? I'll hold the hose."

As Hu turned on the water, Li explained that he wanted to create and sell business cards to people eager to join the Get Rich First Crowd. "What do you think?"

Hu, with oven mitts, poured the melted butter into the mixing bowl. "It's a good idea. But--"

Li had expected more enthusiasm. Was this not the same Hu whose eyes lit up with excitement when deciding on the capital? "But what? But what?"

"I've been thinking of the Cough Syrup King. He was sent to prison, you know. People died."

"I know. His formula was poison. He was a bumpkin. Not a chemist," Li said.

Hu walked to the back of the mixing bowl, but Li had beat him to it and turned on the mixer. "I can already see the blood on my fists," Hu said.

"There's no shame in blood you shed for your country. It's never been about us." As other workers filed down the stairs, Li studied each one, searching for more soldiers. "Hu, I appoint you the new Mr. Coffee."


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## rubisco (Jul 14, 2016)

Overwhelming Odds Against  (650 words)


By Rubisco




Jan grasped the frame of the plane door fiercely with her carefully manicured nails. I had never seen so much of the whites of her eyes.


“Oh hell no! I’m not jumping!” she tried her best to scuttle back from the door that was 13,000 feet above the Earth. The instructor that was attached to her back like a symbiotic fungus held his ground and prevented her retreat. He then quickly threw himself and Jan out of the plane without a word.


“Kristi! I’m going to kill you!” she screeched as she plummeted.


My own symbiotic fungus pushed me towards the door. I didn’t think. If I began thinking about the 1 in 100,000 chance of dying while skydiving, I would start to imagine my own death, the shape of my body as I splat across the ground like an egg dropping off a spoon. 


1 in 100,000 was hardly a risk at all. I knew, for a fact, that the odds of dying at a dance party was pretty much the same. But then again, my face cracked into a wide grin as I thought, those statisticians had never seen me dance. My dance moves were killer wicked fo’shizzle. 


“What are you smiling about?” said the man strapped to me.


“Shut up fungus,” I replied. He was kind of cute.


“What?”


“Nothing.” I pushed myself out of the plane, and the man attached to me was obliged to come along.


Immediately my stomach decided it was as good a time as any to meet my brain. They previously had been only pen pals. Sent messages to each other along the nerve express. Most of the correspondence up to this point had been cordial, strictly business. Hungry. Send food. Shut up. That sort of thing. But now my stomach and brain mutually had a revelation that they were long-lost soulmates, always had been, were fools for being blind to it before. They rushed towards each other and smashed into each other in a long embrace. 


My lunch couldn’t stand the mushy sentimental scene and excused itself from my body.


The wind whipping around my face coaxed the vomit from my mouth into the airstream that was rushing behind my head. My manshroom, or man mushroom, growing out of my back cried out in disgust.


“What did you eat for lunch lady? A whole jar of sauerkraut? Ugh! You’ve got to be kidding me!”


“No!” I yelled back. “It was a jar of kimchi! I finished it right before I got on the plane!”


“What? A whole jar?”


“Maybe a gallon!”


“What? Why?”


“You got to risk it to get the biscuit baby!” I then let go of a primal scream from deep inside myself. The scream had to travel a long way. On it’s voyage to my mouth it passed the “I am alive” departure point, which was right below the “I am human” rest stop. Yes, even deeper still, it had originated from the “I just saw Justin Bieber” core inside my being.


I held that note as long as I could. It lasted almost the whole five minute float to the ground.


My manshroom fumbled with the straps and released me as fast as his dexterity allowed. “I cannot let the client free-fall to Earth,” he mumbled as he did so. He had been repeating that same tune over and over the whole float down.


“Hey beautiful,” I said to him. I smiled. He looked at me in horror once he realized I was talking to him. “Want to go out sometime?” I proposed.


“What? Huh? What makes you think . . . .” Before he could step away I rushed in and kissed him hard.


He pushed me away as he gagged. “Enough kimchi!” he gasped out between dry heaves. 


I shrugged, what could I say? You got to risk it to get the biscuit.


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## PiP (Jul 15, 2016)

*A Leopard Never Changes Its Spots*


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