Invisible Promise

Lies. All lies. Re-entering with much less presence. He bursts as the dark charcoal, two-button Cashmere, Jos. A. Bank suit jacket breezes open from both sides with an immediate response. Taking as much in at that exact moment. No one at all noticing a difference. One single thing. At all. He checks the inside breast pocket one last time as he had every five minutes for the last six hours in a row. Simultaneously. Wishing into the composed romance of a night now long gone forever. Bon Jovi’s ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ chorus thundered itself repeatedly into his subconscious. As usual. The truth remained yet to be told. And he felt like the only person on the face of the Earth. Without a shred of confidence left he reached deep. One strong stride forward. Down into the pit, straight up into that rat bastard’s face. He did not notice or change his direction even half an inch. Curling up a tiny little smile at his edges in response to someone else’s humor sitting at the other end of the pedestal Gamer table. Another hand being dealt. Now paused. Last man in.

“Sir?”

Past the very last straw and his temper had flown off until the blur blazed gone. He could not believe himself. As he remembered reaching into his dark charcoal, two-button jacket. What now seemed like yesterday. He held the totally loaded, CZ 75 B 9mm semi-automatic weapon straight out into the dealer’s smart-ass deserving face. No one moved much. With a spit-second’s found confidence he pumped the hell out of that trigger. As hard as humanly possibly. Over and over again.

“Misdeal bitch,” his expression had not changed. Another two red chips down between hands. As if he had not been screaming straight across the pedestal blackjack Gamer table, two feet away, into his face demanding any reaction. He looked waiting directly into his thrashing eyes. Everyone stopped. Laughing. All of the sounds continued ringing louder and louder. Yet they did not move. The sound sirens even louder. Ringing in through the fast crowds. “I said misdeal. You fucking bitch,” still with no more response. He gave more. Maybe realizing something. Blinking. As he pushes off biting down hard. Finally at the top of the pit three stairs from at least fifteen feet away now, “You bitch. Misdeal ... you whore!” Before flicking the end of the lit Marlboro Medium back looping into the mob. And as fast as possible straight down the wrong way up to the modernized, grand golden Kone hydraulic elevator doors. The entire conversation ended immediately. After another second they opened just wide enough. Everyone walking.