so joe sat down at the blackjack table with the large black man dealing cards and the two white guys from ohio were winning and they didn’t give him a dirty look as he sat in, as he had courteously waited until the changing of the shoe, as it was the only table with suitable openings in the house of blues section of the casino, which was noticeably cooler than the Mardi gras themed main section, even though he would later win money there as well, and he didn’t drink anything, that was saved for the hard rock café, three beers, or was it two, in a row, staring at the screen and out the window and wandering for a quick spell to look at the memorabilia and thinking soak this in you never know when you’ll get back here again, and he hasn’t since, but it wasn’t that long ago, I mean, hard rock, not the casino, he got back to that all right, of that you can be sure, and the trumps as well, and all that shit, oh yes, he made his way up and down and up and down the strip many a time, and he had the perfect gambling partner, he did. His sister with the nearly identical gambling schedule and habits and wherewithals, not too obessive, not too casual, just the proper amount of over the topped mania for the turns of the cards, and he could watch football at the underground theoretical hooker bar, wondering if he had found the secret sopranos headquarters, conspiracies seemingly afoot, and just as he was about to call an all points bulletin, superman came and sizzled up the atlantic ocean and made a sauna out of and all the old people went out there and complained about that the iced tea was too expensive. And then the narrator realized it was eleven thirty on a school nite and his beautiful wife was asleep in bed waiting for him and he should mos def get to stepping, as there would be plenty of time over the weekend to make excuses for not writing more crap like this. Gracias a dios, if he/she exists. End scene. Cue the purple people eater, stage left.