The casino within the casino.
There’s no games.
There’s no pretty ladies selling cigarettes.
No floor show.
No one’s in residence-there’s no Tom Jones, no George Carlin, no Britney Spears-nobody like that.
There’s no cool master gambler waiting to take you under his wing like in that movie Hard Eight.
There’s just this vast, dark space you walk into, you can’t see anything, you turn around, there’s no way back, you’re just lost in shadows is all.
You’re lost, you’re starting to panic, you can’t see shit.
And all these things grab you, envelop you, squeeze you, fling you about, hang you upside down, wring you out.
The things take all of your money.
They got super-hacker scanning powers that let them hack’n’crack all your online shit, all your banking, all your benefits, all your identity shit, now it all belongs to them.
And then, for the big finish, the things toss you.
You go flying.
You land atop a pile of garbage bags illegally dumped in some abandoned lot.
Your life is ruined.
Especially if you were into your money, your property, your government benefits, your documented identity stuff.
But some people find it spiritually liberating.
America kinda seems more like a grotesque casino theme park these days, anyway, right?
America will rob all of your shit in the end, anyhow, that’s the only thing it’s good at anymore: robbing you, and lying to your face it’s doing something else that you should be proud of, that you should submit to, that you should celebrate.
Yeah.
Why mess about with the nonsense?
Why not “speedrun” it, as the kids these days like to say?
Just find your way to the casino within the casino . . .
