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Monday, December 5, 2011

Luck Be A Lady

Okay, back to the story about how I helped the guy escape from jail... It was really pretty easy now that I think about. Not that it wasn't extremely nerve-racking to say the least, just before, and especially while it was actually going down. But once I left the building, and consequently the state, and then of course, the country, things quickly returned to normal. Well, sort of. Except now I was living in a different country, going by a different name and a was a lot tanner than I would normally be in December in New Jersey. A lot tanner. Anyway...

The original plan was for me to leave just before McMullen, but that somehow got reversed, and I had to stay in the jail for about ten excruciating minutes longer than I wanted to while McMullen made his way out. Talk about a sinking feeling in your stomach. This was more like a sinking feeling in your entire body, with your balls flying up through your stomach and out your esophagus and then out your mouth and onto the floor where they lay vulnerably exposed for anyone to carelessly tramp on, all the while knowing that if somehow he got caught, I might not ever be leaving the one place I hated more in the world than any other. Oh yeah, I might first get to go to some courtroom for my proverbial "day in court", and maybe a little bail time on the street, but for the most part, for someone in my position, helping an inmate escape jail will probably get you 10 years, which in essence for me would be a lifetime, which in essence for me would be a deathtime. But no matter, it's all over and done and everything is hunky-dory. I do still jump sometimes when there's a knock on the front door though, but not as high lately.

So McMullen made it out and I left the last gate clanging behind me for the last time about ten minutes after him. I thought I saw a red Mercedes drive off in the distance, scooting away from the place as I left the building, but was more concerned with the black Honda rental I was going to occupy and drive immediately to the airport in. In any case, we were both gone and only one of us was going to be missed. Committing a felony on the day I retired wasn't something I ever though I might be doing, but hey, shit happens. Especially in the last two minutes of an NFL football game you have three grand riding on. Shit you wouldn't believe could happen in a million years, but yet was still there happening on your TV screen in all it's sucking glory nonetheless. Like your quarterback fumbling the football on the opposing team's ten yard line with a just few seconds left in a tie game, thereby giving away a sure game-winning field goal that would have won you seven grand, as almost immediately afterwards in over time the opposing team drives down the field like a hot knife through butter and kicks the game-winner, and instead cost you three grand (a net loss of ten I might add) as you watch speechless, and for the most part, numbly resigned to fact that you're playing the devil's game, in his house and by his rules. "Luck be a lady?" Yeah, right. Fuck you, Frank. Luck is a no-good, two bit, lyin' cheatin' whore. 

The rest of the money McMullen owed me was in the trunk of the Honda though, just like he promised. I knew I could trust the guy and for some strange reason wasn't worried at all that he'd stiff me, though he certainly could have. I mean, there he was driving off to parts unknown and there I was, well, fleeing the country. He would soon become a distant, and legally-advisable, foggy memory. What could I have done if he didn't put the remaining hundred grand in the trunk before he did? But he did. And I had my cool quarter million. At least till I paid off Java the Hutt. Then I'd have nothin'. Except my life back. Which, if you think about it, is really something worth having and well-worth the two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

I felt "lucky" as drove off to the airport, but I knew it wasn't luck that released me from luck's bondage. 

gambling n. 1. An improvident activity in which winning gleefully proceeds losing. 2. The saddled process of chasing one’s losses or blowing one’s profits. 3. Chinese finger cuffs. 4. An insatiable itch erroneously believed to be satisfied by scratching. 5. The willingness to ask chance for certainty.