A deal with dice

In a darkened pub, the deal would go down. They had chosen a fairly remote location, away from the city. It was quite old man’s pub for all purposes, the only thing out of place were two fresh faced men placing so sort of dungeons and dragons game. No one thought much about it and the meeting began. The dealer and the supplier needed to talk about the previous batch. One had cut the other short, though in truth both and screwed the other over. One was light on the cash, the other had padded the product. Still neither one could break face on the matter. There’s no honour in crime or business after all. After the second pint, the barriers broke down and a new deal was in the works. Throughout the conversation, the clatter of dice hitting the wooden table caused mild annoyance to the pair. A professional would have let it be, but these were not calm men. Maybe it was the stress of the start of the encounter or just the booze, but something forced one of the men to take it upon themselves to address the men playing their game.

‘ Would you two fucking faggots cut out your game?’ he shouted.

The pair looked at the dealer.

‘ What would you do about it?’ asked One of the gamers.

The dealer pulled out a knife and stabbed it in the table.

‘ I’ve in middle of fucking deal and your noise is pissing me off, so either back it in or you’ll be both getting cut up.’

The gamers smiled to each other and from their shirts they pulled out police badges.

‘ You’re nicked sunshine,’ said the undercover policeman.

His partner then pulled out a pistol.

‘ I doubt you’ll be getting a saving throw against my fucking shot,’

The dealer turned around, but his supplier was long gone. After he was processed at the station the officers signed out. They saw two colleagues coming in.

‘ You got you Magic decks sorted lads?’ they laughed.

‘ We’ll keep doing it until it stops working,’ said the officers. ‘Speaking of which, boss says you’re undercover at the Birdcage, don’t forget your high heels ladies.’

Depressing Reality: Tortoise and the Hare

The tortoise was sat at home when a knock came at the door. It was the detective standing in the doorway.

‘Mr Tortoise?’ he asked.

‘Yes?’ he said replied reluctantly.

‘I’m here about allegation of race fixing.’

‘Race fixing… wouldn’t know anything about that.’

As the door closed, the detective placed his foot in the gap and pushed his way in.

‘It seems that you placed a large sum of money on yourself,’ continued the Detective. ‘The odds 100/1 vs the Hare’s 1.5/1. Want to explain that?’

‘I was confident I would win,’ said the Tortoise.

‘And so did several others from a tip off from the underground.’

‘Well you can’t blame good technique. ‘Slow and steady wins the race’ like I always say.’

‘You’ve come last in fifty consecutive races prior to this one.’

The Detective then took out a picture and gave it to the Tortoise.

‘You see the Hare was found hours later after the race of a tranquilizer overdose,’ said the Detective. ‘No history of abuse and be passed the urine test the morning of the race. The post-mortem suggests that it had been in his system some time near the start of the race. And given the nature of the race, the Hare falling asleep part way through and collapsing it would explain how you came to win the race.’

The Detective pulled out another piece of paper.

‘I have a warrant to search your home and access your computer history,’ he said.

The tortoise eyed up the back door.

‘You’ll never catch me alive!’ he shouted.

Before his first step had been made, the Detective had pull out the cuffs and started reading the Tortoise his rights.

The fault in the plot

 

After reading a ‘Fault in our Stars’ there was a wide flooding of donations to help bring teenage cancer suffers to Amsterdam to live out their dreams of young love and fulfill their desires for culture and art. Two by two they stood with oxygen tanks, IV’s and wheelchairs. It was bitter sweet for their parents and the donors. They were sending children off to enjoy the last holiday of their lives. After a week away the teenagers came back rather different. They were more relaxed and smiled. Those that had struggled to keep food down were far hungrier and ate their meals with great success. Even the shy and quiet group members were now confident and vocal. It seemed to be a miracle for all those involved. The teenagers would meet up on a weekly bases and a new support came into existence. It was all too good to be true.

Let us consider the following: a group of hormonal teenagers on the brink of death, are dropped into the sex capital of Europe with open access to marijuana and drugs. How the fuck are they not coming back stoned and shagged out their brains. Where is the scene in that book where the pair eat a plate of hash brownies, turn the oxygen tank into a bong and take it in turns getting lap dances in the red light district? It so realistic until you realise that gaping black hole in the story.

E-Heroin

Terry was sat at his desk scratching his nicotine patch when Carl arrived with his electronic cigarette. He puffed out the artificial smoke with glee to Terry’s frustration. However in the cubicle next to them, Mark was rustling through his desk. The pair watched as he rolled up his sleeve and wrapped a rubber band around his arm. He then light up his arm with a white stick engraved with the words ‘E-Heroin’.
‘It’s better for you than regular heroin,’ said Mark.
True it was better than the collection of used spoons and needles everyone had to step over, but Terry and Carl were not convinced.
Terry read the box out aloud, ‘one jab per four hours.’
Mark had jabbed his arm three times as they had spoken.
‘How are you even alive?’ asked Terry
‘I don’t know,’ Mark said his words slurring as he fell into his chair, ‘but it’s better for me than a needle.’
Carl took another drag of his electronic cigarette, ‘you’re still poisoning your body with that shit. Probably doing worse because you not keeping track of what you’re taking in.’
Carl then reached for another electronic cigarette and puffed out more smoke.