LOSING AT SOLITAIRE

(If you are generally unaware of this week's series, see yesterday's post for details...)

THE CAST:

The Squid: A mind-fried crimelord on the downward spiral.

Andrew: His ne'er-do-well teenage successor.

The Locale: The Lalaurie House, abandoned, in New Orleans, in some distant future, but no less haunted...

***

Cards lay in between a kneeling Squid—the king of pushers—and Andrew—the nauseous Chosen One. Quothe The Squid to Andrew, “Tell me—and be honest—do you know what it is you get when you thrust fingers and fist into the vast Primordial Womb from which Man came?”

Andrew twitched and blinked a bit, which was to say, “Not quite.”

“I’ll tell you what you get,” The Squid proclaimed. “The same thing that you get when you thrust your hand in any womb a man came in—sticky, greasy fingers that reek of fish and taint-meats.”

Andrew nodded slowly, not quite sure he heard it all quite right.

“And sometimes,” The Squid, fondling the cards, continued, “a lawsuit is involved.”

Andrew twitched and blinked some more, and finally—gazing at the deck—replied, “What the Hell does that have to do with Uno?!”

“Absolutely nothing,” The Squid replied, “And it never will, at least I hope. I want you to remember that.”

Andrew sighed, and said, “Okay…whatever. But I believe it’s still your turn.”

But no sooner had he spoken it, then he realized that The Squid—the dealer, the elder—had left the room. And it was moments later when Andrew—the devoted, the pledge—noted that he heard sounds down the hall…moaning, groaning, groping sounds—echoes of The Squid fucking his girlfriend two doors down. Andrew sighed, and shut the door. He then pulled out a deck of Solitaire.

He was enlightened.

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