Latest posts by scotchnaut (see all)
He had a couple of angry scars that I couldn’t take my eyes away from. I barely knew him but we had this deal going for about a week now and the money was good. I’d play the out-of-towner that made a few bucks off this ugly-looking guy that was doing this 3 card monte thing. When I left folks in the crowd would ante up and when they lost they would blame their own hard luck. After all, that was the only thing they’d ever known their entire lives-and what the hell were they doing hanging out behind the burnt-out warehouse on Westinghouse Street anyway? Improving their lot in life? Not likely. Plus, the old man was very good. He had all the looks in his inventory-he could be surprised. He did a fantastic, “sorry for your luck” face. His exasperation at losing was worthy of a young Keitel in Mean Streets. He hadn’t gotten this far on luck.
We met, like we always did, in the alleyway in the middle of 3rd Street. He said the action had been good and he slipped me $200. This was great action, best I’d had in quite some time… But my nerve-endings were doing that thing again. He turned away with what for him would pass as a smile. The piece of rope that had seen more than a few things fit snugly around his neck. I got the usual scratches on the face as he flustered about. He went down relatively easy-I’d give it a 5 out of 10. When I went through his pockets I found exactly 200 bucks. It’s not often you find a straight-shooter like that. Oh well, time to move on. I raised my flask to the moon and yelled, “TO THE GAME!”
What time is it? It’s Hayden Hurst time! “Who the fuckballs is Hurst?”, you so elegantly screech. Well, if you must know, he’s the first round rook te that is playing for the very first time tonight. A Ravens Nation holds its halitosis breath. The last time rb Collins lugged the ball vs. the Steelers iffy run D he got himself a measly 120 yards. I’ll bet Flacco’s room temperature gogurt that he gives him the rock a whole whack of times at the outset of the game. It’s the kind of treatment a lousy run D deserves.
Do your thing, tiny dancers.