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Joyous Treason


To the broken hearted

 A Spectre is haunting America

Sitting at a bar in Reno I’ve never been to, a person sat next to me and hunched over to sink into their drink. Feeling a little lonely myself I struck up some conversation. The whiskey soon took hold and we were telling our stories and having some laughs. But as these things often go what goes up must come down. Soon enough my new friend was telling me about their troubles, frustrations and set-backs. Somehow becoming simultaneously more animated and exhausted in mannerism they blurted out, “It all just seems rigged, no matter how hard I try things never work out. The house always wins.” I took another pull of my drink—first hot then cool—I put my hand on their shoulder and said, “If you don’t want to loose at poker don’t sit at their table and relations between us and the dealers need not be so amiable.” I then leaned in and whispered, “I do believe this casino is flammable.”

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