We are piling on not be piled in. The dough is multiplying. What if we
lose? Eli says he has this thing going for him tonight, a wild card,
from nature, and he does not dream to stop even though we reek of the
casino's funds, even though two Spanish beauties resolutely scramble
over him and heavies in bursting suits forage around obtrusively.
Eli's protruding eyes fixated on the wheel, mesmerically attempting to
bring it to a favoured halt.
It smoothly winds down and Eli ignores my furious pestering: our
underwriters invested to test and implement a betting method I
developed. "I am offended" - I whisper, he ignores me. A febrile Eli
has bonded with the table and every number wins, especially his choices.
"Twenty eight!" - he hisses, sidestepping the croupier to fetch his
gains. He sprawls on the green felt surface and lovingly enfolds the
clacking tokens. Reclining, eyes shut agloat, he savours his
unaccustomed fortune. For he deserves a break. To Eli, this is not a
game or, as I regard it, merely another path to self-enrichment.
To him, it is a sweet revenge for all the years he wasted, vending
decaying fruits, along dusty and sizzling highways. This loot proves
his detractors wrong.
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