I'm Magic - Author Fairview - Part 3

I'm Magic - Fairview

Official Journal: file #---7. Part 3

    6:00 PM... that's a good time for acoustic punk... going to go with some Man Overboard.

    I had my iPod hooked up to an alarm clock; it played a song of my choosing instead of making that horrible buzzing noise that I hated so much. Though I would hate waking up at 6:00, I would enjoy some of my favorite bands. That was the idea, anyway. Whatever.

    I'd been working for this Aquila bro for a sum total of 2 weeks. I had my own room, a change of clothes, and I got the only non-shared bathroom in the place. The walls were the same blue color as in the sickroom, and there was one window leading to a rusted fire escape, which connected to the roof. There also was a black door; I had no idea where it led or what was inside, as it was locked. All in all, the accommodations were satisfying and comfortable. Pretty decent pay too; at least enough to cover my meager expenses. The downside was getting up at 6:00AM.

    Also the part where a drunk guy put a hole in my shoulder with a knife. It's healed by now, but I'm hoping that getting stabbed isn't the norm. With my luck, well, you never know.

    I turned of the light and fell to sleep immediately. I dreamed of nothing.

….

-6:00 AM, Tuesday-

    “I understand how it works, on paper, we're similar people. But we're different people, we're different people”

    I awoke to the sad, slow strains of Man Overboard, and I turned off the iPod. I had barely gotten dressed, (typical black skinny jeans and a striped black and gray 'V' neck T-Shirt) when Aquila opened my door without knocking.

“You nearly ready to leave, Fairview?”

    “Yeah man, hang on.” I slid on my beat-up Converse All Stars (Vintage 1999!) and started to walk out of the room. He put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me before I had cleared the threshold.

“You're forgetting something.”

    “Yeah? What's that?”

    Aquila smirked. “Your weapon. We heard you have a bit of training in that area and have a couple weapons for you to choose from. The Department of Operations has been particularly generous in your case; they were quite... intrigued... by your abilities and did not want such an... opportunistic asset to be lost.” He then unlocked the black door. Apparently I'd earned access to this for doing... something. I had no idea.

It was an Operation Room. There was a map of the city on the wall, a computer, a file cabinet labeled “Case Files” and on the wall hung a bulletproof tactical vest. There were slots for magazine pouches, but no pouches had been attached. I had yet to choose my weapon.

    “We have a couple things here. You can have an MP9 with a silencer, folding stock, and EoTech optic with 3x Magnification. Or you can have a PP2000 with the same loadout. Up to you.” I chose the MP9. Aquila then handed me a thick black hoodie with a skull and crossbones encircled by a white ring emblazoned across the front.

    “While I find your enjoyment of all things punk somewhat distasteful, we have this for you. The MP9 will fit inside of it here-” he gestured towards a carrying strap on the inside- “and it will be invisible, for the most part. If you are stupid with the weapon, it will be revoked, understand?” He pulled the weapon out of his trench coat and handed it to me. It went into the jacket, which I put on overtop the tac-vest. Not too uncomfortable.

“Yeah, gotcha dude. What do you want me to do today?”

    “You're going back to where you were stabbed and you're going to figure out what did it. We are nearly certain it wasn't a man. No man moves like he did. Far too fast. Not very coordinated, but fast. There's a van waiting. Have fun.” Ivan wasn't big on details. That's fine, I needed freedom anyway. I was getting tired of sitting in on psych analysis and telling people their own secrets about themselves.

About ten minutes later, I was sitting on a bench across the street from the spot where I was stabbed. Just watching, just feeling the place. It was sunny, but cold. The white face of an apartment complex across the street glared sharply, directly contrasting the gray pallor of the buildings adjacent. The black tinted windows reflected the surrounding urban landscape. It was one of those mornings, humid and cold, which certainly meant that the day would be either oppressively hot, or stormy. Or both.

    The most interesting thing I'd felt from anyone all day was from a passing businessman, who I somehow knew was completely straight but really enjoyed wearing dresses and skirts and makeup. If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that people are weird. Whatever, man.

    At about 8:30, I looked at the roof of the white apartment. There was a man on top of it. That's odd... he seems to be looking directly at me, though I can't see his face... He turned and walked away, out of my view. Gotta check this out... I walked across the street and into the building, took an elevator to the roof and looked around. I stepped onto the gravel that covered the roof and quickly walked the perimeter. Nobody. Ugh, why does this have to be so hard. I could feel the telltale darkness that signified an evil spirit. Looks like I was hunting either a possessed man, a demon, or something else entirely. Fun times. Suddenly the presence intensified, like a blow to the body.

    Except it was, actually, a blow to my body.

    I felt myself falling forward before I even knew what to do. I tucked and rolled, and came up facing the man who had stabbed me. He spoke, but this time it was not slurred, nor was it coarse. It was pristine and low, contrasting sharply with his bedraggled appearance.

“Hi there. So sorry you survived that last encounter. Seemed a policeman was just around the corner and he didn't enjoy my stabbing you. I had to leave our little party, but now we're together again and it's time for some fun.”

    “You bastard.” I pulled out my MP9 and lined him up. “Don't move, man, or the last thing to go through your mind will be a 9 Millimeter, Full Metal Jacket slug.”

    “Go ahead! Shoot me. It'll be so much fun knowing you've killed an innocent drunk, and loosed me from my container. Seriously, do it.”

    “You're bluffing.” He had to be. No way could he just go and inhabit someone else. He had to have an opening into their mind. That was hard to get.

    “Find out, fool.” He spat at me.

    Pchik-Pchik-

    And I spat two bullets straight through his shoulder. He shuffled backwards but made no noise. The white gravel crunched against his feet and glared in the sun. A gust of hot wind ruffled my hair. Traffic continued on the road below.

    Nothing. Damn!

    Pchik- One through the calf. He hit the dirt with a crunch. Good, he's immobilized.

    But the demon felt none of the pain his man experienced. He seemed to be slowing the bleeding somehow, as well... interesting. “That was for the knife wound, dude. You wanna play this game? I'm not a regular cop and I certainly won't hesitate to get your 'container' locked up forever for threatening me. That would be pretty unfortunate, you'd be forced to leave him. But you can't, can you? Or you'd have left him here to bleed out already” Now it was my turn to run things. If I killed him, he'd die too- or be sent somewhere less desirable. “You have to get your container there in for some medical attention. But I don't see you leaving me anytime soon. So we're going to do something about that...” I picked up my phone and called Ivan. “Yo dude, I got us a suspect. We're going to need the house doctor in the van, he's hit. Once in the calf, twice in the shoulder. Do you copy, over?”

    “Copy that.” was Ivan's only reply.

I sat there with the demon for about 10 minutes. He said nothing. Finally Harrow and the doctor popped out of the elevator with a folding stretcher.

    “Wow, Fairview, first field case and you shoot the poor guy.” said Harrow. She pulled out a stun gun and immediately stunned the demon with it, incapacitating him entirely.

    “I see you have no qualms about sending 200,000 volts through a downed man.”

    “Just help me get him onto the stretcher.” We lifted his now unconscious container/body on, and the doctor tied a tourniquet around his leg and bound his shoulder. 10 minutes later we were back at the Facility, and the demon was in the holding cell.

---

    “So... this is, what, exactly?” Scout asked. She had stood and watched him sit in the cell for about 20 minutes, without saying anything. The demon had been trying to break the bars of the cell and screaming loudly- we eventually needed to give him sedatives so that the shell he contained couldn't physically act the way the demon wanted him to. 

    “It's a possessed man. Except with a twist; this guy is his permanent container. The demon literally can't leave him. I wouldn't be surprised if he's over 200 years old- the demon kept him from bleeding out when I shot him.”

    “You shot him?”

     “Um, yeah, it was sorta required. I don't screw around with these guys. They live for control. I'm supposed to interrogate him, wanna watch? Could be interesting.”

    “Yeah, okay.” She said. Cool. I like audiences, and I assume he does too. Should make it more interesting. I slammed the bars of the 10 by 10 holding cell.

    “Up! Now! Get up! … Sit down at the table, okay?” I yelled at the demon. I entered the cage and locked it behind me. I wasn't particularly afraid- Scout was right behind me, and she was armed. I sat down opposite him. “What's your name, dude.”

    “Alex.” He said plainly.

    “Okay, Alex. I've got a few things to ask you really fast, so listen up and we'll get this over really fast, okay? You got that?” He mumbled some incomprehensible gibberish. “HEY.” WHAM! I slammed table with my fist, about 2 inches from his face. “I'm not playing games here! You need to get something straight here- you have no rights. None. At all. There are no laws on the books that deal with the treatment of Spirits. I freaking own you, got it? That's why I shot you, and that's why I'll do it again if I don't get what I want. You can make this easy or hard. But we are NOT starting out like this, got it?”

    “Fine.”

    “Great!” I smiled and quit Bad Cop mode right away. “So what are you doing here, Alex? Why are you in Deinsport, and how did you get into that body?”

    “Shit, man. You're dense. This isn't a body. It's a shell. It's a container. I was trapped in it forever exactly 234 years ago, to the day. It's not real. Yeah, it has the physical functions and limitations of a human, but I don't feel pain and I don't decay. I can also heal it very quickly on my own. That's why I barely bled and wasn't hurt when you shot me, and it's why hurting me will do nothing.” He was arrogant. Good. He was also stupid. Not surprising.

    “Great, man. Just great. Why are you here?”

    “I thought I'd have a nice vacation, you know. See the sights-” Thwack! I punched him right in the face. He didn't blink but he looked surprised.

    “Remember the part where you don't screw with me? Granted, that didn't hurt, but I could break your legs and then you'd have a whole lot of fun not doing anything until that healed.”

    “I came here on a whim. That's it. Break my legs, or my face, or whatever. I'm sticking to that. As for attacking you, I knew you'd know what I was and do something about it. Didn't want to take the chance. As it turns out, you did anyway and so here we are. A fun time has been had by all. Now let me go.”

    I needed one more thing. This guy was useless. Just a run of the mill demon in a shell. His body would be more use to us dead. “How did you get into that shell?”

    “Darker forces than myself put me here.”

    “And what happens when your shell is fatally wounded?” Here we go...

    “Yeah, my spirit is banished back to where I came from. Hell.” Perfect.

    “One last thing, Alex.” I said. I put my hands on the pistol grip of the MP9.

    “Yeah?”

    “Go to Hell. Literally.” I pulled out the MP9. His eyes and expression didn't change as I lined up a point blank shot and pulled the trigger.

    Pchik-

    Blood spurted out the back of his head and the new third eye in the middle of his forehead. Alex collapsed across the desk, but he bled no more. His body started to disintegrate into a pile of dust. Fascinating. Scout stared at me, looking somewhat confused. 

    “You just... kill him? No more questions, nothing?”

    “That was a demon. He has no right to life, and he had no information for me. Besides, he's not even dead. He's back in Hell where he belongs. Ivan gave me the go ahead to do whatever I liked with him. I did.”

    “So, he's just gone?”

    “Yep. But a bigger question remains. How many more of these shells are there? I don't know. But we're going to want to run some tests on this dust. Figure out what it is, maybe we figure out who created him. Get Harrow. She's going to want to see this.” Scout left, and I left the cage. I had to figure out who made this guy. No way he knew. I read that much from him before I finished him off. As far as killing the demon went, well... I felt nothing.

    Ugh, this damn city.

Everyman

I Call Me - Author Harrow

I Call Me - Harrow

Official Journal: File #---18. 

Call me Harrow. My parents did, almost. What they actually named me is of little consequence, since I ditched it shortly after they died.

From here, I could paint myself as a victim of fate, a brooding loner (who may or may not have an obsession with  bats,) or perhaps an inspiring portrayal of rising to greatness after smacking the odds down like a bug. A fat, ugly bug. I greatly enjoy manipulating people to my own ends, but as that seems unnecessary here, I’ll try not to deviate too far from the truth.

The truth is always more complicated than any caricature, and is often painfully dull without at least a few embellishments.

For example, when people think of detective work, they usually picture an absurdly attractive male in a deerstalker hat raking a bloodied room for details, a mustached Belgian in a closed room homicide, or, if they’re fabulous, a cookie grandma solving murder plots while knitting a scarf.

            In reality, detective work is often very unfulfilling.  Don’t get me wrong—I love justice. I am to justice as Jim Gaffigan is to bacon. Yay, justice! The problem is, the solution is either obvious (the ex), or else, the conclusion of a case so old, so obscure, or so ridiculously petty that it's hardly worth mulling over. Criminals are a dull and uncreative lot, and this makes my job unpleasantly easy. Intriguing cases, like glowing hounds and murders of VIPs, are frequently left for the field workers of the F.B.I.

            Why don’t I work for the F.B.I, you ask? Because a PhD in Abnormal Psychology backed up by a few liberal arts degrees is always displaced by a government or SI Major in terms of hiring priority. Also, the government doesn’t like hiring people who don’t trust the government. So… sucks to the F.B.I? We’ll go with that.

            Incidentally though, I think I am on a good case. In brief: there may potentially be an evil illusionist roaming the streets of Deinsport killing people with apparent paranormal acts. What possible motivation is there for a person to go for theatrics and not just get the homicide over with and wipe for fingerprints like a normal criminal? Abnormal Psychology all the way, baby.

            Of course, the independent agency I’m working with is convinced that it’s aliens or demons or something of that nature. Actually, the term Agent Bell used was “Departed.” More notes on this later.  Also, I’m in the process of writing up a diagnosis for Agent Aquila, who is clearly suffering from some issues, chief among which is a profound aversion to me.

The Skeptic - Author Anders

The Skeptic - Anders

Official Document Resource #--37

I’m a skeptic.  I’m not sure if it was my upbringing or simply being fooled one too many times by my older brother.  Either way, I’ve come to a very firm disbelief towards all supposedly supernatural or paranormal encounters.  That was the stuff for fantasy novels and TV shows, not for real life.

But some beg to differ.

For the sake of the story, we’ll say my name is Maria Anders.  When I first came to Deinsport, I found it to be a very depressing city.  Dark, rained too much.  But it was a good place to settle down in if you wanted to keep a low profile from certain others of whom I won’t mention.

To keep things short, I got involved in some shady business in my late teens.  In a big toss-up of employers, I eventually fell under the hire of someone who was semi-legal.  Lester was definitely the nicest employer I ever had.  But I got tired of it.  Yes, I was ready to leave that life behind and settle down with something less dangerous.

But that didn’t seem to be my luck.

Two years passed with only minor incidents threatening my new stability.  Lester didn’t bother me, and anyone else either couldn’t find me or stayed away.  But one chilly night, as I sat in my apartment in front of the TV, someone knocked at the door.  It was a firm rap, insisting.  I shut off the TV show, which wasn’t that interesting anyhow, and reluctantly went to answer.  As a habit, I peered through the peek-hole.  My breath caught.

I knew this man.  I could recognize the narrow face, straggled black hair, and pale brown eyes anywhere.  I cracked open the door.

“Steve,” I stated.

“You gonna let me in?”  His mouth twitched into a smile.  Here was a man who really enjoyed his job too much.

“That depends.  You with Lester this time or should I be worried about an assault team surrounding the building?”

“Lester,” he answered coolly, “And a message.”

I opened the door wider.  He took it as invitation enough to step inside, ignoring my scowl.

“I won’t be taking a job.”

“Maybe you better see the job first.”

I crossed my arms.

“It involves… something paranormal.”

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t just knock you out and throw you on the streets?”

“Aside from my amazing ninja skills,” he grinned irritatingly, “The case involves a group of paranormal detectives.  Just take a look.”

His easy smile hardly matched the insistence with which he shoved a folder full of papers into my arms.  I grudgingly opened it, glancing over the paperwork and photos.

“The DDS actually hired those guys,” he explained as I examined a few photos of some paranormal detective group, “They must be pretty convincing.  But what’s more, we’ve found other groups that are already after them.  They must be on to something.  Lester wants to know what that something is, along with… evidence as to whether or not their group is a phony.”

“They’re fake.  All paranormal guys are fakes.  Case closed.  As for the other thing, hire someone who hasn’t retired.”

“Don’t be so dismissive!” he protested, “I know you’re not big on supernatural stuff, but you have to admit that these guys must have found something important.  Besides, you can get back at that guy…”

He pointed to the name of a group that I’m not in any position to mention publically.  Needless to say, I had a grudge against them.  But I still wasn’t biting.

I glared at him.  He glared back, but with more enjoyment than a glare deserved to have.

“There’s also…” he paused for effect, like he was coming to the finale, “Good pay involved.  And I know your current job position is a bit unstable.”

There it was.

Lester may be a nicer boss than most, but he was still relentless when he wanted something.  So he had been the one causing problems at my work.

“So now we’re down to threats.”  It was almost an accusation.

“If you insist on seeing things in such a negative light, then yes.”

Steve had to be the most infuriating mercenary I had ever met.  You could put a gun to his head and he still might make a witty comment.  I looked back at the papers.  It wasn’t a bad job.  And he wasn’t lying about the pay.

“So what’s it going to be?”

“This one, and he better not ask me to do any more.  Am I clear?”

“Clear as glass.”  He casually leaned against a wall.  “So how about I stay a bit?  Get some beer, watch a movie…”

My frown was answer enough.  He didn’t take the hint.  “We’re not friends anymore, remember?  Out.”

This time, he didn’t argue.  He got up and left my apartment for who-knows-where.  With him gone, I sat at my table and started the work of reading through all the files.  Jonathan Bell and Ivan Aquilla, the two oldest members of their little detective group…  maybe they were the place to start.  I checked the time.  Past midnight.  I resigned myself to sleep for the long day ahead, for there was much to do.

Now, you may be wondering, why would I post such a story to the DDS?  I’m undercover, right?  

The answer: this is a warning.

You are being watched.  And you are in much danger.

I'm Magic - Author Fairview - Part 2

I'm Magic - Fairview

Official Journal: File #---7. Part 2

<decryptionalgorthm.bat\\upgrade=true>
<Devnotes: Files have been unlocked to show less code>



Fairview Case Report: 07, section 2

“Here’s my card. I’m detective Jonathan Bell. Gimme a call if you’re interested. The pay isn’t brilliant but I promise having a paycheck and dealing with me will be a lot easier than having none and dealing with beard-face over there. He seems like he has a bone to pick with you. Which reminds me. I’d better be going. Until next time.”

Aw man, this did not look good. Beard guy was drunk, angry, and headed right towards me. Also, he had a bottle.

“Heey, you little punk cheater sonuvabitch, you gonna pay for what you was gonna do to me!” Slurred speech, wobbly footfalls. This guy was wasted. His red beard was full of crumbs. Gross. Arguing with drunk people never goes well, so I started to make my way outside. I walked out the front door of the bar and started making my way down the street. My apartment was only about a block from here and once I got there I’d be *WHAM*.

Something hit me, hard, in the left shoulder-blade, and I hit the pavement. No time to think. I rolled to the side as he forcefully tried to step on my face, but his depth perception was so bad he would have missed anyway. I stood up, got behind him, grabbed his arm, twisted it around his back, and then kicked him behind the knee. His shoulder POPPED out noisily as he spun around and landed, face first, on the sidewalk. I threw the knife across the street.

Wait, knife? He had a knife? Where did that come from? How did he get here so fast? I felt warmth spreading down my back, and for some reason my left arm wouldn’t move, and I couldn’t see and<error508_decryption_garbled>

<Searching for next decryptable entry>
.
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<Entry found>
<Resuming Decryption.exe>

“Time to rise, Mr. Fairview. Time to rise and smell the ashes” Someone said in the darkness. Whoah, light, there’s light. And a person. With a hat. What? What on earth... where was I? What is this place? Huh?

“What happened to me?! Get me out of here!” I sat up way too fast and grey-zoned it back onto what looked like a hospital bed. There was an IV in my arm. White curtains on a white window frame with light blue walls. But this wasn’t a hospital.

And that creepy guy who gave me his card at the bar was standing next to my bed.

“HOLY SH-” He clamped his hand firmly over my mouth and I started to freak out even more. What on earth was going on here?! I forced myself to resume mental/physical control and he pulled his hand off of my face.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t have you making a lot of noise. You’re in good hands- well, at least my hands. I’ve had a private doctor evaluate your condition and you are going to be just fine. You got stabbed by the belligerent at the bar. Just sit tight, you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Excuse me? I don’t remember signing up for your team. This isn’t how it works. This should be voluntary.”

He turned and looked at me, but I couldn’t see his face from a cast shadow. I could feel a second of sadness within him though. But the sadness vanished and I felt his mind shift towards the goal at hand... whatever that looked like.

“You’re right. It should be. But if you’re the person I’ve read you are, you will want to help us. Also we have a case we need you for. Now. It can’t wait and it directly involves you and your skillset. We start work tomorrow.” Man, oh man. I didn’t want to do this at all. But a part of me was interested in whatever this Bell guy had up his sleeve.

“I get paid?” I needed cash most desperately.

“Yes. You also get a living space here. Free room and board. We have our own facilities and everything.”

“Deal.”

I'm Magic - Author Fairview

Decoded File Encryption.

Client identified as James Fairview.

I'm Magic - Fairview

Official Journal: File #---7. Part 1

Name_of_author=James_Fairview:\\
<fairviewcasereport07entry01.doc>//shelldecrypt=start

<indent> Okay, seriously. I bet you were expecting some sort of awesome, dramatic entry to a brilliant, cliche mystery story. Fedora hats, cigarette, office with a pretty secretary in stilettos, and Brooklyn accents. Not my scene, man. I mean, what do you think this is, 1950? C’mon dude.
<break>
<indent> About two years ago, I got let go from my job as District Attorney. Few things about that: Apparently winning a lot of cases makes a lot of enemies, and also getting sued for character defamation will get you fired. Some idiot at a desk in Pasadena got his panties in a knot and, well, lets just say things got icy quickly.
<break>
<indent> Anyway, after I got fired, I found myself living in the city of lovely Deinsport, Virginia. It was the furthest I could get with a $100 dollar one-way bus ticket. It’s an unusually cold town, in more ways than one, and I found that my ripped skinny jeans, Sex Pistols T-Shirt, and destroyed Converse All Stars (vintage 1982!) and studded jacket were not well accepted. Of course, nobody said anything, and I only got the occasional dirty look, but I felt it. Everywhere.

Ice. Freaking. Cold.

“You can’t feel people.”
Okay.
<indent>Yeah, I can. Emotions, events from their past, hopes, dreams, marital status, sexuality, I know it. It’s often hard to deal with. But it was why I kicked ass as DA and also part of the reason I got sued.
<break>
<indent>I also sense... paranormal beings... in the environment around me. Both of these particulars got me hired again. But into a line of work I hardly had anticipated. Paranormal detective.
<break>
<indent>I was making mint playing poker in a seedy bar known as Brickston’s. Back room, faded wallpaper, single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Cigars, and local brew. Pretty girl counting cards. Red felt table. I was in the process of screwing over some bearded schmuck for all he had, when this bro I played earlier walked into the room, and puts his hand on my shoulder.
<break>
<indent\\Insert:\\Dialogue.exe>
“You’re coming with me.”
“Dude, I’m gonna sweep this guy.”
“Well, you just gave THAT away, so your hand is ruined. Now stop wasting your talent at the table and get over here. We need to talk.”
<endcommand\Dialogue.Exe>

<indent> I got up. Tip of the hat, and another tip to the card girl. And against my better judgement, I followed the guy out. Great. Some hustler wants to pick a fight with me and I hope to God he doesn’t know any of the people I put away as DA, or the furious bearded man who just learned I was going to win all his chips.
<break>
<indent>

And that is how I met Detective Jonathan Bell.   

Name_of_author=James_Fairview:\\
<fairviewcasereport07entry02.doc>//shelldecrypt=start

<indent\\Insert:\\Dialogue.exe>
“What are you doing?” The man sounded like he thought I was cheating. Okay, well, I sorta was. I knew what kind of hand everyone had at the table. Not the specific cards, but I did know if they were good or bad, based on how the players felt.

”I’m winning. Or I was. What do you want, dude.”
 
“I want to know how you managed to win five games straight without losing a penny. You counting cards? Was the girl tipping you off under the table?”
<indent> I didn’t want to explain this. Nobody believes in this kind of junk anymore.
“I’m magic, moron. Now let me go back and win this.”
He didn’t look like he’d do that, though, and sure enough:
“Not gonna happen, bud. You go in there, that bearded guy uses you for a chaser. Give it to me straight, man, I know you weren't cheating, at least in the traditional sense.”

“You seriously want to know?” He raised his eyebrows slightly and looked me in the eye. Okay, he wants to know.
“I read people. In depth. Like a book. I know that yesterday you had a smoke even though you were trying to quit and I also know that you’re not in a normal line of work. We done here?”

Surprise registered across his face. He wasn’t expecting that. And I felt that too. No reply.

“Look bud. I’m out of a job, and I need cash. I’m good at poker and I could probably win big in Vegas against the pros if I wanted. Cut me some slack.”

He looked at me with- and I know this sounds horribly cliche but I swear it was true and I can’t think of anything else- some kind of strange light in his eye. Before he said it I knew.

He wanted to hire me.