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[perilist]

That's life — that's what all the people say.

You’re riding high in April, shot down in May. .

••••

I’ve never been good with words. It probably stems from the fact that I had a stuttering problem up until middle school, and decided to not speak as much I could.

My parents thought I mute for the longest time. Shit, I suppose deaf too, since they didn’t care to shield me from conversations about laundering money in the many family businesses that seemed to pop out out of no where.

Do you remember that moment when you found out your parents weren’t a pair of perfect, mythical creatures but rather just. . people? I had my very own epiphany just shy of 8 years old.

Watching your father demolish the walls of your home to hide cash is a visual you can never quite get out of your head.

You see, fucking around with money that isn’t mine is in my blood. However, the way I decided to fuck around with Viktor Petrov’s, the most homicidal loan shark known to man, money was my fault, and my fault alone.

Surely to my detriment, I realized that if I knew my shit, it didn’t matter to how I fast or slow I spoke, or if I wasn’t the smoothest talker in the room. I became a numbers guy. The guy who knew the probability of any bet placed, the return, and most importantly, I could hustle anyone’s bank account dry. I was a winner, plain and simple.

That is, until I made a mistake.

One mistake that cost me everything.

••••

But I know I’m gonna change that tune.

When I’m back on top — back on top in June. .

••••

I’ll spare you the details. But it’s the reason why there’s a knockoff CIA agent standing near the entrance of the Cosmopolitan, my new, temporary home.

As I near the entrance, a 6-pack of beer in hand, he double times toward me. For a second, I just knew this was one of Viktor’s henchmen, until he pulls out a thin stack of papers and mutters, “Oliver Cash? You’ve been served”.

I take hold of the papers with my free hand, without hardly having the time to say anything before the CIA agent disappears into the crowd of tourists.

Not caring enough to move out of the way of those on the strip, I quickly read over the documents.

“Petition for Divorce” is printed in big, bold Times New Roman along the top of the first page.

••••

I said that's life.

And as funny as it may seem, some people get their kicks. .

Stomping on a dream.

••••

For what seems like an eternity, I just stand there and reread the words so many times that they no longer make sense. I’m not even sure what I expected. For Viktor to not track me down? For leaving my pregnant wife in Paris to not result in divorce? I have not a fucking clue but I knew that being back in Vegas was the first step in cleaning up this mess I made.

Accountability was now my middle name.

With the papers and beer, that was soon to be replaced with something much stiffer, in hand, I head inside of the hotel.

The trek to the elevator feels like I’m walking through quicksand while my feet feel like concrete slabs against the ground.

Once inside I pull out my wallet, retrieving the folded copy of Eve’s first ultrasound. Little Ducky and Little Foot were barely noticeable in the image that I felt like I received just yesterday, despite it being months ago.

I’m unable to push the thought that I was following in my parent’s fucked up footsteps. I guess the apple in fact doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

My thumb skims across the paper as the elevator rises to the top floor, before tucking it back into my wallet and striding to my suite once it comes to stop.

••••

But I don't let it — let it get me down.

Cause this fine old world, it keeps spinning around. .

••••

The beer and divorce petition are dropped on the kitchenette counter as soon as I step in and lock the door, making sure the deadbolt was turned as well.

Planting both hands on either side of the paper, my head drops between my shoulders as I allow my eyes to close.

I knew that the thing that got me into all of this was the only way to get me out.

••••

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king.

I've been up and down and over and out — and I know one thing. .

••••

It was time to make money. A shit ton of it.

Expelling a deep breath, I back away from the petition that seems to laugh at me and my failures. It’s mocking leads me to push the beer aside and reach for the rum inside of the freezer.

The money making would continue tomorrow.

Tonight, I was getting black out drunk.

••••

Each time I find myself, flat on my face —

I pick myself up and get back in the race.

That’s life.