“It’s not about winning….

The first thing that hits you is the SHOCK. Your lungs fill up slowly with the now muggy air, in stages and laboured, like filling a tyre with a faulty foot pump. Next to come is SENTIENCE. Your pupils flash wider like two cracked eggs in a mid-morning pan as the hairs on your neck become militant, standing to attention awaiting the permission to “At-ease”. My breathing became shallow and rhythmically weak. The tadpoles of sweat now spawning on my neck and head are esoterically dancing and darting between my newly awakened regiments on a journey to nowhere. As I mop my brow with my sleeve I realise my hands are empty. This would account for the thud I heard earlier, although, the thought is fleeting, as now my attention is firmly on the crowd. I narrow my eyes just a touch, trying to see through the blinding veil of fake smiles and nods of acceptance. These newly attired masks hide mainly resentment and some utter confusion; although some of the women’s eyes betray a serpent like sense of opportunity, as if a new mouse has befallen their cage. I kneel down and pick up my things off the floor. With my breathing returning to normal I take a quick inhale in preparation to pierce the sweetly sickening smell of sweat and perfume that surrounds me. As my prize is prepared, the cacophony of clicks reminds me of an avalanche of bones. The Vultures around me (now all aware of my existence and carnivorously eyeballing my reward) truly framing this graveyard of dreams. I clutch my prize tightly; as a new-born would with its first available finger and I head towards the cage. As the dull comedown of daily mindfulness begins to return I let out a small chuckle. The first real display of joy since this 4 minute ordeal began. Yet it wasn’t for my prize, nor for the excitement of what would be now to come. It was those now infamous words: “It’s about how you got here”…

5) “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”

He knew his body had betrayed him the moment he heard the “What…”.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Maurice’s boss was in his usual flustered temperament striding the through the pits like a Ghoul on a catwalk.

“Nothing Boss” Maurice cheerily feigned.

The mechanical buzz off the camera swivelling to his direction forced his gaze up over.

“Good, you got time to lean you got time to clean! Now put the chips out for the pigeons once you’re done and….” His voice tapered off as he strutted towards another elusive audience.

Maurice watched him disappear into the sea of statues and pondered his daily rebuking from his Boss. He had been thinking about the package his mother had sent him. Normally a few essentials, some cleaning products and food. She was always worried he’d catch something from the grime his flat had accumulated over the years. He never noticed it. He had waited as long as he could this morning for it to arrive but to no avail and thinking about how much he wanted to open that package, to smell the scent of the candles of his youth bound in the sheets of wrapping and for a moment to be taken back to that fragment of time, he had let out a sigh. His boss not only renowned for his temperament also sported a sonar like hearing, previously thought to be reserved only for the Bat community. He could sense discontent in his workers as sharks with blood in water and had duly pounced on it.

Maurice shook it off and trundled over to the chip cart.

“Gotta feed the pigeons” he chuckled to himself.

He pushed the cart along the jade marble floor. The reflections in the floor had always been a source of amazement to him. The light and shadows skipped along the surface, yet like a two way mirror, it was as if somehow they were hiding some souls beneath, trapped and obscured to the wandering blind eyes above them, distracted by the light’s tricks.

He didn’t see her. Nor did he hear her. Yet less than a second later he was trying to catch her. The woman who seemingly had materialised from nowhere was now netted in his flailing arms.

“You ok?” he asked.

“I’m fine, I’m fine” she replied hurriedly.

He took the time to notice her appearance. A white dress was twinned with a blue cardigan and pictures of what looked like doves on a metal pinned broach. He went to glimpse her face to read if she really was ok when both things happened at once….

Maurice became aware his hands were empty.

The crash of the trolley hitting the marble filled the room.

Maurice forgot about the lady and hurtled towards the trolley. The bird feed was everywhere. Some sodden by the overturned mop bucket (the catalyst to this accident) with the rest strewn across the lava red carpet like little green islands marooned in a sea of scarlet. He looked back to see if the lady had noticed, these after all were the expensive ones but she had thankfully gone. He frantically scrambled to collect them up and reorganise the trolley. The camera above him whizzed into position. A hand on his back caused him to freeze, fearing it was the return of Batshark and the end of his time working there.

“Need a hand?” the unfamiliar voice caused greater fear than Batshark’s.

“I’m fine” Maurice barked.

The satchel carrying man, visibly taken aback scurried off towards where the woman had been. Aware of the eyes above him and soon to be near him, Maurice slammed shut the trolley cage and scurried towards the pits. “This’ll do” he thought as he paced… “gotta feed the birds”.

7) “Good things come to those who wait”

The aluminium sink “cracked” as the flood of cold water warped it’s previously supple molten state.

“Shit, shit, shit, ow, ow, ow.”

Carlos plunged his finger into the soothing water trying to extinguish his nerve endings.

“You burn yourself again?” Said Tank hiding a smirk.

“I’m gonna have to get you to work the walk-in” he now said unreservedly laughing.

Carlos mumbled to himself as he headed for the first aid kit.

“No plasters” he shouted at Tank

“Office then” he replied.

This was an unexpected bonus. Carlos’s habit of burning himself was a consequate from the idea that the quicker he sorted the pre-grilled buns for service, the more likely he could go for a cigarette before service started. He looked at the clock.

“16:45”.

“Smoke and a bandaid” he thought.

Now decidedly more chipper he headed for Beetlejuice’s office. Beetlejuice was the nickname they gave to the pit boss; a ghoulish type character who no-one liked. He was about to knock when he heard some poor soul getting their ear chewed through the door. Something about Pigeon’s and clumsiness. He hated the term “Pigeon’s”, “Punters” was bad enough. It was nearly time to open. The clink of glasses could be heard from the bar and the “Pigeons” were collecting behind the velvet rope, milling, like Hyena’s awaiting the Lion’s to leave a prey. Walking around the pit would take too long so he headed for the fire exit as the crow flies, across the red carpet and to his nicotine reward.

Marlboro mission abort happened about half way across the pit. Carlos had spied Harper. Harper was waxing the wheels ready for the first spins. Harper owed him 200.

“Hey Harper” Carlos shouted now veering towards him.

Harper stopped waxing the wheel but didn’t look up.

“Hey Carlos… about that 200…”

It was too late. Carlos had pushed into him sending Harper and the liquid wax flying. A few drops hit the wheel but the rest seeped into the red carpet.

“It’s in my locker man, I was gonna give it to you after work” Harper squealed.

Carlos didn’t have time to reply. Before he could inhale a heavy hand grabbed him on the back and spun him round. It was Beetlejuice.

“Get off my floor and go join Maurice in my office” the stern tone of his voice demanding compliance.

Carlos tried to resist but the energy eluded him. The ordeal made all the more embarrassing as a group of Punters were now around the table awaiting the spins. He sloped off towards where he’d whence came realising he’d lost his job and after hearing Beetlejuice shout “Pit Change” knowing the next time he spoke, he’d be the poor soul on the other side of that door.

...It’s about how you got here”

I hate Vegas. I always have. The neon lights make man size moths of everyone, bouncing around aimlessly in the darkened streets awaiting the morning sun to find their way home. I’d stayed about as close to God but as far away from religion I could my whole life but this place just felt unholy to me. I’d been sent here by my newspaper to do an article about the gambling industry and their charity work. After meeting with the pit boss, John Carrick, an ogre looking fella who referred to the customers as “Birds” and the chips as “feed” I’d have had a better chance of writing about philanthropy covering Ali Baba. Still it was my last night and I was looking for the lady I’d met earlier.

“Met” I suppose is a strong term. She’d dropped a book on her way out of the elevator about an hour earlier and I’d shouted at her and she ran. I couldn’t blame her. This Hotel was scary enough. Their “Roman Colloseum” Charity do had people dressed in the weirdest masks and there were statues everywhere. The staff weren’t friendly either, one of them had pretty much taken my head off when I asked him if he needed help….

“That’s where I last saw her!”

The lightbulb moment when your synapses fire again. I trundled over to the marble floor besides the elevator to see if she’d dropped anything else, an ID maybe? No ID but there was a green disc lodged by the column.

“Holy shit, this is a 1000 chip”

I rushed it into my pocket and went to sit down. I was now acutely aware of the team of camera’s attached to the ceiling following the floor’s every move. I pulled out the black leather bound book the woman had dropped from my satchel and skimmed into it.

“It’s not about winning: it’s about how you got here”

“By Videl Scis”

It was some kind of self-help book I think. I glanced the chapter titles:

1) Never a borrower or a lender be

2) The beast and the Buddha (being nice at work)

3) Ladder theory (what is above you can quickly be below you)

4) Push yourself

Jesus. There were 10 chapters of this nonsense. Common sense repackaged, relabelled and shipped to the masses a deified wisdom. I heard Carrick’s voice shout. My spine froze. I looked up but he was just ordering a staff change at one of the Wheel’s. I had to get rid of this chip. I looked at the last chapter title

10) From zero to hero

Hmm. From zero to prison more like. Then it hit me…. Gamble it. I went over to the table where the staff had changed. They wouldn’t recognise me I thought. I was gripping tightly onto the book as I wandered to the table. Zero to hero. I put it on 0. The ball began to spin. “Final call”. It still spun.”No more bets please”. The ball began its decent, hit the metal and stuck in one of the numbers, caught in some kind of liquid on the table. I peered around the person in front of me to see the number. It was ZERO. The book dropped. The first thing that hit me was SHOCK.