The Merciless Slaying of Rusty Dwight
By Jack Bristow
Darren Carpenter loved more than anything THE CASINO. No. You misunderstand. Not any casino. Not the Circus Circus. Not the Mirage, nor The Flamingo, but THE CASINO, located on Forty-Forth Dimestreet Blvd, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Some of the casinos mentioned above are real; some aren't; some used to be. Does it matter? No? Thank you. Anyway. About Darren: every week day evening, after work, as soon as traffic would permit, he'd zoom his new Coupe de Ville The Casino-wards with great, unabashed enthusiasm.
Outside THE CASINO now, gazing upwards today, like every other day, he marvels at the beautiful pink-striped sign: "THE CASINO." In his heart he feels love--or a feeling similar to what he's imagined love to be like, for, although he has a beautiful wife and three remarkably precocious kids at home, they are completely and utterly unnoticed. But this casino, She is something of an entirely different nature, he thought standing outside her entrance, her fantastic multi-colored lights shining down affectionately upon him.
Inside: Like every place else, an overwhelming kaleidoscope of eyes: Green, blue, hazel, brown... But, unlike every place else--work, home, church--they weren't trained on him.
And they wanted nothing.
He falls in love with each and every impersonal one of them.
He walks past the blackjack tables invisibly, perhaps even anonymously, past the Three-Dollar Buffet--which, incidentally, he's fallen in love with, too--all the way to his favorite item: Wild Bill's 5-cent Slot. He calmy and coolly extracts a handful of nickles from his right dress-pant pocket, puts the inestimable amount inside the machine, and pulls the lever. Snap-snap-snap; success; change. snap-snap-snap; success; more change. Wild Bill gleefully "Yeehaws!"
An old shit-kicker type with a handle-bar slapped ridiculously across his face notices Darren's triumphant victory with Wild Bill and tries desperately to make conversation:
"Holy shit there! Fella! Dis might be yer lucky day! Say there. The name's Rusty Dwight. You are?"
This can't be, Darren thinks anxiously. No. Please. Ignore it. Not here. Not now. This thing just wants from me...just like--
"Hey, somethin wrong with you, fella? You don' speak the English? The name is Rusty Dwight, I says, and I--"
The machine sings jubiliantly. Providing Darren with more and more silver. Making him feel the winner. But this thing beside him, babbling! Which isn't real, just like the things at home, and the things at work. How could he stop their shrieking? And get away from them? Before it started severely altering his human luck?
"Whoheee," the thing called Rusty Dwight smacks its knee, and continues to congratulate Darren on his newest success.
Darren extracts his right hand from the coin-bucket, and as Rusty Dwight goes to reach for it Darren socks him straight-smack in the Adam's apple. Rusty-whatever-its-name-is eyes begin to bulge comedically as he falls ass-backwards to the floor, funny liquidlike sounds emitting his throat and mouth.
Darren walks back to his car. Opens the trunk. And-- eureka! A hat! And thick 80's-style Carrera Porsche sunglasses.
Back inside THE CASINO the securitymen and paramedics are already there, putting Rusty-Whatever-Its-Name-Is inside a big black bag. One cop is there scribbling
something in his notebook. Darren sits three slots away from the scene, grinning absentmindedly. The pitboss finally appears. "Well, looks like old Rusty finally did himself in," the middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired man chuckles. "Worst case of suicide I've ever seen," all agree unanimously.
It was then and there that Darren knew he'd stay forever.
- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.
By Jack Bristow
Darren Carpenter loved more than anything THE CASINO. No. You misunderstand. Not any casino. Not the Circus Circus. Not the Mirage, nor The Flamingo, but THE CASINO, located on Forty-Forth Dimestreet Blvd, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Some of the casinos mentioned above are real; some aren't; some used to be. Does it matter? No? Thank you. Anyway. About Darren: every week day evening, after work, as soon as traffic would permit, he'd zoom his new Coupe de Ville The Casino-wards with great, unabashed enthusiasm.
Outside THE CASINO now, gazing upwards today, like every other day, he marvels at the beautiful pink-striped sign: "THE CASINO." In his heart he feels love--or a feeling similar to what he's imagined love to be like, for, although he has a beautiful wife and three remarkably precocious kids at home, they are completely and utterly unnoticed. But this casino, She is something of an entirely different nature, he thought standing outside her entrance, her fantastic multi-colored lights shining down affectionately upon him.
Inside: Like every place else, an overwhelming kaleidoscope of eyes: Green, blue, hazel, brown... But, unlike every place else--work, home, church--they weren't trained on him.
And they wanted nothing.
He falls in love with each and every impersonal one of them.
He walks past the blackjack tables invisibly, perhaps even anonymously, past the Three-Dollar Buffet--which, incidentally, he's fallen in love with, too--all the way to his favorite item: Wild Bill's 5-cent Slot. He calmy and coolly extracts a handful of nickles from his right dress-pant pocket, puts the inestimable amount inside the machine, and pulls the lever. Snap-snap-snap; success; change. snap-snap-snap; success; more change. Wild Bill gleefully "Yeehaws!"
An old shit-kicker type with a handle-bar slapped ridiculously across his face notices Darren's triumphant victory with Wild Bill and tries desperately to make conversation:
"Holy shit there! Fella! Dis might be yer lucky day! Say there. The name's Rusty Dwight. You are?"
This can't be, Darren thinks anxiously. No. Please. Ignore it. Not here. Not now. This thing just wants from me...just like--
"Hey, somethin wrong with you, fella? You don' speak the English? The name is Rusty Dwight, I says, and I--"
The machine sings jubiliantly. Providing Darren with more and more silver. Making him feel the winner. But this thing beside him, babbling! Which isn't real, just like the things at home, and the things at work. How could he stop their shrieking? And get away from them? Before it started severely altering his human luck?
"Whoheee," the thing called Rusty Dwight smacks its knee, and continues to congratulate Darren on his newest success.
Darren extracts his right hand from the coin-bucket, and as Rusty Dwight goes to reach for it Darren socks him straight-smack in the Adam's apple. Rusty-whatever-its-name-is eyes begin to bulge comedically as he falls ass-backwards to the floor, funny liquidlike sounds emitting his throat and mouth.
Darren walks back to his car. Opens the trunk. And-- eureka! A hat! And thick 80's-style Carrera Porsche sunglasses.
Back inside THE CASINO the securitymen and paramedics are already there, putting Rusty-Whatever-Its-Name-Is inside a big black bag. One cop is there scribbling
something in his notebook. Darren sits three slots away from the scene, grinning absentmindedly. The pitboss finally appears. "Well, looks like old Rusty finally did himself in," the middle-aged, salt-and-pepper-haired man chuckles. "Worst case of suicide I've ever seen," all agree unanimously.
It was then and there that Darren knew he'd stay forever.
- - -
Jack Bristow attended Long Ridge Writer's Group in 2008--under the tutelage of accomplished writers Dolph Lemoult and Mary Rosenbaum. A native Californian, but now currently residing somewhere in New Mexico, his next short story to be published--"Our Bus Driver, Fred"--can be read in the upcoming issue Thirteen of Cantaraville: An International PDF Literary Quarterly.
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