text: [Themes: modern]
  
  It was a night like any other. Guests file in the hotel, excited to arrive and explore the building. They filter through the automatic glass double doors like marathoners beginning a race, though at a slightly slower pace. Rachel watches them pour in, dressed in their finest gowns and tuxes. It was a night like any other; there were rarely gaps in the famed Sterling Suites' events.
  
  She stands behind a computer monitor, offering smiles towards the few guests that glance in her direction. Here, she's merely nothing more than a backdrop, a service to be used and disposed at the guests' direction. Out there... Rachel turns her head to view at the city outside... Out there, she's certainly not a glorified vending machine.
  
  Rachel tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and adjusts her black-rimmed glasses. To her, it's auburn. Charlie likes to call it copper, most likely because he knows it annoys her. If they don't get under your skin, it's not the real thing, her mother used to say. Whatever gets you through the day, Ma'. She'd probably still be dancing on the stage well into the 90s if the lung cancer didn't get her first. A pack a day eventually catches up to you.
  
  The monitor to the hotel's computer goes black for a moment as it "thinks." You'd think Sterling Suites would have decent computers behind the desk by the amount of wealthy guests it draws. Guess some things are the same whether you work at a dead-end business or fancy hotel: company computers suck ass.
  
  "You manage to get everyone checked in ok?" the voice of Marjorie croaks behind Rachel.
  
  "Yes, Marge," Rachel says, managing to hold back a sigh. The old bag hardly knew how to turn on the damn computer, let alone check anyone in. Still, Marge had been around since the hotel's founding, and apparently, that's carrying her through the latter half of her career: her usefulness certainly wasn't.
  
  "There is a special guest tonight. I hope that you will show him more courtesy than you show me," Marjorie says.
  
  "Oh yes, Mr. Crestwood has been all over me about it," Rachel answers. "I prepared the Presidential Suite to the utmost detail. I had facilities take out the normal chandelier that hangs in the entryway. You know, the crystalline willow one? It's gone now and replaced with the 'regal' one. Same thing for all the candlesticks and booshwa bottles of alcohol. Everything in the suite is the finest Sterling has to offer, including the, uh, company provided."
  
  "Hmmpt. That's Doctor Crestwood. Don't you forget it, honey," Marjorie corrects as she leaves the front desk, most likely making for casino at the northern end of the hotel's campus. Marge sure loves her bingo. Some stereotypes hold true.
  
  Rachel releases her sigh that had been building up since hearing Marge's first words. As far as jobs go, it wasn't a bad gig. Some of the guests tipped well, and it was hardly ever boring. How could it be? Through those glass double doors enter strangers from around the world, with stories from all over.
  
  Along with a thick wallet comes stories, hardly ever needing embellishment because with money anything's possible. This isn't Sterling High, where Rachel went to high school, public school by the way, where people needed to enhance their boring, uninteresting stories. This is where real money is spent. Anything's possible if you had the cash to pay for it. The guests of Sterling Suites definitely have it. And more.
  
  A man's knuckles rap on the polished wood of the front desk. Glistening white teeth meet Rachel, housed within a thick jaw, though not too thick as to question his intelligence. Just thick enough in Rachel's estimation. The sudden noise, plus the man's looks, causes Rachel to jump.
  
  "Sorry, miss. Didn't mean to startle you. Name's Holt. James Holt, but I prefer Holt. James is my father's name, and well...you probably don't want to hear my life story," Holt says, keeping the smile. "I have a reservation."
  
  "Yes. Of course you do," Rachel says, recovering, and putting on her professional demeanor. The silence between the two is filled with the clacking of the hotel keyboard, a few frantic hits of the Backspace button every few seconds or so. You know how it is. You get in the groove, and then, a mistype happens. Instead of clicking on the error and correcting, you have to delete the entire line.
  
  "I'm sorry. I don't see a reservation under your name," Rachel says.
  
  "My apologies, miss. It must be under my employer's name. Joseph Branch."
  
  For the second time, Rachel startles, less this time time around, at the man's name: the guest of honor, Joseph Branch. She enters the name into the system and finds only a single reservation, the one for the Presidential Suite.
  
  Not wanting to upset the man or his employer, she says, "I'm sorry, we're still working on your accommodations." She hands him a keycard. "This will get you into the hotel's amenities. Please accept this token as an apology for the room delay. Don't lose it. That card gives access to everything the hotel has to offer. On us, of course."
  
  Holt flicks the card between his thumb and middle finger, sending it into the sleeves of his jet black tuxedo. "Thank you kindly, miss...?"
  
  "Rachel."
  
  "Thank you kindly, Miss Rachel. This will be a night to remember. That's for sure."
  
  As Holt turns to leave, Rachel adds on. "Mr. Holt, sir? I wouldn't try those fancy tricks at the casino. There's cameras everywhere, and there are no exceptions for cheaters. No matter who they work for."
  
  "I'll be careful, Miss Rachel," Holt answers, revealing the keycard from his other sleeve.
  
  > Holt
  As Holt leaves, a small chuckle escapes his lips. It was too easy. He knows he's good looking. The trick is to not let other people you know it, otherwise you come across as an asshole. An attractive man stumbling words over his father? Yeah, that's sweet to a young lady's ears. Absent-mindedly, he pulls a coin from his pocket and flips it between his fingers, allowing it to float from pointer to ring finger and back again. He offers another smile to a passing maid.
  
  The front desk girl, Rachel, she warned against heading to the casino. Little did she know that warning was a very real thing. Holt had, let's call it trouble, with establishments of luck. You know, the places where you made it yourself. The trouble didn't come from losing money. No, this kind of trouble was far worse. He always found a way to win, and in doing so, piss off the local ringleader, and there's always a ringleader.
  
  No, he had a job to finish. There was no time to be wasting heading to the card table, even if it calls to him like a moth to a flame. No, he better not get close to the fire. He can't afford to get burned. Not here, not while he's on the clock. But maybe, maybe he could take a "ten" so to speak. Everyone gets breaks at work. The current going rate is 10 minutes every four hours, and Holt had been working far longer than four hours. His polished shoe stops on the red carpet. Yes, the hotel's hallways were cool red carpet. Hides the wine spills well.
  
  Holt looks up at the sign posted on the wall, simple arrows pointing in opposite directions. One hallway leads to the rooms and the other to the casino. A woman's laughter echoes down the hallway to the casino, definitely affected by a few cocktails. That's a vodka drinker. There are certain types of drinkers with characteristics that reflect the liquid in hand. The laugh felt real, though not overly so. More vibrato would put her in tequila realm. No, that's a vodka martini woman if Holt ever heard one. He's heard many, in fact. In the opposite direction, the hallway to the hotel rooms is silent and inviting. It whispers a promise of comfort and solitude.
  
  > Casino
  Friendly rings and dings from slot machines greet Holt as he draws closer to the casino floor. The woman he passed along the way, you know, the martini lady, tried to give him a seductive glance. There are certain things you shouldn't do while redlining on the drunk gauge, and attempting to look sexy is one of them. Holt does his best to avoid her. He doesn't need that sort of attention. He could always circle back after.
  
  Good ol' Blackjack. It's never quite like in the movies. The same goes for casinos in general. It's not a magical place for the archetype hero to mosey in, bet on black, and win the entire pot (and the bustiest broad in the room). No, it's a place that promises fortune while slowly bleeding you dry. For others, that's the case. For Holt, it's a double-edged sword. What's the time-tested saying? "Get out while the going's good." Here, though, the rich throw their money away like coins into a wishing well. They might as well be quarters, the stack of chips lost doesn't even dent the piggy bank, and their piggy is kept in Sweden.
  
  Holt takes an open chair at the nearest table and pulls two stacks of bills from within his coat jacket. As he does so, the keycard given to him by Rachel happens to fall on the green felt table. The dealer, noticing the card, reactively corrects his slouching posture. This isn't some pretty boy with a rich father that sat at the table. No, this is keycard carrying charismatic mother fucker, and not just any keycard mind you, it's the Sterling keycard, one only given to the most important guests.
  
  Almost simultaneously, a woman plants a drink down next to Holt, an Old Fashioned by the looks of it. In the middle of the dark amber liquid sits a single child's fist-sized icecube, garnished perfectly with rind and cherry.
  
  "On the house," the waitress winks.
  
  "Thank you kindly, miss," Holt replies, taking a sip. Damn card rooms are all the same, intentionally serving up "free" drinks. They're free all right, but you end up paying for them, and more, with fuzzy thinking at the Blackjack table.
  
  "First time visiting Sterling?" the waitress asks, and makes the slightest head motion towards the dealer, so slight that only a master at reading people, to see if they're bluffing, would catch. Damn them both. They've got a smooth operation here. The pretty waitress distracts the whale while the dealer starts the game.
  
  Two cards slide across the table to Holt's position. His right hand catches both, while his left brings the lowball glass to his lips, his eyes never turning towards the table.
  
  "What do you think, miss? Should I stay?" he asks the waitress.
  
  "I don't think I'm allowed to help a guest play," she answers.
  
  "Fair enough," Holt replies, tapping his fingers on the table for another card, his eyes fixed on the waitress' soft green. "What about now?"
  
  The waitress looks at the table. The man is sitting at 16, the dealer 14.
  
  "I'm not saying what to do, so don't hold it against me," she begins. "But generally it's a good idea to hit if you're under 17."
  
  "You know your game. Of course you do, working here," Holt replies with a smile. "Hit me again, boss." The 5 of Clubs slides across the table, landing Holt at 20. The dealer flips for himself and busts with the Jack of Hearts.
  
  "You must be my good luck charm, miss...?"
  
  "Sophie."
  
  "Miss Sophie. I'll be sure to remember that," Holt says, leaving the table. He's dallied long enough. Time to get back to work.
  
  > Hotel rooms
  The floor towards the wing of hotel rooms transitions from red carpet into white marble, probably not the exact thing, but close enough. It definitely isn't cheap imitation, the kind you see in middle-class homes' kitchens. The hallway runs into an opening, so large that it looks like a separate hotel was built inside of Sterling Suites. Glass elevators run high, far as the eye can see, their transparent encasement allowing the passengers to view the entire staggeringly-high ride up. At the ground floor, fountains and green flora fill the space, creating a fabricated garden. Stone benches and seating areas are strategically placed within the garden as well as hotel staff serving drinks and finger food.
  
  His target would be on the top floor. No doubt the most well-defended, high security area. While not making any attempt to hide its location, the Presidential Suite makes up for it, and more, with vantage point and ease of protection. After all, if you don't belong on the Presidential floor, there's no reason to be up there. Holt has no illusion that Branch's men aren't the "shoot first, ask questions later" type of men. Hell, Branch has enough money to pay for cleaning a few bodies from the hotel floor. Yep, ol' Joe Branch picked the right place to stay.
  
  Holt hopes his magic keycard will work on the top floor. If not, the Magnum holstered at his ankle would have to do, though it's never one for the subtle approach. Holt steps inside one of the glass elevators and presses the button for the roof. There's a party to attend before his meeting with Joseph Branch. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and Holt picked up his from the frozen food isle.
  
  Holt jingles a coin between his fingers, well it's more of a poker chip embroidered with thin metal. The chip between his finger represented more than just money. No, this chip granted access to the most exclusive rooftop party in Sterling. There are more than a few rich folks in this town, and not even they can gain an invitation. Members only, or something like that. Sometimes it's not about having money. It's about who you know, having friends in high places, cliches like that. Ding! The elevator opens. Holt walks out.
  
  > Rooftop Party
  Lights hang in the air, tied by long wires, creating soft shadows. The garden theme of the bottom floor is replaced with modern lights and furniture. Barstools, lounge seating, and the the bar itself are abstractly shaped, something that only those of fine taste would consider art. To the rest, it looks like random shapes from high school mathematical class slapped together, painted in bright colors. A bouncer, wearing a suit entirely too small, greets Holt, although to be fair, there's probably not a lot of suits that actually fit the man.
  
  "Invitation, sir," he speaks, not as a question.
  
  Holt flips the chip with his thumb, sending it to the podium-esque bouncer station. The bouncer scoops it up with an ebony hand and holds it up to his eye, similarly to the way a department store worker would check the validity of a 20 dollar bill. Satisfied, the bouncer presses the chip into a slot. A green light blinks, signaling go time, baby, and Holt gets waved through, a quick "enjoy your time, sir" is thrown towards his back.
  
  A blues band plays from one end of the roof. On the opposite side is where the bar is located, which is where Holt makes for first. You can't attend a rooftop party without having a drink in your hand. That's like swimming laps at the pool without goggles. The bartender, a thin old man, points in Holt's direction, questioning what it'll be. Holt eyes the bottles.
  
  "I'll take a Manhattan, up, and take it easy on the vermouth, will you?" Holt says.
  
  "You got it. Any preference on the whiskey?" the bartender asks.
  
  "Bourbon. Basil Hayden's if you got it," Holt answers.
  
  The bartender nods and gets to work, pouring ice into his cocktail shaker. "Enjoying the party so far?"
  
  "It's quite the place you got here," Holt says. "Reminds me of something you'd see in a movie."
  
  "Funny you should say that. I imagine most of the guests here are putting on an act in some way."
  
  "Aren't we all?"
  
  The bartender chuckles. "Ha! I suppose we are. My comment was not meant as a negative thing. I'll take the 'fun-loving party goer' character over 'lonely rich man' any day. One you feel sympathy for, and the other...well, the other isn't quite as lovable."
  
  "To some, maybe. I'm sure there are poor broads out there looking for exactly that."
  
  "Not exactly the romantic love story little girls dream of," the bartender says, finishing the cocktail. He places the martini glass on the bar top.
  
  "Adulthood hardly is," Holt answers, throwing a few dollars in a nearby tip jar labeled LOCAL CHARITY: BARTENDER'S UNION. "That's a fine drink, there. I can see why you scored this gig."
  
  "You do anything long enough, eventually you get good."
  
  "Ain't that the truth."
  
  Holt turns around, leaning on the bar, resting his forearm on the wood top, eyeing the party behind him. While none of the guests look exactly sober, no one looks exceptionally drunk either. Holt's unsure if that's due to maturity, restraint, or a high tolerance to alcohol. Maybe it's a cocktail mix of all three, garnished with the need for excitement.
  
  > Music
  Drink in hand, Holt heads towards the live band. Navigating through a sea of people with a full martini glass is a tricky thing. While looking magnificent, the design of the glass isn't exactly optimal utility-wise. It takes practice to move without spilling the drink, and Holt doesn't need the kind of attention a drink-stained dress shirt makes. After passing by several groups of lively conversations, most of which involve laughing at the "working man," Holt arrives to the stage with the riffing cats who are going down Tin Pan Alley.
  
  Went down to Tin Pan Alley
  
  "A fan of the blues, are we?" a woman asks.
  
  Holt turns to see a dark purple almost raven dress, matching the few strands of hair intentionally left from the tie behind her head. Red lipstick turns into a grin, anticipating Holt's response. She's quite beautiful. In fact, everyone at the party is, or at least surgically altered to be less ugly. If Holt had to guess, which he never would out loud, he'd say she's upper thirties. Probably best to keep it to himself as "upper" anything is a bad guess for a woman's age. Then again, there is no good guess unless you lowball the fuck outta it.
  
  See what was goin' on
  
  "Every now and again," Holt answers. "I'm a fan of the Kings. BB, Albert, you know."
  
  "My, my. Good looking and a delightful taste in music. I'd ask you to buy me a drink, but I'm here with my husband. Shame."
  
  "I'm afraid I couldn't put you in that situation, miss...the drinks here are on the house, husband or no."
  
  "Ha-ha!" she laughs through glistening red lips, revealing white teeth matching Holt's. "You really had me going there. I'm Layla."
  
  Couldn't stay very long
  
  Holt takes Layla's outstretched hand and places a quick kiss on top. "Holt. James Holt, but I prefer Holt. James is my...nevermind you don't want to hear my life story. Layla, huh? It'd be unfortunate not to like the blues with a name like that--"
  
  "Eric Clapton," both Holt and Layla say simultaneously.
  
  Hey hey hey hey
  
  "You might say I was born for it," Layla finishes.
  
  "In my experience, there is little we're born to do."
  
  "Holt, my dear, are you telling me you don't believe in destiny?"
  
  "I don't normally start conversations with beautiful women by addressing determinism, but yeah, guess I am."
  
  Layla, apparently only hearing the word "beautiful" gives Holt another lipsticked smile. "I must attend to my hubby. I hope you'll join us later, Holt."
  
  Layla leaves Holt alone, save for the blues.
  
  Alley's the roughest place I've ever been
  
  > Joseph Branch
  These damn limousine drivers. They're all the same, acting polite, courteous, respectful of a man's privacy. All the while "subtly" flashing glances at you in the rear-view mirror. The curtain makes it worse, too, or whatever that flimsy sliding window is called, the one between the passenger and driver. It feigns privacy. It corrals the passenger into a false sense of security.
  
  Not just anyone hires a limousine as they would a common taxi. It's meant for special occasions, Proms, Bachelor parties, seemingly one-time events. If you're rich enough, your everyday life is on par with the common man's "special occasion." Champagne, tuxedos, strippers? Just an ordinary day for someone like Joe Branch.
  
  He sits in the very back, lowball glass in one hand. Champagne isn't his style, doesn't have the satisfying flavor, and burn, of a smooth vodka. His finger lightly taps the glass, not born from impatience, nor is it a nervous habit. Joe taps the glass with an ebony finger simply because he wants to. He likes how the smooth texture feels against his skin. He likes how it draws attention in a silent room, enabling the glass-tapper full control over its inhabitants. It may be annoying for others to hear, the incessant ringing of the glass, but it's Joe Branch who's controlling their annoyance. He can stop at any time, should he deem it time. Joseph Branch is a man used to being in control.
  
  "Nearing the hotel, Mr. Branch, sir," a voice carries over the intercom. The window to the driver's seat is closed. Joe made sure to have it shut as his first move inside the limo. "Will you require anything else?"
  
  "Silence," Joseph answers flatly.
  
  What he doesn't hear, is the driver's mutter of, "Ok, asshole," luckily, for the driver. You know the phrase, getting away with murder? The driver just got away with not getting murdered.
  
  The limo pulls underneath the covered driveway to the hotel's entrance. Someone, not from Branch's staff, immediately steps up and opens the door, guiding his arm outstretched, palm up, in incomparable politeness. In Joe's opinion, the hand is up as much for a tip as "manners."
  
  That's the thing about being a rich mother fucker: people expect hand-outs. Ungrateful good-for-nothings. They won't receive a penny from Joe Branch. If they wanted to rise from their station, they should work for it, scrape for it, kill for it. That's what brought Joseph Branch to the pinnacle of Sterling City, and he has no respect for any coattail riders. They might as well be lapping at his balls.
  
  > The Presidential Floor
  Enough foreplay. Time for the real deal. Holt didn't arrive at the Suites for a good time, drink, and maybe a bit of gambling. No, this cat is here on business; pleasure can wait for another time, for about six hours to be exact (as if you can be exact on estimating time). Holt finishes the remainder of his Manhattan and places it on a nearby waitress' tray, throwing a bill or two on as well for her trouble. He nods his farewell to the bouncer and continues back toward the elevator.
  
  The glass ride takes approximately 45 seconds. Along the way, various guests of the hotel step on and off the elevator, though none, apparently, have the credentialing to make it to the Presidential floor. Holt flashes a smile toward each one, some return the gesture, others don't physically scoff, but Holt can tell it was a struggle to withhold. 'Guess chivalry ain't dead, even if it lies in a vegetative state, hooked to medical machinery and bedpans.
  
  Like a good elevator, it dings! open revealing the world outside. White marble, not the expensive imitation stuff, greets Holt. No, this is the expensive-expensive kind of white marble, the real thing, baby. Portraits of past guests line the walls, housed in extravagant golden frames. Various furniture and seating arrangements keep the white/gold color theme in Victorian style. After passing a portrait of Dick Nixon (presidential floor, indeed), a member of the hotel stops Holt.
  
  A tanned hand, with a palm as white as Holt's, signals freeze, motherfucker. "Can I help you, sir?" The voice behind the palm is more polite and dressed in the hotel's uniform.
  
  "Yeah. Hoped you might," Holt says, adding an air of edginess to his voice, far different from the charismatic, smooth talking he'd done earlier that night. "I'm runnin' detail for Mr. Branch. Gotta check the rooms out for potential threats. I was told this here keycard lets me in to everything. That true?"
  
  The tanned hand snatches the card from Holt's grasp. Not an easy task snatching a card from a gambler's fingers, especially when those fingers are just as comfortable around a pistol grip, and don't even get me started on woman's necks or bodies (or do).
  
  "That Rachel what a simpleton..." the man mutters under his breath. "Yes. Well, no. These cards grant access to the entertainment section of the hotel. No small thing that's for sure. If you're looking for access to actual rooms, you need one of these." He flashes a solid black card.
  
  "That'll do," Holt says, driving his knee into the man's stomach quickly following up with a left hook to the temple. Holt bends down, prying the black card from the man's fingers. He rises up to stand face to face with...the same man who he just dropped. No, there's a small mole at the base of this man's nostril. Twins? How fun.
  
  Behind Holt, another ding! echoes in the hallway. It has to be him. Joseph Branch is here.
  
  > focus on the twin
  One thing at a time, Holt ol' boy. The voice of a much younger Joseph Branch echoes in Holt's mind. The man, the target for tonight, taught him many lessons always ending with the same "ol' boy." This time, however, Holt isn't some young, bright-eyed kid searching for the approval of backup Daddy: he's some bright-eyed motherfucker with a bone to pick. More accurately, a few to break starting with Thing No. 2.
  
  A quick jab sets up the power punch. This one's an overhand right to the twin's nose bridge. It cracks upon impact, like a kid stomping on a centipede with a hard exoskeleton. Movement behind Holt alerts his instincts into movement (yeah, because they weren't already). Pistol fire echoes down the hall, their tiny metallic rocks formed as balls otherwise known as "bullets," slam into the twin's body, dropping him next to his brother. Holt's already out of the way, his retreat guarded safely by his human shield.
  
  A lone window rests at the end of the hallway, the only escape. Holt doesn't have time to view what lies beneath. As a gambling man, he'll take his chances through the window, rather than the hallway full of bullets. And just as the motivational poster on his childhood shrink's wall told him, You Never Know How High You Can Fly Without a Leap of Faith, Holt bursts through the window. The poster's logic is supported by a bald eagle in flight. Different circumstances, sure, but you can't deny the empirical evidence sitting right in front of you.
  
  In an explosion of glass, bullets whizzing past like angry hornets, Holt flies in the air, arms flailing out searching for something to grab onto. Only, he's in the Presidential Suite level. They don't build the finest rooms close to the floor. No, they build them high so its guests can continue to look down on their fellow man, but in a more physical sense rather than the metaphorical, socioeconomic way they're used to doing.
  
  "The fuck," Joseph Branch says, poking his head out the hole in glass. "Was that who I think it was?"
  
  "Sure as shit, boss. That was none other than James Holt," Hugh, Branch's henchman answers, scratching his neanderthal forehead in thought, wondering what the fuck just happened.
  
  The other henchman, a beefy man who even overshadows Hugh butts in. "Who's that, Mr. Branch, sir?"
  
  "That man was the best goddamn...well, it's not important who or what he was," Joseph Branch trails off. "Get the room ready. Our new business partner expects the utmost professionalism."
  
  At his remark, the beefy man stands up a bit taller, correcting his posture. Hugh stays the same, body posture labored by shoulder muscle.
  
  "I expect great things in our future," Branch says, slapping Hugh's shoulder for emphasis and good measure. The big man hardly feels it.
  
  Only, the future didn't bring great things. To be fair, it wasn't all bad. It's just what you'd expect from Sterling. You ever hear the name Joseph Branch tossed around? Didn't think so. That's because the deal didn't go quite as expected. Damn. I was hoping for an early retirement, too. Funny thing is, Holt's body was never found. Weird, huh? After that son of a bitch took flight, I expected, after a few seconds, a lady's scream to echo from the ground floor. But no splat. No body. That motherfucker is still out there somewhere.
  
  My journey back to my red-haired sweetheart has me eyeing upper levels of buildings. I wonder How High I Can Fly. Probably not much higher than the height I took off from. Then, it'd be a gradual decline until keer-splat! they scoop my body from the cement with a spatula like an oversized, human-shaped pancake with a neanderthal forehead. I'm thick-headed, sure, but the ol' dome's not that thick.
  
  I shift the Challenger into gear three. Shit. She is a bit touchy; Danny was right. White lines in the road become a blur as I steadily increase the speed. Each shift is like an arcade game. Time it right motherfucker, or you won't win the grand prize! I wait until the RPM needle hits the sweet spot, the exact moment to switch gears. Can't be too early, can't be too late. It's gotta be perfect, baby. It's like a duel at high noon. Steady, steady...steady...draw! My hand and foot move as one, simultaneously slamming on the clutch, while popping the stick into the next gear. I'm the new sheriff in town; the hangman don't get much work from me.
  
  I've got a date with a red-haired dancer. It may be one-sided. I may be the one putting in all the work, but it's worth it. She's worth it, even if she doesn't know it. Shit. I could use a pack of smokes and a strong whiskey right about now, and keep 'em coming. There's something about a hard day's work that brings the need for a good drink. I've got a date with a red-haired dancer. There are some things you can't outmuscle.