Baked Scribe Flashback : Go
“You son of a bitching bastard, can’t you roll the dice normally? Just one time, for fuck’s sake?”
Edmund ignored the question as he moved the die-cast steamer over the Short Line, past the dreaded luxury tax and Broadway, around the corner and into the promised land. “I’ll roll them whichever way you want, pally,” he said. “It still comes out in the end with you sucking it.”
The right cross came over the board so quickly, he didn’t even have time to consider ducking. Tiny pinpoints of light danced around him as he toppled over backwards. He waved his arms around to try and regain his balance, and ended up spraining his wrist on the floor for all his troubles.
Before he could try to stand, Sachs was on top of him, the mask of humanity melted away in a fire of rage. Blows rained down from above and Edmund tried to roll away, but couldn’t. He did the best he could, curling up into the fetal position and tried to protect the more sensitive parts of his body.
“You own every God damned hotel and every thing always has to roll for you, you son of a God…” Just when Edmund thought he was tiring out, the intensity actually went up a notch. He thought he should probably fight back, but the situation was so absurd. Besides, as hard as Sachs was trying to hit him, it really wasn’t hurting him that much. Better to just let him wear himself down.
Edmund looked to the right at the sound of a surprised inhalation of air. Doris stood in the doorway, her mouth hanging open at the sight of her husband on the floor being beaten by their next door neighbor. He could see her trying to make the connection between a kids’ game and the brawl that was happening on her parlor floor. Edmund was so focused on her that he only barely registered the sudden reflection of light off of the metal, now in Sach’s hand.
So it was, that he had just enough time to consider the decisions and events that had led him to this, the result of a few lucky tosses of the dice and one off-hand comment. How many things could have been done differently that would have put him onto a different path? One that didn’t end with a steak knife, buried in his chest, protruding from the center of a growing stain of red on his shirt.
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