finances

his regular friday night is spent just like this, around a pool table with like-minded people with beer in hand. this wasn't to say that he doesn't have a certain dark and tailored look, a peculiar enough air such that our pitiful prada-clad heroine might be forgiven her next line:

"so what are you selling?" she asks, leaning over close, teasing.

"do i look like i'm selling anything you can afford?" he scowls—it is his shot, and he doesn't feel like being distracted by rich girls with cute black double-button skirts and gold thread trim. he doesn't want to be thinking about rich dark hair, olive skin and full lips—he needs to focus on putting the three between the nine and eleven into the side.

dammit.

"yes—you do."

dammit. dammit, dammit. "what are you in the market for?" he asks, straightening, standing the pool cue up and turning to better appreciate our persistent heroine.

"someone with nothing to lose. you selling?"

"that depends", he says, "on the buyer."

dammit.

you part the waters the same ones that i'm drowning in !– technorati tags begin –p style="font-size:10px;text-align:right;"technorati tags:a href="http://technorati.com/tag/casual+slaughter" rel="tag"casual+slaughter/a !– technorati tags end –