NOTE: The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual individuals, living or dead, is a god-damned shame.
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The crash and boom of the nearby automotive dismantling business woke up the swarthy gambler.
He looked outside: The giant machines were lifting car hulks and dumping them in the crusher; just another day in paradise.
He got out of his sleeping nook, pissed in the tiny bathroom ("Sure stinks, I better fix it someday") and then went online to flame and joust: ahhh, the joys of retirement.
Having given his detracors the good old "what for," Rob left his little RV and walked a few steps to his son's front door: time for breakfast.
Shit, locked, and the key doesn't work.
He got on his flip phone and called junior.
"Hey, did you lock me out?"
"Yes, we sure did, we changed the locks. Sorry dad, but you and mom are gonna have to leave again. We're tired of all your bullshit."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, like how you keep telling us how you won $1.5 million on one VP pull, but you keep mooching off of us and hitting us up for "loans.""
"Now son, you know how these things work. That's a lot of money for a casino to pay out, they can't do it all at once. They need to sell stock, reshufflle portfolios, cut wages and only then will I be able to get paid."
"Well I can't wait any longer, dad: the town gave us a citation for you living in your little RV in our driveway, contrary to code, and your vehicle is leaking oil like a sieve."
"Son, I promise you that all this will be taken care of when the casino pays me the $1.5M. I have it on good authority that it could be as soon as this summer."
"That ain't good enough, dad, I need for you and mom to hit the road today. We're tired of fielding calls from strangers who tell us about the wierd shit you do and claim on gambling boards. Give it a rest, why dontcha?"
"They're all liars, son, just jealous of your dear old dad."
"Jealous of what, dad? You're broke as a joke and lie like a drunken sailor chatting up a whore."
Rob shook his head, paused for effect and said "You better reconsider or else I'll have to have some of my CIA brethren pay you a visit."
"CIA? Shit dad, you were a fucking mail clerk at the post office."
Rob turned away, went back into his tiny RV and went online, spouting venom and showing firm resolution: the game was on.
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