Dead Dogs Don't Roll Over
Written by: Alex Sandell


Chapter 42
The Truth Is Out There . . . I'm a Big Dork

Manipulative? Oh yeah. A manipulative genius? There’s a chance. An asshole? Definitely. But, a mind reader? Who would’ve thunk? Richard can read minds. When I remember the nasty thoughts I’ve had racing through my head, and think that he’s "heard" most of them, I get an odd mixture of emotions, 50% nausea, 50% satisfaction.

A little self-examination turns it into 100% nausea. Does he know how intimidated I get by his presence? How lonely I feel when I get back to my apartment, feed my pet iguana, and crawl into an empty bed? That I drink chocolate milk, while eating peanut butter toast, and then breathe heavily out of my nose, because my breath tastes kind of like a Reese's? How embarrassing. You never really realize what a dork you are, until you find out somebody else has figured it out.

I notice a long row of change-lights screaming at me. Han Solo with boobs seems preoccupied with one of her eyelashes, and Bonnie’s probably off giving birth to some kid she got pregnant with a minute ago, so it looks like I’m working alone. I grab light after light, thanking each customer, and wishing him or her "gooooooooood luck." While waiting on customers, I always imagine that I’m a movie star. That everyone is clamoring around to see me, not to pick up a couple rolls of nickels.

I’m in the middle of pretending that I’m Brad Pitt, when I get this chilling vision of Richard standing in the shadows, laughing at my imagination. I throw out my fantasy, and start trying to figure out exactly how much money each slot machine makes, on a nightly basis. This is just great, now this fucking casino has taken control of my thoughts, along with my actions. I’m not even allowed to be a nerd inside my own brain. I’m stuck trying to impress everyone, everywhere, and there’s no more hiding inside of my head, to escape reality. Why don’t they just kill me? Have Elvis sit on my head, or something.

"Excuse me," a flustered voice pulls me from my thoughts, "could I get some help, here?" I turn to face the voice, and see that it’s none other than Nazi-man, the strangest customer in the entire casino.

Go to: Chapter 43

1997 Alex Sandell but, if you're a book publisher and, you wanna get this puppy out, please get in touch with me, hand me a nice, big contract and, of course, a 12 pack of Grape Soda and maybe we can do lunch.

You know the routine, just click it.


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