Friday, June 21, 2013

(Another) Cut

Daddy, the amateur knife thrower, needs a new pair of shoes

and so blindfolded, rears back his left arm, taking aim at her stripped body rotating crazily between seven to eight revolutions per minute on the life-sized roulette wheel in concert for the contestant playing along at home on the phone.

Their prize if he pins the tail on the proverbial donkey on his first try will be that all time goes backwards wiping out everything she fought for until then, a desperate measure for a lost cause.

Behind him, a cloaked archer curiously in a judo outfit but holding a bow with arrow nevertheless and an eye-patched urban cowboy awkwardly twirling his vintage six-shooters exchange strategic notes, awaiting their turn.

Squinting under the lone spotlight shone directly on cue, she blinks a secret message that the teleprompter pauses and rewinds in slow motion.

It must be folly, probably of youth, to face her accusers so what was she thinking? And how did things get so out of hand?

No one, least of all her, now cares.

To agree so compliantly feels like surrender but what of promises made that now appear only to be bad hindsight.

Luck sometimes be a whore later.

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