Kepler In A Speakeasy

You do things for a reason. It helps to have one. Most mugs don’t. They swing wild, burn their luck, and wonder why the house wins. Not me. I keep cool, play the angles.

Out in the timber I find him. Fog thick as smoke, trees like sentries. Budha. Green skin, sharp eyes, Mercury’s racket man. He don’t waste words. Just waits, cool as a cardsharp, while I spill my fix — a Poisonville of bosses and blacklist games, men run off the job for standing up, a strike gone sour, every handshake hiding a knife.

He gives me the drop. Says, “Every move’s a note. Play ’em wrong, you get noise. Play ’em right, you get harmony.” That’s his line, not mine.

That’s the edge I got. I get whispers from the gods. They don’t deal in mercy, but they deal in reason. Betrayal, loyalty, power — just different suits in the same deck. Got dealt the eights today. Eight for work, eight for sleep, eight for your own — a balance the bosses never give, so you take what you can get.

Seems cold, I know. Like I’m running the table both ways. But I’ve got my reasons. And reasons keep you breathing when the fog rolls in.