What day is it? It creeps silently from his slow lips, sinking around his statue presence, the invisible and immovable amongst the seas of strident electronic waste.
What day is it? His eyes scan, asparagus-shade and silver-iris, towards the stretching horizon of simmering glows, of the low resolution prison cells.
What day is it? Surely, it must be Sunday; it must be the holiest of holies, a crowded and compliant congregation collecting credits to calm the creator of the temple, of all existence. He stands, synecdoche of the religious promise, amongst them, of them, and, most importantly, above them.
Mr. Vyk, he glides, barely bothered to move, in a gripping suit, choking everyone, and sifts through the air invisible to everyone. They are clasped to their screens, the chirping and the chiming of an electronic ‘For Whom the Bells Toll For” reimagined with playability to ease the strident bells. The cherubim of Mortality roll like La Roue Fortune in the absurd universe and a red box wrangles the nearest match. No dice. The man Mr. Vyk is watching instinctively presses the button again. He has a dull fervor in his eyes as though this button was the world’s most addictive catch-22. He begins to hesitate, though. Where are his children? Where is his youth? Where is he? Mr. Vyk slips his hand onto the shoulder of the elderly man and he coos into his ear —-You could be like me—–and departs in a matter of three seconds. Three seconds a blessing that kills the arthritis that was slowing him down. The elder strikes against the silicon mine again.
Mr. Vyk was a thaumaturge and his casino, his cathedral of cheap carpeting and decadent cacophony and tacky cocktails and incredible claims, was a place of wonder.
He passed by the poker tables. Every hand dealt were the tarot cards of their five second fate, forever repeating itself over the sorcery of the table. Mr. Vyk had discovered what the wisest financiers had forever known, better so than the conquerors and slave-owners and stock-holders. He knew that the greatest chain you could tie a man down with was nothing more than a piece of paper and the value of trust, the trust that said paper, a card with an image of a jester jeering in their faces, would grant them the riches of the Forever.
————–You——————-You could be like me————-Yes you———
He vanished from the tables, slipping his spirit through the souls of every solitary spender, of every bad gamble and of every rags to riches story. He loved the fortunate, oddly enough, because they were perfect for alluring the unfortunate, but he could only tolerate the fortunate so much, for that blindness was a tower of Babel to him, to Mr. Vyk.
No one could be like Mr.Vyk.
It was only a Wednesday.