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Wrong budget.

08.10.17 – Suspended

I was counting off fingers, stingy leaders in service of curvature constraining space’s other, tougher brother. I didn’t bother with those miffed mothers, tight-fisted and pinching purses with perilous purpose. My own green and grain drained away by hammed habits and damned attempts at sure services. We were the worst at it; saving and playing like riches weren’t far away wishes. We just didn’t know which mess to debate.

You should have been a scammer, skimming the class at the chalkboard without a pass from the teacher. She couldn’t reach ya; unsettling the front row, peak performers, as an informant for the militant instrument of cliques. Fully that bully’s boy; you’d profess and preach, impeach the present rule and reinstate a new cruel fate. We hated the history lesson but you were suggesting something worse than misery to impress us.

What mattered was milk money, honey flowing like the hive was unguarded and that sweetness was the hard harvest youth wanted part of. We weren’t the worker bees, making those low “C’s” and taking these hungry geeks for a tweak and thrill. We sold old world order, shocks to WASPs and those bumbling, lettered jackets. There was smoke in service to a silencing purpose; where fists made nervous a perp’s position we’d posit intention with stinging precision.

We bled the bleachers for each members’ metal; gathered the quarters quietly right beneath their dangling feet. We were free to pocket what we picked and could discreetly walk away with. There were cheers for the court played and jeers for the sport made from those watchers. The blind fathers shouting at the deaf refs created the right unrest for light hands to help themselves to dark deeds. Afterall we had needs. The silver’d be singing, slung from wallets and sunk all in on our profits. We’d manage it with the same damage spent on heist’s heights before. It was always a rush to an empty score.

-VGB-

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