Back at the truck, Violence and Scrote each shotgunned a beer, followed by a beer chaser. Scrote pulled out a sleeve of Oreos and they had a contest to see how many they could fit in their mouth, laughing through the black crumbs.
After he chewed and swallowed, Scrote said, “Aren’t you going to check your ticket?”
Violence shrugged and pulled it out of his pocket. “So if I win a free ticket, does that mean I have good luck?”
“Only if that ticket wins. Money is the scorecard for good luck. More money you got, more good luck,” Scrote said, “but I’m telling you, we’re both cursed, brother. You’ll see.”
Violence dug his fingernail into the lottery ticket and scratched. There were six numbers. He had to match two of them. The most he could win was $50,000 dollars. He scratched them in order.
The first three:
$2.
$100
$10,000
“What if I win two bucks? Barely feels like nothing. Hell, the ticket cost me a dollar. One dollar profit don’t really seem like good luck.”
The second three:
$50
$5
$10,000
“Well, fuck me. I think I won,” Violence said, blowing some of the silver dust off the ticket.
“How much?” Scrote asked, leaning in to take a look at the ticket.
“Ten thousand bucks.”
“Did you have to match two or three?”
“Two. It says right here,” Violence said, pointing at the instructions at the top of the ticket.
“You won,” Scrote said softly.
Violence read the instructions at the top of the ticket two more times. “I just won ten motherfucking grand, you silly son of a bitch. Who’s got bad luck?”
Violence cruises past the enormous Mexican working the door and stomps into Hot Lipps. The crowd is surprisingly sparse for a Saturday, mostly loners with eyes focused on the bored, too-skinny addict on the stage. The drunk campesino that accidentally bumps into Violence doesn’t know how lucky he is. Violence is so focused that he only stomps on the guy’s foot and gives him a sharp punch to the liver, letting him off easy.
As the poor bastard pukes and collapses behind him, Violence walks to the bar and orders a beer. He scans the stage and scattered audience through squinted eyes.
The deejay lowers the volume of “Dr. Feelgood” and as the boy-shaped stripper on stage collects the loose ones, he rolls out his patter. “All right, boys. Give it up for Credenza. Man, I’d like to get in her drawers. Am I right? Now we got something extra special for you, a terrible twosome, a deviant duet, a…two naked girls. Let’s hear it for Domminno and Jeniniana.”
When the girls reach the spotlight at the pole to shake their asses, Violence doesn’t recognize either of them. Violence drinks his beer and tries to enjoy the show. The girls can dance. He likes that they still got some baby fat on them, too. Makes them look real, not all fake and artificial and plastic. He can imagine that there’s plenty to hold onto.
He can feel his rod getting stiff, but that only angers him more. Just another thing that he has no control over. The familiar pressure of fuck-or-fight is building, that’s for damn sure.
He can’t help but turn his head every time the front door opens, but it’s never Scrote. It’s either a dude who keeps his eyes to the floor or a group of drunk dudes playing grabass with each other and acting like they’re seeing tit for the first time. He hates those guys. It’s like they don’t see how special a place like Hot Lipps is. Like they think it’s some kind of joke.
When Violence got raised from Chino, the first place he went was a strip club. He wasn’t ready to get laid, but he just needed to see a live, naked lady. It was scary and therapeutic and sacred. The girls didn’t want nothing but money, and for that they helped bring him back into the world. It was beautiful.
Now he finds himself staring hate at three thick-necked jocks in Ed Hardy shirts and backward baseball caps. They’re goofing on the dancers, making barking sounds. They’re just what he needs. Picking on some little guy wouldn’t be satisfying. But three gym punks, this should be interesting.
Before he even knows it himself, he’s standing over the three jocks’ table. “You boys consider yourself lucky?”
The three boys look up at him, scoping his prison ink. One of them glances to the bouncer, who is distractedly texting.
The biggest of the three speaks up. “What? What do you want?”
“Do you think you got good luck or bad luck?”
“The fuck? We’re here to watch the strippers. Not to talk to some faggot about whatever the fuck. Go away, asshole.”
“Fair enough. Answered the question for me.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You got bad luck, son. That’s what you got,” Violence says smiling. "Not even my fault. Just your luck.”
“Fu-”
Violence grabs the back of the kid’s head and slams his face against the table, blood flying in an arc as he lifts it back up. He slams his head down again. The boy to his right tries to push away from the table and stand, but Violence kicks out, connecting with the kid’s knee. The strippers on stage turn when they hear the liquidy pop. The short one pukes when she sees the damage.
The kid to the left gets one good shot at Violence, but he blows it. He throws a huge haymaker that only grazes Violence’s jaw. The expression on his face says it all, knowing what’s coming next. Pain and punishment.
Violence keeps the mystery short, grabbing the guy by the crotch and lifting him off the ground as he squeezes. The kid’s scream-grunt sounds like a hernia feels.
Out of the corner of his eye, Violence sees the bouncer making his way to the table, pushing patrons and chairs out of the way. He looks like an elephant charging through high grass.
“Maybe you got a little good luck, kid. Remember that. If all you had was bad luck, I’d be taking your balls with me.”
Lifting by the crotch with one hand and grabbing the front of his shirt with the other, he turns the kid’s body and throws the big kid at the bouncer. And while the toss doesn’t quite reach the bouncer, landing on the ground at his feet, the shock of having a person thrown at him is enough to allow Violence to escape through the fire exit.
“Shit.” Violence threw his beer can against the side of the truck. “I can’t win this. Can’t win no lottery.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” Scrote asked, watching the wasted beer drain onto the ground.
“Maybe you were right about bad luck,” Violence said, “I can’t win the lottery.”
“What’re you talking about? You just did.”
“It’s gambling. It’s a violation of my parole. Any kind of gambling. If I try to get my money, not only won’t they give it to me, they’ll throw me back inside.”
“The lottery ain’t gambling. It’s legal and shit. The government runs it, and the government can’t do anything illegal. They make the laws.”
“They make the rules, too.” Violence lit a fresh cigarette off his old one, laughed to himself, then grabbed the front of Scrote’s shirt. “But nothing says you can’t gamble.”
“Sure. I gamble all the time. Blackjack, Pai Gow. Don’t understand craps though.”
“You can mail the ticket in, get the money. I’ll give you a commission. Say…ten percent. One grand. Just to use your name and get the cash.”
“A grand? Sure.”
Violence pulled the ticket out of his pocket, looking at the matching numbers for the fiftieth time. He handed it to Scrote. “Don’t lose it. And don’t even think about trying to run off with that money.”
Scrote looked hurt. “I wouldn’t never do that.”
“Because I would fucking kill you. Money makes people stupid sometimes.”
“We’re friends. Money ain’t worth more than that. It won’t make me stupid.”