Bombs were the last thing on his mind. If he lost this poker game, it would be his death anyway. The lights flickered, the ceiling dripped and the cigarettes had long since expired. The gaunt janitor across from him wheezed in a satisfied rheumy way. There it is. His tell for a rotten hand.
The girl with the brown eyes sucked on her teeth. The bombs above loosed plaster from the ceiling and it salted her hair. She shook it off like a dog, her brow creased in concentration. She had been squinting the entire game, suffering her near-sighted bet that lost her specs.
The brawny man scratched his forearm. His eyes were jaundiced, but the shot glasses were empty.He was the embodiment of consumption.
And then there was me. The sad, scrawny nobody with nothing to bet but my escape ticket. It was my only way out. My Bomb.
Bombs were the last thing on his mind.