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| Swamp Donkey
| | Thad Staffall
| Beans came to Las Vegas to count cards and get rich. Instead, he fell in love with a pious hooker and awoke next to her corpse.
Now, her ex-boyfriend wants revenge, the police want to pin the crime on him and her pimp demands he commit a murder that will change the outcome of a presidential election.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
You might think life is easy for the great geniuses in society, but that is simply because you are not one of us and don’t understand what it’s like trying to relate to the inferior mind, to suffer their banal and tepid existences.
Although I had fixed my cannon on class and virtue long ago, I made the mistake of coming to Las Vegas with crude, vulgar and, at times, physically abusive “friends” for a bachelor party. I didn’t win the fortune I’d dreamed of and plotted for, but I did unexpectedly fall in love with the sweetest, most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. When her pimp insulted me everything began to spiral out of control.
I met her at the blackjack table. At the time I could not have known, no matter how clairvoyant I sometimes believed myself to be, just how auspicious this meeting had been, how it would set in motion a course of events that would ruin my life, other lives, change drug laws and overturn the results of a U.S. presidential election.
Now, as I look back, I swear I felt a distinct chill slither down my spine as she whispered in her pimp’s ear and walked off.
Maybe I did, on some level, understand how ominous a moment it was; maybe there was a feeling of permanence about it, foretelling many hopeless years of cold and somber misery, foretelling an eternity of dreary solitude. Maybe, but I did not understand this at the time. If there was any way I could have known what I would soon have to endure, how much trouble I would encounter, how much abuse, how many accusations I would suffer and how many innocent lives I would impart suffering onto because of this meeting, I would have gotten up, left those inveterate drunkards and gone home at that very moment. But, of course, I did not know how to interpret that chill. I am not the type of man to easily accept an occasional misreading of instinct, but this is what happened. This is exactly the way it happened.
Who could blame me for falling in love? Who could blame me for stealing a few measly dollars? For trying to help? Who could blame me for the deaths of all those people? It is not me, but a confluence of events that is to blame. Read this book and understand the plight of the genius, the misanthrope, the beguiled. Understand why I now walk the earth with downcast eyes, alone, a stranger, for the ruin of souls. Read this book, and you will see I am not to blame.
Thad Staffall
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