The View From Scranton

Swellville

An old young man, legend of a recent past. Just like J.P. Melville's Bob le Flambeur. A gambler, yes. A gadabout town. A gadfly in the ointment. Nervy and nuisant. Suited and slung low, in a sweet rag-topped chariot.

On the Strip I am It and It is me. Swagger. A dagger through the muddy crystalline. With a bip and a bop that won't quit. Can't quit. I wear the most confident mask ego can buy.

Feel the fond. Model bookers and club promoters, keepers of shop and saloon, petty thieves and gangsters, junkies and thugs, those who do, those who don't, none who won't, given the chance. They love me and I love them.

Only I love me more. Much more. And they don't love me half as much as I believe. If my handshakes and hugs have ulterior motives, my smile is a lie of the mind, stands to damn good reason that their moves too mean something else. A hustler's currency. Tricks of the trade.

All will be well in Swellville.

posted by John Hood. @ 11:38 AM