“Aside from the Punic Wars, which I was too young for, I have been blamed for everything.”

Casinos: everyone looses – Cuba 1959.
Mingling through the pulsating catacombs, lost in the labyrinth. It appears I will be here till the money machine coughs me up as a defective coin. I walk around; the aisles are reminiscent of the Styx with the dead littering its banks. Falling off my life raft, coming face to face with the gatekeeper, is a strong possibility; inevitable. I’m not sure what would occur when he opens my featherweight wallet, revealing I do not hold enough to pay the ferryman. Though diminutive funds do not seem to hold back the impoverished from gambling their lives away. All these souls, their eyes glazed over as they dunk coin after coin into the luminous, animate machines that fill the foreseeable horizon. The clanging of currency and the buzz of these machines, laughing at their penetrater’s loss, fills my ears. My head spins with despair. Humanities failings laid out all too clear. Nauseous and intoxicating, the audible terror of the casino is all too much. Sports stars grace the screens whilst convertible cars stand, lit up, ready for auction. Finally I catch up to those I entered with, already casualties to the Styx: “$10 more, just $10 more” the horror, the horror.

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