The Conjurer

JACKPOT


It's like going down the boulevard in a
methyl-alcohol powered rocket sled that can't
be stopped, just ripping through everything
that gets in your way and seeing the whole
thing explode before your very eyes. You don't
even feel the impact and it slows you down in
no way, the only thing you hear is the high
pitched whine of your engines. At 240 mph all
they have left is premonition. You rip through
suburban houses with no regret, through 50
story office buildings, cutting through xerox
machines, typewriters, and executive office
suites, paper sticking to your windshield, you
can't see what is ahead of you and soon the
paper is colored--white, red, brown, then to
ash. Glass storefronts are only an illusion
and you slice through translucent marble like
sunlight. You are the yin and yang, the zen
of motion, the Buddha of speed, and you strike
like the Holy Spirit of destruction and
rebirth, baptized in Kerouac's oasis. Spinning
the wheel like a barrel of a gun, you find the
direction and embark on your intention. The
straight line divides, then christens you in
liquor, gasoline, ice cream, and blood. With
the bank up ahead, you take your first pass
through the building, cranking the wheel after
passing through the first wall, spinning
through the lobby like a death star, through
the wall opposite. No green bucks on the
windshield so you start through the building
again. Whirling gold and glass sparkle before
your eyes, more paper, and you realize that
you've hit the safe deposit boxes. The vault
couldn't be far from this, so on your next
crusade through you figure you'll spin through
the lobby again like the blade on a table saw
when you are close to that same area.
Jackpot!-bills and coins and you try the same
maneuver again to make sure that you've ripped
this pyramid wide open. Paper plasters your
windshield so you hit the wipers. The first
swipe of the blades strips the bank and the
town from your vision and you find yourself in
the country, flying through meadows, toppling
trees, barbed wire streamers cling to the base
of your windshield and you jerk the wheel
again, sending fence posts whiling like
medieval weapons. Then you decide to go back to
your home town on the east coast and pay those
fuckers that you grew up with a little visit
to remember you by-

-After Las Vegas