Shot in the leg by a midget

(written in 6 minutes)

This world is a touch of silly and whole lot of dirt. That’s what I used to say back when I was killing time; swatting flies, eating huge kielbassa sausages and letting out belches. Then a man came and hired me for his casino. And what a place it was. The casino was made of marble; beautiful women stood outside; all kinds of wild animals were in there too, a haven for exotic pelts. I was the blackjack dealer, I wore a pinstripe vest and slicked my hair back real good. I was tipped handsomely by the dapper gentry and that felt just fine. But one day I was shot in the leg by a midget, name o’ Bradley Oswald Snurch. It was a raw deal or sucker punch. Snurch, that low-rise bastard, was sure jealous of my height; he came in from the slots and saw me ogling his woman, Contessa, a non-midget socialite, and he got upset. Never provoke a man with a firearm. Snurch's gun had the sweetest smell, and it sounded like the whistling teapot of destruction. The dwarf smoked a two-inch hole into my thigh. The midget-man was chased by cops, but Snurch's skill with a grappling hook was unmatched by the flabby police. They never found Mr. Snurch, and I never got an apology. To this day I cuff every midget I see. Those bastards - I dish out vengeance on their kind, with compound interest. Still, casino life was better than life outside the sausage cart. A casino is run on certain principles you see, and I am a man of certain protocols. I fit into that lifestyle like a sturgeon slips in a river bed, or a haddock shoots down a babbling brook. In fact my sea-creature analogies don’t do it justice: I was loving every minute of the casino, even after my flesh wound, and I swore often, lengthily and out loud that life as a wheeler-dealer was one glitzy golden paradise.