Rev's entry.

Sean also wrote something and even though a winner has been chosen, apparently he's forgotten how to post his own entry so he sent it to me.

Here is Rev (Sean)'s vision of hope:




Paul Jody is Always in Deep Shit

BY R.M. Sean Jaffe


Paul Jody studied Walter Vincenzio’s face for a hint of emotion. Finding none, his eyes glided to the walls of the office, surveying the plaques and commendations from the Atlantic City Gambling Comission and the seniority rewards from the Starluxe itself. This guy was money, Jody assumed, and he and money had never really seen eye to eye.


Two hours prior, he was aimlessly wandering the Starluxe casino. At the tender age of forty-three, he had been the youngest on the tour bus from Bethesda to the casino. However, once the bus had actually pulled in, unlike the elderly gamblers who shoved past him with dim-eyed purpose, Jody had just blinked and suddenly realized he was in New Jersey.

Paul Jody had never been much for thinking things through. Born the second youngest in a family of four brothers, he had drifted with the winds, doing odd jobs as a handyman and a short order cook until he had stumbled into a wife who already had three screaming kids. Bad plans turned worse when he decided to open a restaurant to support his family, borrowing heavily from shady types who liked to remain faceless in DC’s ghettoes. The restaurant, a southern-themed endeavor in the heart of DC’s most dangerous neighborhood, floundered. He borrowed more to keep it afloat, and eventually wound up twice as far in the hole as when he started.

After a bout of heavy drinking with Pablo, his kitchen manager, cook, and waiter, he lit upon an ingenious plan- he would fake his own death. They decided upon something spectacular, and at four AM that morning on Wisconsin Avenue, police responded to a burning Ford Pickup that appeared to have claimed one victim.

Paul Jody, however, rarely thought things through. At a dank bar, Coors light in hand, he went cold as the news reported that body in the car had been identified as Ogden Phillips, a dentist who had died in 1956, and who’s skeleton was affectionately known to the students at the Georgetown Science Lab as “Ollie.” Paul was in shit as deep as he could imagine, and grabbed the first bus he could out of town. The Starluxe casino beeped and clanged loudly at him as he exited the bus and, for the first time, realized where he had gone.

Wandering aimlessly, he fumbled into his pocket for some money for lunch, or better yet, a beer. Withdrawing a dollar, three quarters and a dime, he mindlessly plinked the coins into a slot machine under a beautiful rotating platform showcasing a sparkling new Audi. He’d never had a car without visible Bondo on it and he dreamt about what it would be like. The machine bleeped excitedly at him, and spat out a ticket worth a dollar and seventy-five cents. Despite the built-in laugh-track of plinking coins, the fiscal-minded trend of replacing the thrill of a cartoonish jet of clanking change with a strip of paper as winnings had turned even a good day at the slots into an experience as stimulating as a visit to the ATM. Paul belched and tore off the strip.

He examined the walls. Tonight, Raynathan Tatham would square off against “Bull” Bulcheski at the Starluxe Plaza, a bout he should have been home watching on TV while Shelley screamed at him and the kids yelled and puked. He sighed with relief that that, at least, would not be happening. He imagined that the local bars would probably have a simulcast and he could maybe hang around long enough to…-

Sirens. Noise. A man in a tie rushed up to him, and he froze, dropping his bottle. The man in the tie laughed and there was a flash. He was handed a picture of himself standing stupidly next to the man in the tie who grinned professionally.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“P-Paul…o”

“Paulo, let me be the first to congratulate you.”

It seeped in like oil on a rag. The clanging, the light. The plinking feedback. He looked down at where he had mindlessly fed his ticket to a machine that was now screaming and whirring at him like maniac. Hit the Progressive? What does that mean? He looked at the blinking figure on the machine- on all the machines in that island.

“Did I really just win three million dollars?”


Vincenzio tapped his pen on the desk and looked at Jody over the rims on his glasses. It was a look perfected by prison wardens and high-school teachers, an expression that wielded authority like an assault rifle. Jody flinched.

“Paulo…” Vincenzio started, voice thick with skepticism, “ or shall I call you “Mr Bulcheski?”

“Paulo is fine.”

“I have to admit I take your name with some trepidation sir, on account you can’t even spell Bulcheski when asked.”

“I’m foreign. I’m from Mexico.”

Walter huffed and looked back at his desk. There was nothing on it. This appeared to make him cranky. Jody’s mind raced. Could he even carry three million dollars? It wasn’t actually three million dollars, it was three million, three hundred thousand, two-hundred and eighty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents. The sixty-two cents seemed comical tacked on to all that. He swallowed hard. He could probably pay off his debts now, he was certain of that. He’d fork over whatever fines there were for having burned his pickup in a nice part of town. He’d go home to Shelly. Harping Shelly and her screaming, crapping, kids… The mind boggled.

“Mr… Uh… Vincenzio? I got an idea for both of us. You know what’s a lot cheaper than three million dollars?

Vincenzio cocked his head.

“I’m listening.”

“A hundred thousand in cash, that brand new Audi, and you never having to see me again.”

Walter did something authority figures rarely did for Paul. He smiled.


Paul considered what his new name should be as he as he drove over the Ben Franklin Bridge into Philadephia. Pablo had been an Eagles fan, so he’d stop for a beer. But he couldn’t stay too long. He had the sort of freedom that a knapsack full of cash and a brand new car brings, and there was a whole lot of America available to him.