So I bet more or less my annual salary on the rest of the series. Which settled my debts with the Genovese mafia. Yet it wasn’t exactly the easiest pill to swallow. Covering my degenerate debts by betting against my own franchise? Even if it was inside information. Interdimensional information or whatever the fuck. I mean it wasn’t like I was playing in the actual fuckin games. Latrell really lost the series for us when you think about it. No offense to him. But I was a legitimate observer. Had I played who knows? Maybe I shouldn’t feel that bad after all. I’d told Paul I needed some time. A few days. To get my head on straight. That things between us, they just needed some time to breathe. That I knew he knew Kurt Thomas and that he was a gargantuan lying fucking prick. Given my recent winnings and the need to spend as much cash as possible I hired a private detective to follow Paul while we were apart. Come to find out he was blowing out his wife’s pussy almost every night. Right in the fuckin ovaries. Bisexuals are the fucking worst. I wasn’t even mad. To still have that type of vigor for your wife at 72? I had to tip my hat. Even if it killed me to do so. And oh it killed me. To my core! But you know what? Knowledge is power. Yeah. It is. Knowing one way or the other. Powerful stuff.
Herb only played two minutes the entire series which made me feel better. The fuck am I doing still in New York? That’s what I’ve been thinking of late to be honest. Why am I here? Still? I gotta get out of the city man. I’ve had enough of this shithole. I’d like to go out west or some shit. Maybe Florida. It’s kind of muggy there. But I could deal with that. Miami Beach or something. I feel like Miami’s chock full of Cuban bitches. That whole Latina vibe. Butt cheeks. I could live with the humidity. But to be honest with you. What have I really been wondering of late? Where the fuck did White Kurt go?
I’m actually starting to think I really, that I actually pissed. Oh, hey Herb? What are you doing here? Yeah. I’m. I guess I do kind of like Mamma Mia, haha. Yeah. This is Raul. You wanna drink? He’s easily one of the best bartenders in the city! With that said I’m just drinking vodka on the rocks right now. Herb said, Patty Cake Patty Cake My Motherfuckin Man! What’s going on bro? Season is finally done with. Mannn. Onto the next, am I right? Onto better things. Another day another fuckin season. Fuck. Jeff fuckin played me two minutes the entire series. You believe that? Jew. Little midget cunt box. Oh for real? Chris Dudley is better than me? Herb Williams? That’s fuckin racist bro. Total bullshit.
I said, It’s all around us brother. And it’s potent. This racism. I feel it deep in my fuckin bones bro. My bones are literally filled with white racism. He said, It’s a motherfuckin white man’s world. You better bet on that! I said, It’s like. Even if aliens came down. Their asses would probably be white too! All Caucasian and shit.
He said, Some Caucasian Ass UFOs and shit? I said, Even if they came from other dimensions and shit. He said, White ass alien bitches? I’d fuck ‘em. I said, And they’d have like inside information on shit and shit. They’d know everything about you and it would disturb you on increasingly profound levels. Like really disrupt your mental space in a material manner. Haha. He said, I’d fuck a white alien bitch. I said, Oh definitely. Right up their alien asses! I love pussy hole bro. He said, It’s the best. Fuckin love vagina lips. But they’re also the worst. You fall in love with some gash. You buy a beautiful townhouse in Tribeca, and then you have to listen to her fuck Chris Gatling Wednesday through Sunday. I said, Why do we do this to ourselves? He said, It’s been happening since the beginning of time bro. It’s like 98% of our genetic code. 98% of our genetic code drives us toward buying townhomes in Tribeca with tawdry whores bro. That’s actually a scientific fact. I said, It’s enough to drive a guy to straight up homoeroticism. He said, Can you believe this? This little whore got Eiffel Towered by Chris Gatling and Rony Seikaly the other night. Right before Game 5? How could I possibly concentrate on the game! Um. Can we smoke in here? I could go for a quick cigar? I said, Raul! I said, So Herb. I feel like we’re um. We’re pretty close, right? Like we’ve smoked enough cigars. We gone through a commensurate amount of sticks during these Finals. Enough so that I can so to speak. Perhaps. Confide in you? Tell you a secret? Herb said, Bro, tell me anything. I’ve fuckin heard it all dude. My ex-girlfriend is literally probably getting a train run on her by the New Jersey Nets starting five in a townhouse in my name as we speak. I said, Because the thing is. Well. Do you actually believe in that shit? Like aliens and shit? Intergalactic paraphernalia?
He said, Like UFO bitches? I said, Yeah. I don’t know. Because the thing is. I had this experience right before the Finals began. Some white ass alien. Or in his words interdimensional entity. He like visited me straight up out of nowhere. Showed me some wild shit. And honestly I don’t know what to make of it. He said, What’d he show you? I said, You know. It’s hard to explain? It’s like, I don’t know. Super numerical? Rates of change but the rates of change are changing and shit? But I felt like I could verify it. It seemed verifiable? There were real-world verifications I was able to. Somewhat conduct you know? But.
He said, That’s some wild shit. You still talk to him? What was his name? I said, Well who knows his real name. But he introduced himself to me as Steve Marinara. I mean, who knows if that’s his real name. Sounds totally made up. But anyway. Yeah I don’t know. I think I may have pissed him off? Which is totally fine by me. Because I haven’t heard from him in a few days. And honestly I thought I would like that. But now. I don’t know. Now I’m thinking maybe I’m literally losing it or something? That I’m like imagining interdimensional white men entering my penthouse and talking mad shit to me? Herb said. Pat. Listen. Listen to me right now. Anything’s possible. But fuckin think about it: Right before our first NBA Finals? You’re injured. Both of us are fucking fossils in this League. We know this. We’re two geriatric motherfuckers by NBA standards! That’s a lot of stress for anybody to be under. I’m not saying I don’t believe in spirits and shit. Shit-even aliens. Even white ones. Caucasian extraterrestrials. Hitler ass aliens. They could totally exist. Fuck do I know? But at the same time? Is it possible you were just, uh. Stressed about things, understandably so. So you manifested, say, a Joey Rigatoni or whoever it was. To talk to. To make you feel better about not playing in The NBA Finals? I mean, to me, it’s definitely possible. I think it’s totally a possibility. It could be just that simple. End of story.
Oh hell no! she said. You told me five hundred! Don’t even try and play me! I was down the street at Mario’s later that night and I guess I’d had one too many vodka waters? One of the dancers was apparently yelling at me as we stood at the ATM. She said something to the effect of, What the fuck is your passcode? I said, I could have sworn it was 5499. This is so odd. You know if Emilio would just let us pay by card. She said, Fuck you! Terrence! Terrence! This guy. This loser! Isn’t paying me my money!
Subsequently Terrence coerced me into promising that I would pay the dancers their full tips moving forward. That he would give me a one time pass just this time. Because I was a good customer. And I was Patrick Ewing. But I needed to make a point to pay the dancers what I agreed to pay them. Even if it was for illegal blowjobs in the club’s champagne rooms. Even if I was generously inebriated. I agreed with Terrence and I promised to clean up my act. Get it together. It was easily within my abilities. I just needed to blow off a tiny iota of steam. Maybe one more vodka? No. That’s excessive. It’s time to go home. Before you get too drunk to drive.
Outside white Kurt sat in the lot on top of my trunk. Like a total asshole. He said, Hi Patty Cakes. So you played the numbers I see? I said, Ugh. You again? My relationship is ruined, Kurt. I hope you’re happy. He said, That was never my intent. I said, Now I’m getting my dick sucked by women again. He said, Not my business Patrick. But with that I said I sympathize. I said, What do you want? He said, You didn’t miss me at all? I said, You would think a stripper would know how to work a cock a little better. Especially for that price.
He said, There’s a mathematical coding behind all of our actions. A mathematics that reverberates in often odd ways. Mathematics that makes sense until it doesn’t. Repercussions aren’t necessarily symmetrical. I said, Fuck you man. He said, Isn’t betting frowned upon by David Stern. Especially when it’s on your own team? With mob bookies? Hahaha! Either way. My work is done here, so I figured I’d just drop by and. You know. Um. Say goodbye? Apologize? For our relatively tumultuous liaison? Because I do. I actually do sincerely apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused. Any inconveniences I may have caused. For what it’s worth I think Paul will be a solid agent for necessary change. For a stepping back. From unnecessary interventionism. Because it needs to stop. There’s a precipice or something here. I said, Can you launder some money for me? Just a few million? He said, The next 26 months will be instructive. It’ll be crucial. I think your inclination to leave New York is probably a correct one. I’ve never been like a big round numbers guy. But there’s probably. I don’t know. There’s maybe something to it? Round numbers? Even if they’re fictitious? I said,
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