put the shades on now because the glaring overhead lights of the casino, meant to keep people awake and gambling, were irritating his eyes.
He was feeling some tiredness—normally in stir he'd be snoring about now—but he was still high, still feeling stony good.
He hadn't been tempted by any of the dope in that frame house. That was new, not being tempted by drugs. Anytime before, since he'd first got high at thirteen, he'd have jumped right into that shit.
But it seemed paltry now, compared to this.
“The suffering here is part of your power, “ came the whisperer, then, as they paused by the roulette table. “Look around you, and know it. “
Gulcher had never had an interest in whether people suffered, unless he hated them—then he was real interested. People he didn't know—who cared? But if the whisperer said it was important...
There, a row of people at the slot machines. Three stumpy, little old ladies with fat ankles and cigarette-yellowed hands and droopy-sad faces: a white lady, a Filipina, a Cuban lady. Then a chunky black woman in a nurse's uniform; then a middle-aged, maybe Italian guy with buck teeth, receding hair, fake-looking gold chain. Then a big black guy in a New York Jets jersey; then a white guy so fat he was in a wheelchair from it, barely fitting in there between rows of slots; then a tall, skinny white woman in a pale pink pants suit with a crotch stain that made him wonder if she'd peed her pants because she wouldn't leave her slot machine; then a scared-looking pimply young guy, maybe nineteen; then...
And they were all pumping the slots, one way or another pumping at them, though the new machines, most of them, didn't have the metal arms you pulled; these weren't the old one-armed bandits, these were touch-screen and push-button, and they were all shiny with colors and panels glowing with pop icons, and they had themes, some of them, pictures of characters from TV shows on them—a CSI: Denver slot machine, a Magic Girl one, a Disney Planet one—and they had little lights on top that revolved when they paid, and they all went yippety-yippety-yippety-tweet-tweet-tootle all the fucking time.
As he watched them, a kind of ripple was in the air around each slot player, a membrane of heightened perception provided by the whisperer—and it revealed a second face on each person. As if each slot player had two faces at once, the second one floating behind and a little above the one you normally see. The second face was blue-white, almost like a mask, but you could see through it—a ghostly visage, with a different expression from the face the slot player showed the world, and it was looking around.
“That is the face of their souls, “ said the whisperer.
These soul faces were frightened and angry. They had the look of trapped people, Gulcher decided. Like they were really stuck somewhere and not sure how or why they got stuck there and they just wanted to get out. Like bugs in a Roach Motel.
The faces of their souls...
“You see it too?” Jock asked, sounding scared and sick himself.
“Yeah,” Gulcher said. Wondering what the expression on the face of his own soul looked like. These people looked like they were suffering, all right. That was funny, because the regular faces on their bodies looked like they were kind of bored, or just vaguely interested, or slightly excited. But these soul faces were like something you'd see in a mental ward. Gulcher himself had once been in a mental ward, playing crazy to stay out of prison, and he had fessed up pretty quick. Because that place
was too damned depressing. He figured people's body faces in mental wards looked like their soul faces, no different.
“Those you see before you have folded their winds into the games of chance, “ said the whisperer. “Their minds are trapped in the game, round and round. They have surrendered themselves; they have left an opening to anything that wishes to enter and take them. They are like
He was feeling some tiredness—normally in stir he'd be snoring about now—but he was still high, still feeling stony good.
He hadn't been tempted by any of the dope in that frame house. That was new, not being tempted by drugs. Anytime before, since he'd first got high at thirteen, he'd have jumped right into that shit.
But it seemed paltry now, compared to this.
“The suffering here is part of your power, “ came the whisperer, then, as they paused by the roulette table. “Look around you, and know it. “
Gulcher had never had an interest in whether people suffered, unless he hated them—then he was real interested. People he didn't know—who cared? But if the whisperer said it was important...
There, a row of people at the slot machines. Three stumpy, little old ladies with fat ankles and cigarette-yellowed hands and droopy-sad faces: a white lady, a Filipina, a Cuban lady. Then a chunky black woman in a nurse's uniform; then a middle-aged, maybe Italian guy with buck teeth, receding hair, fake-looking gold chain. Then a big black guy in a New York Jets jersey; then a white guy so fat he was in a wheelchair from it, barely fitting in there between rows of slots; then a tall, skinny white woman in a pale pink pants suit with a crotch stain that made him wonder if she'd peed her pants because she wouldn't leave her slot machine; then a scared-looking pimply young guy, maybe nineteen; then...
And they were all pumping the slots, one way or another pumping at them, though the new machines, most of them, didn't have the metal arms you pulled; these weren't the old one-armed bandits, these were touch-screen and push-button, and they were all shiny with colors and panels glowing with pop icons, and they had themes, some of them, pictures of characters from TV shows on them—a CSI: Denver slot machine, a Magic Girl one, a Disney Planet one—and they had little lights on top that revolved when they paid, and they all went yippety-yippety-yippety-tweet-tweet-tootle all the fucking time.
As he watched them, a kind of ripple was in the air around each slot player, a membrane of heightened perception provided by the whisperer—and it revealed a second face on each person. As if each slot player had two faces at once, the second one floating behind and a little above the one you normally see. The second face was blue-white, almost like a mask, but you could see through it—a ghostly visage, with a different expression from the face the slot player showed the world, and it was looking around.
“That is the face of their souls, “ said the whisperer.
These soul faces were frightened and angry. They had the look of trapped people, Gulcher decided. Like they were really stuck somewhere and not sure how or why they got stuck there and they just wanted to get out. Like bugs in a Roach Motel.
The faces of their souls...
“You see it too?” Jock asked, sounding scared and sick himself.
“Yeah,” Gulcher said. Wondering what the expression on the face of his own soul looked like. These people looked like they were suffering, all right. That was funny, because the regular faces on their bodies looked like they were kind of bored, or just vaguely interested, or slightly excited. But these soul faces were like something you'd see in a mental ward. Gulcher himself had once been in a mental ward, playing crazy to stay out of prison, and he had fessed up pretty quick. Because that place
was too damned depressing. He figured people's body faces in mental wards looked like their soul faces, no different.
“Those you see before you have folded their winds into the games of chance, “ said the whisperer. “Their minds are trapped in the game, round and round. They have surrendered themselves; they have left an opening to anything that wishes to enter and take them. They are like
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