𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝑀𝑒 𝐼𝓃
CW: Self Harm
What would you rather do: play the lottery for twenty million dollars or be given two million dollars to stand on the roof holding a metal rod in a lightning storm? Most people would pick the lottery and they can't exactly be faulted for anything other than playing it safe. The only danger in playing the lottery is the amount of pocket money it costs to buy a ticket. But what if I told you the odds of getting struck by lightning even with a metal rod in your hand was 1 in 15,300? Changes things, doesn't it? Would you do it? The odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 302,575,350. You don't need to be a mathematician or a statistician to know you have higher odds of getting struck by lightning than you do winning the lottery. By those odds you're more likely to get struck by lightning 250 different times than you are to win the lottery once. More people die every year from car accidents than lightning strikes, but you don't see people refusing to drive.
Knowing all that...what would you rather do?
Lydia Economos gazed at the blade of a pocket knife shining with a dull sheen on the onyx grip. They'd been staring at the knife for an eternity - five minutes to be exact - to the point where they could identify exactly how many ridges made up the blade from tip to bottom and back again. There was something in Lydia's gaze that suggested a deep connection with the knife, as if they were trying to communicate with it, to tell it some deep message that would only be understood between the pair of them. Lydia and knife. Knife and Lydia. Symbiosis. And then with a flick of their eyes downward, the knife was in midair freefall, Lydia's grip leaving the hilt for a brief moment before returning, now closing their fingers around the hilt like a vise; using the same momentum and speed, the knife descended downward like a snake snapping at its victim.
Stab. The knife hit the cherrywood top that made up part of Lydia's desk. The serrated edges were mere centimeters away from piercing Lydia's flesh, specifically the fingers on their right hand which were spread apart and laid flat on the desk. Behind Lydia there was a window overlooking the city below like they were a villain in an action movie making a gesture how the city was in the palm of their hands. Far from it, though; Lydia just liked the view. It reminded them that for all that had been lost, they were still here. For better. For worse.
Stab. The knife stabbed between index and middle, coming even closer to piercing skin but fortunately cutting only air and poking into the desk. Outside of Lydia's office there were thousands of people shoving quarters into machines and pulling a lever. There were hundreds exchanging money for chips, and hundreds more deciding if they should hit, stay, call, raise, or fold. On a good day, The Trojan Horse made just shy of two million dollars a day and today was looking like a good day.
Stab. This time the knife was between middle and ring but there was plenty of room left. Not even close. The Trojan Horse employed a staff just shy of nine thousand. Once upon a time Lydia knew them all by name but that was a lifetime ago. Some were fired. Some quit. Some were dead. Some were poached. It's hard to say goodbye when after a while every face looks the same. It's hard to care when you're thirty six going on thousands. Lydia could blink and another staff member hands in their resignation. Lydia could cough and four more take the place. Lydia could turn around and it's ten years later.
Stab. Lydia saw red. Just a dot. A speck. Their pinky was bleeding. That tended to happen when a knife sliced a thin cut on the side of a finger. Tonight in the theater there was a performance from some rock band on tour. Tickets sold out eons ago - months - and there would be increased security detail to deal with scalpers and people trying to get in for free. Lydia wasn't a fan. They liked music well enough, just that this particular band traded more on sex appeal than musical ability. Perhaps, they think, mother was right. Perhaps it always boils down to sex.
Stab. More red drips onto the desk but Lydia doesn't flinch. They watch. Curious. Is it normal to feel no pain? Or has this finger been cut so many times that it no longer registers? The head chef at the on-site restaurant, Attica's Attic, is having a baby. Specifically he and his husband's surrogate is. There was a big fuss some time back because Lydia hired an openly gay chef to a prestige restaurant which apparently is news for some people. Lydia didn't care about the man's sex life. They cared that he could make a damn good plate of saganaki. The secret was in the olive oil. Of course it was. It was a Grecian dish.
Stab. The knife stabs into a divet groove that had been there a while now, a constant reminder that for as often as Lydia plays this game, they never seem to stab the middle finger. There are hundreds of emails and calls they need to be making, but no matter how many they respond to, there will always be hundreds waiting. Lydia's mind wanders whenever the specter of responsibility looms large. They chose this career. They could've done anything. Followed in father's footsteps. Gone to sleep with mother - not like that - though they weren't so sure that was a choice and thinking on it, they did sort of miss the way mother talked of her many dalliances. Absence and fondness so often go hand in hand.
Stab. This one hurt most of all. Lydia took their hand off the hilt of the knife and saw that it didn't fall down. How could it, when the blade was sticking out of Lydia's index finger. Not deep enough to pin it to the table, nor wide enough to be an amputation. But just enough that they could register that it hurt. Stung. Just enough to feel something, even for a maddening fraction of a second. Would the feeling return if they pulled it out? Would it be so bad if they pushed it in just a little more? Felt the numbing sensation of blade on bone? Is this what addicts felt? The same addicts that gave money to Lydia's house? The people who get a brief rush of something when the lights flash and the sound of coins hitting the tray plays louder and sweeter than any song? Lydia wasn't so different from those people. On the surface.
You're probably wondering why someone would willingly leave a knife in their finger. Or maybe you think it's a little dramatic. Maybe you're right. Every day this knife plays five finger fillet and every day it hits a different assortment of fingers. Some days it's one. Others it's none. Never the same combination two days in a row. Do you know the odds of that? Do you want to know? Does it matter? You might be wondering if playing this game is worth it. To that I ask you: is anything? Worth is what we make it. To some, it's worth it to cancel plans last minute because a nap is preferable to spending time with people. To some, it's worth it to order food and pay more rather than cook it themselves. Worth is an arbitrary value humans assign to things. What makes a virgin worth more than a whore? A cow more than a pig? One life over many?
The door to Lydia's office opened suddenly and Lydia's eyes shifted from the knife still lodged in their finger to that of a silver haired, suit wearing gentleman with an earpiece. Josh. Or was it Jacob? Jason? Doesn't matter. Pit boss. Going on...twenty...thirty years now? Not at the Trojan, he's been here for 8. I poached him from a rival. Still under the impression that he has a chance to make an honest person of me.
"Ma'am, there's....are you alright?" Joel seemed worried about the fact that his boss had a knife sticking out of her finger. Granted, it wasn't a big knife, but when it came to a knife being stabbed in someone, did size truly matter? The last time he was in here, Lydia was holding her hand over a lighter. The palm of her hand was black by that point but she didn't even seem to care. That was the first time he had truly considered retirement, but all he would have to show for it were his fish at home.
"Never better." Lydia pulled the knife from their finger without breaking eye contact with Joel. Blood continued to drip from the fingers they had previously nicked but if it bothered her, she didn't show it, instead staring towards the pit boss as if daring him to explain why he inerrupted.
"....'Kay." Retirement was definitely looking like the best option. "There's a cheater down at the tables. Figured you -" Lydia was out of her seat as soon as she heard the word cheater. She was pushing past Joel as if he were a prop. "Right, well, he's at table sixteen." Joel shook his head as he was alone in Lydia's office. "God, I miss mob casinos."
Out on the floor of the Trojan Horse, the sights and sounds were intoxicating. Slot machines whirring and spinning. The background music playing over the speaker systems. People ordering drinks. Dealers and gamblers exchanging words. People at the craps table being happy...or sad. The entire spectrum of human life could be found in the halls of the Trojan Horse. And numb to it all was Lydia Economos, marching down the carpeted floor with heels clacking along, fingers bleeding, and expression neutral as can be.
You ever wonder why casinos play music that seems like it fell out of America in the prohibition era? It's because people want to believe they're in a classy establishment. It's an illusion. There's nothing classy about spending money on the chance of winning. But play a little crooning music written by dead people and everyone will assume they're punching above their economic class. It's also why the drinks are free. Drunk people are more likely to make dumb decisions. I never said casinos were moral. But they do make a lot of money.
The pit boss told me there was a cheater and I'm inclined to believe him. There's always people who think they can game the system. Count cards. Devise some sort of method to rig the bet and line their pockets. Part of me respects it. The other part realizes it comes from a place of desperation and arrogance. No one can rig chance. I would know.
It was obvious who the cheater was for no reason other than there was a crowd around the poker table. The dealer, a cute red head who was barely six months into the job, was trying to keep cool but the sweat rolling down their face made it clear that that was a difficult ask. Lydia observed a moment. The cheater in question looked fairly middle aged, strawberry hair, and a smug smirk that said enough about him - he craved attention, loved knowing that he was beating the unbeatable system.
"Mind if I deal in?" Lydia tapped the dealer on the shoulder and a sigh of relief washed over the dealer's face as they stepped away from the table.
"What an honor. The owner." The cheater couldn't contain the arrogance in his voice. "Nothing more important to do?"
"I take cheaters very seriously." There was an audible call of 'ohhhhh' in the air and Lydia could see the cheater's face twitch. "You don't have to say anything. But let's make it interesting."
The way his face twitched means one thing: he knows that he's been found out and he knows the power is in my hands now. He's much more likely to make a mistake in trying to swing things back to his favor. Just from that little twitch I know exactly the kind of man he is. And I have him right where I want him.
"One hand. Best hand wins. If I win, you're banned for a year. If you win, you carry on as you were." Despite what happens in mortal media, we don't pull cheaters to a back room and beat the shit out of them, as much as we might like to. It's not technically illegal. Frowned upon? Yes. But not illegal. Every casino has a list of names and faces of 'undesireables' that have been caught or suspected of cheating. I don't care if someone wants to cheat, to rig the odds in their favor. That's just human nature.
The cards were shuffled and two were dealt to Lydia and the cheater. Lydia looked at her cards, her face as neutral as ever. In all the world there was hardly a better poker face. No one had ever been able to read her and she knew this cheater wouldn't be the first. The cheater looked at his cards and twitched his head to the left. I've got nothing, but he's got a tell so I've got more leverage. There's no point in dealing in percentages and probabilities before the first cards enter the flop.
Three cards were dealt to the middle. Two red. One black. Lydia didn't check her hand again, but the cheater did. He didn't tilt his head this time, but he checked his hand a third time and the corners of his lip twitched as if trying to smile. He's got something. Base assumption is a pair, at least. The way he checked his cards twice in succession means he's relying on the turn to truly make his hand. If he was cheating, he wouldn't need to know the number of the turn, just the suite. A flush. That's the likely play. Two red, one black, if he's going for a flush and needs the turn then he has one black in his hand.
The fourth card is dealt to the middle. Red. Lydia again doesn't look at her cards and neither does the cheater, who tilts his head to the left but keeps his grin wide. "Should we just call it now? You can't beat me now." Lydia's response was a simple shrug and the fifth and final card, the river, was dealt. Black. The cheater blinked and looked at his hand again, his twitching smile fading, replaced by rapid blinking.
If he were playing any other person, he would've won. Lydia flipped over her hand. "Straight flush beats a straight."
"How did...I haven't turned my.."
"The river. You expected it to be your ace, no pun intended, because you play the probability angle. Problem is, you forgot to account for one thing. The house always wins." Lydia unbuttoned the arm of her shirt, and cards fell forth, dropping to the table like paper raindrops.
"You..."
"Cheated? Takes one, doesn't it. See you in twelve months." Lydia snapped her fingers and two burly men appeared as if from nowhere behind the cheater. They didn't put a hand on his shoulder, that was a lawsuit, but they did clear their throats and beckon him to follow them. The only thing missing was applause. "Free appetizers, all of you!" There it was. The applause. The sounds. Everything back to normal.
I didn't cheat, but I've been in this world long enough to know people love a show. Some of them probably think this means dealers cheat, but that won't stop them. They're at a casino. They've made their choice. Distracting them with free stuff makes them forget about potential rigged games. Same as it ever was. Shame, though. I wanted to lose. By all accounts that last card should've been in his favor. But then...I'm me.
So let me ask you something. Would you rather play the lottery for twenty million dollars or throw your money away?
Tyche saw it but she didn't believe it. Corpses. Godly corpses. As if fallen from Olympus itself. Her eyes were glued to the scene. Mind racing. Wondering how it happened. Who did it. What it took. How. How. How. Why them. A million questions all twisting and turning to the same inevitable conclusion. Jealousy. She looked at the drink in her hand, the champagne flute, and her fingers were shaking. The glass was in danger of shattering in her grip but an elbow to the side brought her out of the reverie.
"Some party, right? Better than last year."
"Bad luck. That's all it is."
Tyche stepped away from the scene, leaving the room to make for the outside. To get some air. To get away from the grisly scene. To...process. A million more questions swirling. Bad luck. Just a bit of bad luck. Just some luck.
Some people have all of it.
What would you rather do: play the lottery for twenty million dollars or be given two million dollars to stand on the roof holding a metal rod in a lightning storm? Most people would pick the lottery and they can't exactly be faulted for anything other than playing it safe. The only danger in playing the lottery is the amount of pocket money it costs to buy a ticket. But what if I told you the odds of getting struck by lightning even with a metal rod in your hand was 1 in 15,300? Changes things, doesn't it? Would you do it? The odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 302,575,350. You don't need to be a mathematician or a statistician to know you have higher odds of getting struck by lightning than you do winning the lottery. By those odds you're more likely to get struck by lightning 250 different times than you are to win the lottery once. More people die every year from car accidents than lightning strikes, but you don't see people refusing to drive.
Knowing all that...what would you rather do?
Lydia Economos gazed at the blade of a pocket knife shining with a dull sheen on the onyx grip. They'd been staring at the knife for an eternity - five minutes to be exact - to the point where they could identify exactly how many ridges made up the blade from tip to bottom and back again. There was something in Lydia's gaze that suggested a deep connection with the knife, as if they were trying to communicate with it, to tell it some deep message that would only be understood between the pair of them. Lydia and knife. Knife and Lydia. Symbiosis. And then with a flick of their eyes downward, the knife was in midair freefall, Lydia's grip leaving the hilt for a brief moment before returning, now closing their fingers around the hilt like a vise; using the same momentum and speed, the knife descended downward like a snake snapping at its victim.
Stab. The knife hit the cherrywood top that made up part of Lydia's desk. The serrated edges were mere centimeters away from piercing Lydia's flesh, specifically the fingers on their right hand which were spread apart and laid flat on the desk. Behind Lydia there was a window overlooking the city below like they were a villain in an action movie making a gesture how the city was in the palm of their hands. Far from it, though; Lydia just liked the view. It reminded them that for all that had been lost, they were still here. For better. For worse.
Stab. The knife stabbed between index and middle, coming even closer to piercing skin but fortunately cutting only air and poking into the desk. Outside of Lydia's office there were thousands of people shoving quarters into machines and pulling a lever. There were hundreds exchanging money for chips, and hundreds more deciding if they should hit, stay, call, raise, or fold. On a good day, The Trojan Horse made just shy of two million dollars a day and today was looking like a good day.
Stab. This time the knife was between middle and ring but there was plenty of room left. Not even close. The Trojan Horse employed a staff just shy of nine thousand. Once upon a time Lydia knew them all by name but that was a lifetime ago. Some were fired. Some quit. Some were dead. Some were poached. It's hard to say goodbye when after a while every face looks the same. It's hard to care when you're thirty six going on thousands. Lydia could blink and another staff member hands in their resignation. Lydia could cough and four more take the place. Lydia could turn around and it's ten years later.
Stab. Lydia saw red. Just a dot. A speck. Their pinky was bleeding. That tended to happen when a knife sliced a thin cut on the side of a finger. Tonight in the theater there was a performance from some rock band on tour. Tickets sold out eons ago - months - and there would be increased security detail to deal with scalpers and people trying to get in for free. Lydia wasn't a fan. They liked music well enough, just that this particular band traded more on sex appeal than musical ability. Perhaps, they think, mother was right. Perhaps it always boils down to sex.
Stab. More red drips onto the desk but Lydia doesn't flinch. They watch. Curious. Is it normal to feel no pain? Or has this finger been cut so many times that it no longer registers? The head chef at the on-site restaurant, Attica's Attic, is having a baby. Specifically he and his husband's surrogate is. There was a big fuss some time back because Lydia hired an openly gay chef to a prestige restaurant which apparently is news for some people. Lydia didn't care about the man's sex life. They cared that he could make a damn good plate of saganaki. The secret was in the olive oil. Of course it was. It was a Grecian dish.
Stab. The knife stabs into a divet groove that had been there a while now, a constant reminder that for as often as Lydia plays this game, they never seem to stab the middle finger. There are hundreds of emails and calls they need to be making, but no matter how many they respond to, there will always be hundreds waiting. Lydia's mind wanders whenever the specter of responsibility looms large. They chose this career. They could've done anything. Followed in father's footsteps. Gone to sleep with mother - not like that - though they weren't so sure that was a choice and thinking on it, they did sort of miss the way mother talked of her many dalliances. Absence and fondness so often go hand in hand.
Stab. This one hurt most of all. Lydia took their hand off the hilt of the knife and saw that it didn't fall down. How could it, when the blade was sticking out of Lydia's index finger. Not deep enough to pin it to the table, nor wide enough to be an amputation. But just enough that they could register that it hurt. Stung. Just enough to feel something, even for a maddening fraction of a second. Would the feeling return if they pulled it out? Would it be so bad if they pushed it in just a little more? Felt the numbing sensation of blade on bone? Is this what addicts felt? The same addicts that gave money to Lydia's house? The people who get a brief rush of something when the lights flash and the sound of coins hitting the tray plays louder and sweeter than any song? Lydia wasn't so different from those people. On the surface.
You're probably wondering why someone would willingly leave a knife in their finger. Or maybe you think it's a little dramatic. Maybe you're right. Every day this knife plays five finger fillet and every day it hits a different assortment of fingers. Some days it's one. Others it's none. Never the same combination two days in a row. Do you know the odds of that? Do you want to know? Does it matter? You might be wondering if playing this game is worth it. To that I ask you: is anything? Worth is what we make it. To some, it's worth it to cancel plans last minute because a nap is preferable to spending time with people. To some, it's worth it to order food and pay more rather than cook it themselves. Worth is an arbitrary value humans assign to things. What makes a virgin worth more than a whore? A cow more than a pig? One life over many?
The door to Lydia's office opened suddenly and Lydia's eyes shifted from the knife still lodged in their finger to that of a silver haired, suit wearing gentleman with an earpiece. Josh. Or was it Jacob? Jason? Doesn't matter. Pit boss. Going on...twenty...thirty years now? Not at the Trojan, he's been here for 8. I poached him from a rival. Still under the impression that he has a chance to make an honest person of me.
"Ma'am, there's....are you alright?" Joel seemed worried about the fact that his boss had a knife sticking out of her finger. Granted, it wasn't a big knife, but when it came to a knife being stabbed in someone, did size truly matter? The last time he was in here, Lydia was holding her hand over a lighter. The palm of her hand was black by that point but she didn't even seem to care. That was the first time he had truly considered retirement, but all he would have to show for it were his fish at home.
"Never better." Lydia pulled the knife from their finger without breaking eye contact with Joel. Blood continued to drip from the fingers they had previously nicked but if it bothered her, she didn't show it, instead staring towards the pit boss as if daring him to explain why he inerrupted.
"....'Kay." Retirement was definitely looking like the best option. "There's a cheater down at the tables. Figured you -" Lydia was out of her seat as soon as she heard the word cheater. She was pushing past Joel as if he were a prop. "Right, well, he's at table sixteen." Joel shook his head as he was alone in Lydia's office. "God, I miss mob casinos."
Out on the floor of the Trojan Horse, the sights and sounds were intoxicating. Slot machines whirring and spinning. The background music playing over the speaker systems. People ordering drinks. Dealers and gamblers exchanging words. People at the craps table being happy...or sad. The entire spectrum of human life could be found in the halls of the Trojan Horse. And numb to it all was Lydia Economos, marching down the carpeted floor with heels clacking along, fingers bleeding, and expression neutral as can be.
You ever wonder why casinos play music that seems like it fell out of America in the prohibition era? It's because people want to believe they're in a classy establishment. It's an illusion. There's nothing classy about spending money on the chance of winning. But play a little crooning music written by dead people and everyone will assume they're punching above their economic class. It's also why the drinks are free. Drunk people are more likely to make dumb decisions. I never said casinos were moral. But they do make a lot of money.
The pit boss told me there was a cheater and I'm inclined to believe him. There's always people who think they can game the system. Count cards. Devise some sort of method to rig the bet and line their pockets. Part of me respects it. The other part realizes it comes from a place of desperation and arrogance. No one can rig chance. I would know.
It was obvious who the cheater was for no reason other than there was a crowd around the poker table. The dealer, a cute red head who was barely six months into the job, was trying to keep cool but the sweat rolling down their face made it clear that that was a difficult ask. Lydia observed a moment. The cheater in question looked fairly middle aged, strawberry hair, and a smug smirk that said enough about him - he craved attention, loved knowing that he was beating the unbeatable system.
"Mind if I deal in?" Lydia tapped the dealer on the shoulder and a sigh of relief washed over the dealer's face as they stepped away from the table.
"What an honor. The owner." The cheater couldn't contain the arrogance in his voice. "Nothing more important to do?"
"I take cheaters very seriously." There was an audible call of 'ohhhhh' in the air and Lydia could see the cheater's face twitch. "You don't have to say anything. But let's make it interesting."
The way his face twitched means one thing: he knows that he's been found out and he knows the power is in my hands now. He's much more likely to make a mistake in trying to swing things back to his favor. Just from that little twitch I know exactly the kind of man he is. And I have him right where I want him.
"One hand. Best hand wins. If I win, you're banned for a year. If you win, you carry on as you were." Despite what happens in mortal media, we don't pull cheaters to a back room and beat the shit out of them, as much as we might like to. It's not technically illegal. Frowned upon? Yes. But not illegal. Every casino has a list of names and faces of 'undesireables' that have been caught or suspected of cheating. I don't care if someone wants to cheat, to rig the odds in their favor. That's just human nature.
The cards were shuffled and two were dealt to Lydia and the cheater. Lydia looked at her cards, her face as neutral as ever. In all the world there was hardly a better poker face. No one had ever been able to read her and she knew this cheater wouldn't be the first. The cheater looked at his cards and twitched his head to the left. I've got nothing, but he's got a tell so I've got more leverage. There's no point in dealing in percentages and probabilities before the first cards enter the flop.
Three cards were dealt to the middle. Two red. One black. Lydia didn't check her hand again, but the cheater did. He didn't tilt his head this time, but he checked his hand a third time and the corners of his lip twitched as if trying to smile. He's got something. Base assumption is a pair, at least. The way he checked his cards twice in succession means he's relying on the turn to truly make his hand. If he was cheating, he wouldn't need to know the number of the turn, just the suite. A flush. That's the likely play. Two red, one black, if he's going for a flush and needs the turn then he has one black in his hand.
The fourth card is dealt to the middle. Red. Lydia again doesn't look at her cards and neither does the cheater, who tilts his head to the left but keeps his grin wide. "Should we just call it now? You can't beat me now." Lydia's response was a simple shrug and the fifth and final card, the river, was dealt. Black. The cheater blinked and looked at his hand again, his twitching smile fading, replaced by rapid blinking.
If he were playing any other person, he would've won. Lydia flipped over her hand. "Straight flush beats a straight."
"How did...I haven't turned my.."
"The river. You expected it to be your ace, no pun intended, because you play the probability angle. Problem is, you forgot to account for one thing. The house always wins." Lydia unbuttoned the arm of her shirt, and cards fell forth, dropping to the table like paper raindrops.
"You..."
"Cheated? Takes one, doesn't it. See you in twelve months." Lydia snapped her fingers and two burly men appeared as if from nowhere behind the cheater. They didn't put a hand on his shoulder, that was a lawsuit, but they did clear their throats and beckon him to follow them. The only thing missing was applause. "Free appetizers, all of you!" There it was. The applause. The sounds. Everything back to normal.
I didn't cheat, but I've been in this world long enough to know people love a show. Some of them probably think this means dealers cheat, but that won't stop them. They're at a casino. They've made their choice. Distracting them with free stuff makes them forget about potential rigged games. Same as it ever was. Shame, though. I wanted to lose. By all accounts that last card should've been in his favor. But then...I'm me.
So let me ask you something. Would you rather play the lottery for twenty million dollars or throw your money away?
Tyche saw it but she didn't believe it. Corpses. Godly corpses. As if fallen from Olympus itself. Her eyes were glued to the scene. Mind racing. Wondering how it happened. Who did it. What it took. How. How. How. Why them. A million questions all twisting and turning to the same inevitable conclusion. Jealousy. She looked at the drink in her hand, the champagne flute, and her fingers were shaking. The glass was in danger of shattering in her grip but an elbow to the side brought her out of the reverie.
"Some party, right? Better than last year."
"Bad luck. That's all it is."
Tyche stepped away from the scene, leaving the room to make for the outside. To get some air. To get away from the grisly scene. To...process. A million more questions swirling. Bad luck. Just a bit of bad luck. Just some luck.
Some people have all of it.
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