B.T. Hopethwell is a well- to-do man carrying the weight of both the Blackfoot Native American Indian and African American heritage. It has been weighing like the world on his broad strong shoulders for a few decades now and today, the enchanted high-roller is quite disenchanted. He sits alone with four walls, one covered by the black crushed velvet drapes that used to hang in their den wherever ‘home’ had been set up for awhile. He is reflecting with the glass of scotch in one hand, the bible on his lap, and his eye on the samuraii sword above the mantle.
“It has been one hell of a ride” chuckling then bursting into tears. Remnants of his frivolous less than sainted past, engulf him from every corner of the room. He loved to play billiards, the leather case holding his prizes-winning pool cue in-laid with ivory, glazed colored gypsum, gold flake of the 14 carat variety and black onyx weave their patterns along his stick. It won many tournaments and busted heads but never cracked nor broke for it withstood whatever B.T. put in its path.
His fascination with inner discipline and self-preservation was evident in his continued practice in the Martial Arts. His love of this self-control outlet saved his ass a number of times, but there is five decades plus of this vigorous abuse in survival that these shoulders can grace holding up, no more. He is really tired, fed up with trying to do the right thing and not being properly compensated.
If it weren’t for the luck of the draw and his deliberation in playing cards the best way, many weeks would go between monies. His love of these card-playing days was reflected in how many decks he owned but the one that was ‘most lucky‘ was set in a glass case up on a little marble pedestal that had a blue silk scarf draped lovingly for the cards to bask in. It was situated off to the right near the glass end table and that was his ‘out for blood-money‘ outlet when real honest work was scarce. They came in handy.
His obvious affection and love for most women appeared in a feminine-touch throughout the penthouse. It was comforting for him that his mother taught him to appreciate beautiful things; however a woman is not a thing and in this confusion over the course of his life, misery would be his most consistent bed partner. It was not in his nature to discard any woman who had not ‘wronged him for life’ so he had several ladies for several different tasks, at his beckon call.
Or so he thought . . .
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Comments: 7
which could have been 'butt,' I liked it.
sharing the light,