Bernie got a streak going at the blackjack table. He was up a hundred bucks, then two hundred.
But that was nothing. He was going for it tonight, going all the way. He was either walking out a rich man, or broke.
Probably the latter.
He felt as if he was racing headlong toward a wall. He looked forward to the moment just before contact, the sweet grasp of fate before the oblivion of pain.
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