If you walked a mile in Hangman’s shoes you’d end up a mile back of where you
started because brother Hang’s shoes never took one step forward without taking
two back. He rode a Trailways from San Pedro via El Paso just to get to Vegas.
Now here he sits, king down, nine showing, considering his options. The sun
will rise polka dotted in a checker board sky before Hangman draws a deuce.
Double or nothing, Hang knows nothing but you can’t call him a quitter.
“Hit me.”
