Little Joe Gould hated his life. His wife had left him and hired the most powerful divorce lawyer in all of Atlantic City. He sat there on the bar stool reflectively. He stared off at the slot machine and took his credit card from his wallet. He inserted the credit card and hit the bet button. “This will show her,” he said to himself, “I’ll waste the money before she can get a red cent!” He pulled the long bar on the machine. Bar. Seven. Bar. Nothing. He was happy, soon his money would be gone. The short balding fat man (who had an uncanny resemblence to a certain baseball coach) pulled the machine again. Seven. Double Bar. Seven. He smiled as the machine swollowed his money. He pulled the slot again. Hook. Hook. Hook. He stared at the machine confused. Hooks? What silliness was this? He realized it. It came to him in his mind like a rubix cube solving itself, like a puzzle falling into pieces. He didn’t look back to see Wolfhook standing there. “I knew I should’ve been suspicious when the lawyer my wife hired was named Wolf Hook.” He took his last breath, which was tainted by the scent of hotdogs. Wolfhook had struck again.

Author’s Note: I once saw Street Action gamble illegaly once and ran away because I was afraid he’d hit the triple hook. Instead he won a few bucks in nickels.