The congregation was spellbound unto the Meekest of its Members, and none more so than Rick himself, who sits in an enraptured trance, nodding his broad head to the cadences of Makepeace's rhetoric, even though every Welsh note of it — to the excited ears and eyes of those around him — is hurled at Rick personally down the length of the aisle, and rammed home with a botched stab of the lugubrious Watermaster forefinger.

Everything seems to be going wrong today.

I’m open, hype off the chronic I was smoking, feeling zooted That Brooklyn shit got me stupid I’m loose, kid – that’s what the overproof did What the ruck you looking at, son? You’ll get roofed, kid!

Card mechanics practice bottom dealing in front of a mirror until it becomes so natural they can't see themselves cheat.