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Be a prophet, make a profit Just a Friendly WagerBy Rick Horowitz
Muggsy and me, we currently have 20 large riding on North Korean plutonium, and are likewise quite attentive to the continued health of a Mr. Mahmoud Abbas of Palestine, most especially the chance of him succumbing to a sudden case of massive lead poisoning, if you get my drift. Let's just say we have a rooting interest in certain events of this nature. A rooting interest, and Poindexter's Global Sporting Parlor right down the block. Now, it ain't as if either of us could tell plutonium from pastrami, and Mr. Mahmoud Abbas is a gent with whom we are not entirely familiar either. But like the man says, truth is stranger than fiction, which is why we find ourselves, Muggsy and me, scouring the newspapers every morning -- real newspapers, not just the Racing Form -- and in the afternoon, more of the same, plus cable and also the Internet. "Riveting!" says Muggsy. "Most informative!" says I. We had no idea the world could be so full of thrills, even for a couple of bums like us. But the proof is in the pudding. There's a regular bounce in our step now, not to mention a sparkle in our eyes. Think puppy love, only with bigger payouts. But without Poindexter's Global Sporting Parlor, it never happens -- no way, no how. Which is why Muggsy and me, we've got our fingers crossed the cops don't shut him down for good like they say. I remember it like it was yesterday, the first we ever heard of this particular establishment. We were passing the time at our usual location, Willie's Billiards, with the usual mutts -- Marvin Suspenders, Vinnie Slick, Tongue-Tied, Dr. Perfecta and the Champ -- when all of a sudden, who should come flying up the stairs but Muggsy himself, who at that point in time I haven't laid eyes on in probably six months. But here he is, up the stairs and out of breath, mumbling something about a Liberian coup, or maybe a Liberian kook. (We can't make out all the words at first.) So we sit him down and calm him down, during which Little Willie brings him a glass of water, which is not Muggsy's favorite beverage, and finally he spills the yarn: He's betting on the world. "You mean like soccer?" Dr. Perfecta says. "I hate soccer." It develops that Muggsy don't mean soccer at all. He means terror, and for that matter, war and assassinating and other scenarios of that particular nature. He informs us that the Pentagon is backing this new program to scope out what we need to worry about, and likewise which worrying things are more likely to happen than which other. He further informs us that the way the Pentagon is conducting all this scoping out is by inviting the public to place wagers on the various possibilities. That's where Poindexter's Global Sporting Parlor comes in. And Muggsy informs us lastly that he's started accepting these invitations from the Pentagon, whereupon Vinnie Slick and Marvin Suspenders look at Muggsy like he's headed for the booby hatch posthaste. I myself, however, am intrigued by the concept. That is owing to how I frequently find myself thinking about the future. Often these thoughts concern the staying power of some particular nag running tomorrow at Belmont, but other matters also occur to me from time to time. Why not apply these very same analytical and predictive skills in the service of my country? "So if bad things happen to bad people -- " "Or even to good people," Muggsy hastens to correct me. " -- we can make a score." "As long as we bet it right." What could be simpler? Muggsy and me, we shake hands right then and there, and we've been citizens of the world ever since. There's nothing like having a stake in things. Posted 7/31/03. Get
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Rick Horowitz
