Shadows of a Lost Past

Once in the distant, forgotten days, there lived a Gazook named Steve with piercing blue eyes.

During a time known as the Pre-Uplift era, the candidate with the largest collar was the favorite choice for Alderman.

To open a Murder Parlor, a Good Citizen needed black bottles, a barrel of sawdust, and a pull at City Hall.

When the establishment opened its doors, the key was thrown into the river, and bodies were discreetly removed through the alleyways to avoid disrupting main thoroughfares.

Every year, for twelve months straight, all sorts of games, from innocent pitch-and-toss to more severe acts of manslaughter, were fair play.

Anyone seeking amusement could engage in a morning game of Kelly Pool for a dime, attend a horse race in the afternoon, witness a 20-round boxing match in the evening, and try their luck at the roulette wheel before retiring to a flax-backed chair.

The police were tasked with ensuring that all push-cart peddlers carried the appropriate licenses.

Steve, the free-spirited wanderer, traversed the wide-open town, placing bets with abandon, his influence stretching as far as the Milky Way. When he rolled the dice, a considerable rumble could be heard.

Bookies, bartenders, bruisers, and the moonlight rattlers crew all knew him by his first name, recognizing him as both a producer and a jovial fellow.

Whispers reached Steve's ears, hinting at a conspiracy perpetrated by certain individuals who scurried home before midnight and concealed their identities with white mufflers. Little did he suspect that a seemingly harmless fellow in galoshes, guzzling root beer, held the power to disrupt the town.

Oh, what a rude awakening!

One day, while engrossed in studying the form sheet with a group of about 150 fellow enthusiasts, preparing to place a bet on Sazerack in the third race at Guttenberg, blue wagons suddenly arrived. Moments later, Steve identified himself as Andrew Jackson to the desk sergeant, utterly bewildered.

The following day, Steve received a telegram from a horse trainer. Excitedly, he headed to his usual haunt, only to receive the secret signal from plainclothes officers, indicating that he should make a swift exit. Indignation pulsed through his veins.

While downtown bookmakers were being raided, the racehorses continued to gallop at the track. Determined to preserve his rights as a free-born American, Steve boarded the train daily, seeking solace in the familiar realm of racing.

One day, as he stood outside the Kentucky Club, ready to bet on Gertie Glue at 8 to 5, tragedy struck the racetrack, leaving the entire operation in shambles.

As the touts, sheet-writers, and sure-things enthusiasts regained consciousness and started asking questions, they discovered that the state legislature had killed the racing game, forcing all the regulars to find gainful employment.

In a dazed state, Steve returned to town, eager to reunite with his gang and devise a plan to extinguish the fire that threatened their way of life.

Upon arriving at their usual hangout, he was greeted with a half-mast flag—the roost had been closed down for operating past the eleven o'clock curfew.

A few evenings later, Steve wandered to a large frame building to catch a glimpse of two promising fighters set to weigh in at 135 ringside.

However, a cannon was mounted at the main entrance, and the street teemed with department store employees disguised as soldiers.

No events were taking place.

The governor had deployed the militia, determined to prevent any stain on the commonwealth's honorable reputation.

With selling-platers put out to pasture

MORAL: When the Fire Runs Deep, Find Solace in a Glass of Chilled Tea.

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