Gearing Down Dialing Back (dreamtime)

     It's cold as fuck and the coven (3/5 of us) are hunkered down in the alley behind Dickens.  T. gives me a bit of a hard time about the watch.

    "Right, because nothing says spooky black magicians doing dark rituals like a Donald Duck watch."

    "Look, between the fucking steampunks and collectors, it's getting *hard* to find cheap fully-mechanical watches these days, okay? Beggars can't be choosers. It's gonna be scrap in a few minutes anyway."

    So we throw up a quick circle with powdered charcoal so we can see the line against the dirty snow, fumbling with the lighter and the alcohol, which flares briefly blue but gives no warmth.

    I set down the watch and the roll of caps and fumble for the hammer in my purse.

    "We ready then?"

    T. and M. nod.

    "Alright. Give me a countdown."

    "Three. Two. One."

    "IAO ENTROPY

    YOU CAN'T WIN

    YOU CAN'T BREAK EVEN

    YOU CAN'T QUIT

    (pause)

    BUT WE CHEAT"

    I bring the hammer down on the roll of caps, which makes a satisfyingly loud bang and sends a shock running up my arm. The kids smoking behind the dumpster peer around the corner curiously. I sweep the demolished watch into a small paper bag, pour the rest of the booze on it, and leave it burning forlornly in the middle of the alley. We don't look back as we return to the light and heat and noise.