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Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, we got Teras incoming?_ He levels angry blue eyes on me. __ou__e a hex, lady, dark luck, powerful bad juju, ken?___nly to people who try to kidnap me,_ I tell him sweetly, and March snorts, so I feel obliged to add, __r rescue me_ And then Dina makes a pfft sound. __r who travel with me_ My gaze sweeps around the darkened interior, trying to find an ally, but nobody will hold my eyes more than two seconds, it seems. __ine, frag you all, I__ dark juju, bad luck, and you__e all doomed.
Ann Aguirre Grimspace
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Mother Mary of Anabolic Grace, we got Teras incoming?_ He levels angry blue eyes on me. __ou__e a hex, lady, dark luck, powerful bad juju, ken?___nly to people who try to kidnap me,_ I tell him sweetly, and March snorts, so I feel obliged to add, __r rescue me_ And then Dina makes a pfft sound. __r who travel with me_ My gaze sweeps around the darkened interior, trying to find an ally, but nobody will hold my eyes more than two seconds, it seems. __ine, frag you all, I__ dark juju, bad luck, and you__e all doomed.

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Are you what is called a lucky man? Well, you are sad every day. Each day has its great grief or its little care. Yesterday you were trembling for the health of one who is dear to you, today you fear for your own; tomorrow it will be an anxiety about money, the next day the slanders of a calumniator, the day after the misfortune of a friend; then the weather, then something broken or lost, then a pleasure for which you are reproached by your conscience or your vertebral column; another time, the course of public affairs. Not to mention heartaches. And so on. One cloud is dissipated, another gathers. Hardly one day in a hundred of unbroken joy and sunshine. And you are of that small number who are lucky! As for other men, stagnant night is upon them.

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He talked about luck and fate and numbers coming up, yet he never ventured a nickel at the casinos because he knew the house had all the percentages. And beneath his pessimism, his bleak conviction that all the machinery was rigged against him, at the bottom of his soul was a faith that he was going to outwit it, that by carefully watching the signs he was going to know when to dodge and be spared. It was fatalism with a loophole, and all you had to do to make it work was never miss a sign. Survival by coordination, as it were. The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but to those who can see it coming and jump aside. Like a frog evading a shillelagh in a midnight marsh.