The Sun Still Rises
The Invitation
The television drones on, spitting out the same headlines.
“The administration has officially begun detainment operations at Guantanamo Bay— where some 30,000 undocumented immigrants are expected to be detained—”
Jake flips the channel.
“Economists warn of worsening inflation and market instability—”
Click. Another channel. Another talking head.
“Health officials confirm a rise in vaccine-preventable diseases—”
Jake clicks the TV off and stares into his coffee. It’s bad. It’s always bad. But now it’s worse in a way he never saw coming.
His phone buzzes.
Lisa: “Vegas. This weekend. Mike’s got something planned. You in?”
Jake: “Something up?”
Lisa: “He’s getting engaged. Last Hurrah.”
Jake: “The guy’s 55 years old. How many more last hurrahs is he gonna’ have?”
Lisa: “You in?”
He exhales, rubs a hand over his face. The last time he saw Mike, the guy was ranting about the end of everything.
He got it. Mike was just—more vocal about it. But Jake got it. This was not the world they were promised! —not even a little.
Jake types: “What the hell else am I gonna’ do?”
The Gathering
Vegas doesn’t feel right.
It used to smell like smoke and sweat and whiskey. Now it smells like air conditioning and corporate money.
Lisa is waiting at the bar, drinking something clear with lime. Her black dress is casual but deliberate, and she still wears her lipstick sharp. She’s still got legs for miles. Jake sucks in his gut. It doesn’t do much good.
Jake slides onto the stool next to her. “Jesus, Lisa. You look expensive.”
She smirks. “Yeah, well. Price of staying relevant.”
The bartender hands Jake a menu without being asked.
“You got Jameson?” he asks.
The kid smiles politely. “We’ve got Proper Twelve.”
Jake stares.
Lisa snorts. “Don’t get him started.”
Jake sighs, tosses the menu back at the kid. “Whiskey. Whatever’s real.”
Lisa clinks her glass against his. “To old men in a world that forgot them.”
Jake drinks. It burns. But not enough.
She nods toward the back. “Mike’s been doing a lot of talking.”
Jake follows her gaze.
Mike is at a table, leaning in, talking too fast.
Bill is across from him, shaking his head, his beard streaked gray, his eyes tired.
Cohn sits beside them, watching, waiting, seeing what they don’t want to admit yet.
Jake exhales. “What’s he saying?”
Lisa swirls the ice in her glass. “That everything we fought against is back.”
The War That Never Ended
They’re halfway through a bottle when it comes up.
Mike slams his glass down. “How the fuck did we get here?”
Bill leans back, exhaling. “Define here.”
Mike gestures wildly. “Fascism. Socialism. Fucking concentration camps. We beat this shit. We grew up thinking it was done.”
Cohn adjusts his glasses. “Maybe it was never done.”
Mike laughs, but it’s sharp, bitter. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re saying we imagined the last forty years?”
Lisa sighs. “We didn’t imagine it. We just thought it was permanent.”
Mike shakes his head. “No, see, I remember a time when we were winning. The Berlin Wall came down. The USSR collapsed. Nazis were a joke, not a fucking political party. Vaccines were normal. Basic facts were normal. And now?”
He takes another drink, wipes his mouth.
“Now I wake up and we’re arguing over fascism like it’s up for debate. We’re watching genocide happen in real time and half the world is cheering. And these little bastards—” he waves a hand at the younger crowd in the casino “—act like we did this.”
The table is quiet.
Jake swirls the last of his whiskey. “We didn’t stop it.”
Mike glares at him. “Oh, fuck off with that.”
“I’m serious.” Jake sets his glass down. “We got tired. We thought we’d done our part, so we let other people take over. And now we’re watching them throw it all away.”
Mike exhales through his nose. “Jesus Christ.”
Lisa takes a slow sip of her drink. “It’s not just the politics. It’s everything. Music. Movies. Pop culture. Everything we built, they act like it’s theirs.”
Jake gestures at the slot machines. “Even this place. No more coins. No more noise. Just numbers on a screen.”
Bill shakes his head. “Vegas went digital. The whole world did.”
Mike leans in. “Yeah. And doesn’t it feel like none of it’s real anymore?”
No one answers.
Because he’s right.
The Breaking Point
It’s the kid at the blackjack table.
Maybe 25, maybe younger. He’s winning. Smirking. Untouched by the weight of the world.
Mike loses a hand. Rolls his shoulders.
The kid grins. “Tough break, Grandpa.”
Jake feels the shift.
Mike sits up. The air tightens.
“The fuck did you just say?”
The kid holds up his hands. “Relax, man. It’s a joke.”
Mike sets his drink down. “You think I’m a joke?”
The kid scoffs. “I heard you whining over there. Let’s face it, man. Your generation didn’t do shit and now you’re mad about it.”
Lisa whispers, “Oh, fuck.”
Mike stands too fast. His chair scrapes against the floor.
“We built everything you love.” His voice is low, dangerous.
The kid sighs. “Yeah, yeah. Let me guess, You invented Google and Nirvana. Whatever, man. You guys are losers. Just a bunch of capitalist idealists who never had the scratch to be as horny on the free market as you all are. Seriously, man. You guys are 50 stuck on 20. Grow up and smell the inequities.
Mike steps closer.
“You don’t know shit. We gave you the internet. Music. Movies. The fucking smartphone in your hand. We built the world you take for granted. And you—” he stabs a finger in the kid’s direction “—don’t even see it.”
The kid’s expression doesn’t change.
Because he doesn’t have to care.
“So what?” The kid shrugs. “You didn’t fix anything. And you act like your last name is Gates, Jobs, Bezos, Zuckerberg or some shit like that. Face it old man. You’re not one of those guys and you didn’t do shit. But thanks for playin.’”
Mike snaps.
He grabs the kid’s collar, hauls him forward.
The kid doesn’t fight.
Hardly moves.
Because he doesn’t have to.
He just pulls a gun from his waistband. Aims it. fires it.
One shot.
Point blank.
Mike drops.
Just like that.
The sound of it reverberates through the casino, louder than any jackpot.
No clink of coins. No weight of metal.
Just silence.
And then the screaming starts.
The Sun Still Rises
Security tackles the kid.
Jake doesn’t move.
Lisa is shaking. Bill looks pale. Cohn just stares.
Mike’s body lies there, crumpled, empty.
And the kid—he doesn’t even look surprised.
Like he doesn’t even know what he’s done.
Or worse—
Like he does, and it doesn’t matter.
The Drive
They leave Vegas in separate cars.
No one talks.
No one calls.
Jake drives.
The desert stretches ahead, vast and empty.
He pulls over, steps out. The air is thick, hot, wrong.
He looks at the sky. Watches the first light creep over the horizon.
It’s too bright.
It’s too clean.
It’s wrong.
Mike is dead, and the world hasn’t changed. And yet it’s changed completely. It all sucks. Mike had a point. So did the kid. Shit!
Nothing is the same. None of it makes sense. The casinos don’t smell like smoke.
The machines don’t clink.
Nothing feels like it used to.
But the sun still rises.
Jake exhales, feeling the weight of it press into his ribs.
For the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what comes next.
But the sun still rises—at least today it did.
And for now, that’s all there is.
OMG Sevastian, OMG.......and so many of us feel like Mike......and Jake