This week’s prompt combines an Ayn Rand quote with an image of one of Edgar Degas’ famous ballerinas.
Remember, you can use either — or both — portions of the prompt in your response and your word limit is 500. Once you link up, check back Thursday to see what other members of the community submitted.
It stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there’s someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master.—Ayn Rand
How bad is it that a ballerina led me to an entirely different kind of "dance"? I don't know, but it did. As for the quote, I think it's in there...
Jimmy laid forty dollars on the table in front of him. That's all he'd spend tonight. He hadn't planned on going, but it was payday and his buddies practically dragged him along.
"C'mon, dude! You worked hard for that scratch, you gotta right to enjoy it."
"Yeah, but I promised Sheila, no more titty bars. We need the cash for bills 'n food."
"You needa get some balls, Jimbo. Tell 'Shrilla' get off her dead ass 'n get a job."
"Well, maybe for one beer." He didn't bother explaining how hard Sheila worked at home. Cleaning up after two kids running wild all day. And trying to have supper ready for him when he came home.
Besides, what could be wrong with having one beer with his friends.
A couple of shots of Jack later, and well into the second pitcher of Miller's, Jimmy decided, not for the first time, he agreed wholeheartedly with his "buds".
He pulled a fourth twenty from his pay envelope and caught the closest waitress to change it for ones. He'd tucked more than he remembered into one or another g-string. And the show wasn't over yet. Maybe that hot bitch with the shiny, black hair down to her ass would be back.
It was after midnight when he lurched to his car. Somewhere in his stupor he knew he'd blown half his check on booze and lap dances. Sheila would be pissed. They'd have another fight, the kids would wake up crying.
"Shit." He rubbed his hands over his face, then started the fuzzy ride home.
The house was dark, Sheila must've given up waiting for him and gone to bed. That meant the argument would start first thing in the morning. "Shit."
He fumbled his key into the lock and shuffled as quietly as possible to the kitchen. Maybe, she'd left a plate for him in the fridge.
The back door popped open and the kitchen light blazed, causing him to whack his head inside the refrigerator.
He swung around to see his wife standing just inside the door.
"What the hell, Sheil! I thought you were in bed."
"Yeah? And I thought you were gonna give up titty bars. Guess we were both wrong, huh."
"So, where the hell you been? Where're the kids?"
"Kids are at my mom's. I got a job."
"What job got you workin' this late? I don't want you workin' some gas station! It ain't safe!"
"Oh, no, not a gas station." She pulled several rolls of ones out of her purse. "Look familiar, Jimbo?"
Jimmy's eyes flickered between anger and shame. "Where..."
Sheila smirked as she stuffed the bills back into her purse. "You won't bring home your money, I will."
"And, here, brush this out for me, will ya." She tossed a long haired, black wig over his shoulder. "I know you like it."