What if some of the people who do those crap jobs in Las Vegas are actually angels … or demons … or something in between? The maid. The blackjack dealer. Like anybody stuck in a dead-end job, they’re bitter, short-tempered and sick of your shit. They watch. They read our trash like an oracle reads the entrails of a crow: discarded plastic cocktail cups, used condoms, soiled sheets, abandoned poker chips. Remnants of our sins. They read us and then nudge us one way or the other. Closer to God, or further away. They remind us that we have a choice. But we can’t seem to take a hint. We don’t want to pull ourselves out of the gutter. Today they agree on one thing. Humanity is screwed. Probably. They come up with a plan. It’s not a great plan. They aim two hapless fuck-ups at each other like loaded guns. If they can redeem themselves, there might be hope for the rest of us. What if one of those fuck-ups becomes a serial killer? The odds seem stacked against us.