Bennie sat in the new Buick Eight and finished his cigarette. The runs were considered routine, but he was proud of the look he had achieved for them. New car, tailored suit, everything said successful business man, not drug mule. He looked in the mirror. “God damn bennie runs suck.” He hated running the inhalers, no way to skim off the top. Plus, everyone calling them bennies pissed him off. He stubbed the cig, got out the car and hurried through the traffic on the strip. “Hey, BennieBlanco from the Bronx!”  The voice was low but clear, Bennie caught the flash of metal from the corner of his eye as he turned to face the man calling his name. He froze, the guy was large. He wore power like currency, and that never goes out of style. Bennie’s mind raced, how had it come to this? He knew a hit when he saw one. There was no time to speak before the man’s right hand moved and the projectile was launched. To Bennie it seemed like slow motion, as the round came for him he put up his hand in defense.  The metal hit his palm, it seemed to flatten out round and smooth, then it stopped. It was a miracle, or so it seemed to Bennie. The giant walked past without a word. Bennie followed the man with his eyes, unable to move. Finally, he looked down into his palm. He could only wonder what madness would possess such a powerful man, that he would throw BennieBlanco a fucking silver dollar.