Risk

I’ve always weighed risk against reward,
but you, my love, are the riskiest man alive—
forever betting on red,
picking fights just to feel the sting,
waiting for someone to knock you out,
as if bruised knuckles and broken bones could silence the voices that whispered you were never enough.
Was that what it took to make them stop?

The FBI agent slams his fist on the table, eyes burning, words like fire—
"Your ecstasy is killing people."
But you smile, shake your head,
“I guarantee what I was selling never killed a soul, made them happy, sure,
but dead? Never.”

Risk and reward—
you had it all, didn’t you?
So why choose the outlaw's road,
packing your bags, passport in hand,
with your big-breasted Asian beauty,
Vietnam calling your name like some distant, dangerous lover?
Let’s play what-if.
What if you had gotten away, slipped through their fingers?
There was no risk, only sweet reward,
you’d have put Escobar and Bout to shame, drinking vodka like water,
and your beautiful woman just another face in a sea of many.

You’d have lived like a car on the autobahn, foot to the floor, never stopping, but still, those voices wouldn’t have quit,
pushing you further, faster,
until finally, one of your rivals would have snuffed your light for good. Just another body in a unmarked grave.

Back to the present—
Did someone tip them off,
or were they always just one step behind?
I guess we’ll never know.

And there you stood, hands raised,
guns aimed at your chest. FBI agents swarming with you reluctantly surprised. Breathing a sigh of relief the voices finally stopped talking. No more constantly looking over your shoulder.
So I ask you now, love—
was the risk of prison worth the reward of your sanity?