《The Silver Wheel Game 1: The Fall》 Round 1: Five-Card Stud ¡°Welcome to the Silver Wheel Gambling House. Would you like a drink, ma¡¯am?¡± Panic was the first reaction, always. Thus far, no one had ever sat down to the table and opened their eyes calmly. Which was reasonable. It was all very reasonable to want to shout and scream and rush for the exit. And yet, nobody ever did. The panic came, and the panic passed, aided by the mellow atmosphere and scented smoke that wafted around them. It was designed to subdue the most violent of reactions. But nothing could subdue the confusion. ¡°...where am I?¡± ¡°As I said, ma¡¯am, this is the Silver Wheel Gambling House. I am your waitress, Teresa, and I am waiting to take your order.¡± Typically, Teresa was the first thing they registered, outside the general atmosphere of a classy, upscale establishment. She was a white-haired woman, with a pretty, youthful face underlined by an obvious yet unobtrusive layer of makeup, paling her skin and plumping her lips to a brilliant shade of red. Her clothes were sharp and professional, form-fitting, although she didn¡¯t have much form to speak of: nothing to fill men with lust, or women with envy. In fact, outside her vividly blue eyes, everything about her was designed, it seemed, to allow her to slip into the background. Spotlight did not complement her. The next thing guests would notice, by and by, was their surroundings, as they scanned the room for details. It looked like a casino, but with most all the lights stripped away and only one table. Music (in this case, ¡°Heaven Beside You¡±, from Alice in Chains) streamed in from unseen speakers. The smell of alcohol, lingering cigarette smoke, and salt stained the heavy air. The few lights that were on were dull and yellow, hanging low from the ceiling, illuminating a few key features of the room: A seat, just for them. The table they were seated at, and the face-down card they¡¯d been dealt. The dealer, in this case a tall, muscular latin boy with styled hair and a wide smile. And their opponent, sitting on the far end of the table. ¡°Wait- what¡¯s she doing here?¡± An accusatory finger was jabbed at her opponent, a thinner, younger woman with purple highlights, rattier clothes, and shark teeth dangling from her ears. This woman, for her part, seemed less surprised and more exasperated. ¡°Oh, god. This dream just got worse.¡± ¡°Please do not call this a dream.¡± The waitress replied in a near-robotic monotone. ¡°This is the Silver Wheel Gambling House, and you two are our guests. Now please tell me what you want to drink, so we may begin.¡± ¡°Begin what?¡± ¡°If you got questions, it might be better to ask me instead.¡± The man at the head of the table interjected, leaning forward with a sly, silvery grin. ¡°I¡¯m Juan, your dealer for tonight¡¯s game.¡± Both women looked at him suspiciously. But finally, the woman in purple spoke up. ¡°...dry martini.¡± ¡°Um¡­ water?¡± From the murk, behind a frosted window, another rough, male voice shouted at them.. ¡°You both suck!¡± ¡°Please ignore him.¡± The waitress assured them with a small and lifeless smile. ¡°I shall get your drinks right away. Enjoy your game.¡± She walked away, her heels making no noise as they glided across the wooden floor. All eyes settled on Juan, who seemed to relish the attention. After drinking it in for a spell, he finally spoke. ¡°This is your first time at the Silver Wheel Gambling House, I take it? For both of you?¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± ¡°Sure.¡± ¡°Well, this is no place for frowns, people: this is a house of joy!¡± He beamed, ¡°Let¡¯s introduce ourselves, alright? As I said, I¡¯m Juan, and I¡¯ll be your dealer. And you?¡± The woman with the purple highlights shrugged. ¡°Anne.¡± ¡°I¡¯m Margaret¡­¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s nice to meet you, Anne and Margaret! Correct me if I¡¯m wrong, but it looks like you two know each other, is that right?¡± The two exchanged a glare that only a long, cold familiarity could possibly produce. ¡°...yes, we do.¡± Margaret sighed. ¡°Oho, I sense some history. Well, it¡¯s not my place to pry, but hopefully you two will get the chance to reconcile one day. Maybe even here!¡± ¡°Enough with all this small-talk bullshit. The hell are we doing here?¡± ¡°Why, you¡¯re here to gamble, Anne!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t gamble¡­.¡± Margaret frowned. ¡°And that¡¯s fine! You¡¯re more than welcome to leave at any time. But you should know, before you go, this is no normal gambling house.¡± ¡°No shit. One minute I¡¯m falling asleep at my boyfriend¡¯s place, the next minute I¡¯m here. I think we all know some serious tomfuckery is going on and I want to know what. Because if this is just a lucid dream I¡¯d-¡± Anne didn¡¯t finish her sentence. While using her fingers to act out shooting the woman on the other end of the table, her elbow bumped into the martini she had ordered. Its sudden appearance was enough to make Margaret notice the waitress next to her, putting down the glass of water she had asked for. There was a slice of lemon on the rim. ¡°Feel free to ask if you want anything else, ma¡¯am.¡± The waitress bowed to both of them, stepping away into the many shadows of the parlor. ¡°Well, no, Anne, this isn¡¯t a dream. Not exactly.¡± Juan continued. ¡°Here, in the Silver Wheel Gambling house, we allow people to wager almost anything.¡± ¡°...eh?¡± ¡°It¡¯s exactly as I said.¡± Juan¡¯s sunny grin grew all the brighter. ¡°You may gamble almost anything. Your money. Your experience. Your talents. Your past and your future. We accept almost anything, but we do have a few simple rules.¡± He raised a finger to begin his count. ¡°First of all: you can only gamble what¡¯s yours. So that means no gambling things you share, or the people in your life. The only exception is time: you cannot directly bet the remaining years of your life, because they¡¯re not ¡®yours¡¯ yet. You can, however, wager health.¡± The song stopped playing, and a few moments of silence cut through the room. Abruptly, ¡°Take me Home, Country Road¡± took its place. ¡°Secondly, both parties must agree the wager is even before the games can begin. Once the agreement is made, no one can leave the table until the game is over. Trying to leave the table beforehand will result in an immediate forfeit, so make sure you¡¯re ready for what you could lose. But be excited about what you could win!¡± He laughed, the good-natured, hearty laugh of someone uncomfortably sincere. ¡°Finally, if you¡¯re caught cheating, you immediately forfeit the game as well. So remember what your mothers taught you: cheaters never prosper!¡± Anne glared at Margaret. Margaret glared back. John Denver, Bill Danoff, and Taffy Nivert serenaded them both. The wooden chair under one of the women squeaked. ¡°So. Who wants to play?¡± ¡°Oh, goodness, this seems very, um, exciting, but I¡¯d like to pass.¡± Margaret stood up. ¡°As I said, I don¡¯t really gamble, and there¡¯s nothing I really want¡­ and really I¡¯d just like to wake up as quickly as possible.¡± ¡°I wanna play.¡± Anne snapped. ¡°Sit back down. Maaaaaaaarrrgret.¡± The older woman¡¯s eye twitched. ¡°...you don¡¯t have anything I want.¡± ¡°Of course I do.¡± Anne leaned forward, strumming her hand over the card in front of her. ¡°And you have lots that I want. ¡°I already told you-¡± ¡°-I¡¯ll wager my love.¡± Margaret did a double take. Suddenly, green-and-white chips were on Anne¡¯s side of the table, three evenly-sized stacks of ten. Her mouth was slightly ajar as Anne started fingering the tokens, flipping them inexpertly between her chapped fingers. ¡°That¡¯s what you want, isn¡¯t it? To have your little girl back? Well. This is your one chance, Maaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggrreeeeettttt.¡± Margaret paused. Fingers hovering over the card, her untouched drink slowly sweating onto a cork coaster. Her eyes, a shallow but pretty shade of gray, jumped between her card and Anne¡¯s taunting face. The mother couldn¡¯t hide the hurt in her eyes as she saw the physical manifestation of her daughter¡¯s love being used against her. Nor could she hide her desire for it. For so long she had lived in its absence, being promised it now made her acutely aware how badly she had been yearning for it, all this time. Slowly, she sat back down. ¡°What do you want, Anne?¡± ¡°Money. Of course.¡± ¡°How much money is worth your love?¡± ¡°I¡¯d say forty thousand.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have that much.¡± ¡°No shit. Then how about twenty thousand and Dad¡¯s trust?¡± She bit her lower lip. ¡°...I-I don¡¯t think I can gamble that.¡± ¡°Of course you can!¡± The dealer cheerfully interjected. ¡°He gave his trust to you, so it¡¯s yours to wager.¡± ¡°Oh. Um¡­ I¡¯m not sure¡­¡± ¡°Come on, Margaret.¡± Anne goaded. ¡°He¡¯ll still love you, right? So you can just earn his trust again. And you could get my love, too. We could be a happy little family again, isn¡¯t that what you want?¡± Margaret stiffened. ¡°Fine. Twenty thousand dollars, and Bo¡¯s trust.¡± And even more chips appeared: red and white and in three even stacks, this time at Margaret¡¯s side of the table. At their appearance, Margaret felt suddenly empty, as if her soul had been drained of something deep and meaningful. She felt the sudden urge to run as panic spiked through her system, but she knew that if she left these chips on the table, whatever was missing would never come back. Her hysteria passed. And she took a breath. ¡°Then we can begin.¡± Juan grinned, drawing two cards. ¡°The game... is five card stud.¡± Five card stud. While the exact history of the game is a mystery (although it can be assumed, like every parlor card game, it can trace its roots back to pre-18th century France), it¡¯s known to have first come into existence during the American Civil War, alongside other stud-based poker games. The seven-card variety was the most popular amongst American military men, becoming the game of choice for most Americans until the 1980¡¯s, when Texas Hold ¡®Em overtook it in both professional and casual popularity. The five-card version, on the other hand, became far more popular in Finland, where it¡¯s called ¡°S?k?¡± and is played with special rules. But this was the standard American ruleset. Each player starts with two cards: one face-down, and one face-up. The player with the lowest-ranking face-up card makes the opening bet (at least, in modern casinos), and the other player can call (to match the bet), fold (to give up) or raise (bet even more than the other player, forcing them to match, raise, or fold). Then, the dealer passes out the next two face-up cards, and the player with the higher-ranking face-up cards starts the next round of betting. Once each player has four face-up cards on the table, the players make their final wagers, show their face-down cards, and resolve the hand. ¡°The ante is three chips.¡± Juan dutifully informed them as he slid over their first face-up card. ¡°Each stack has ten chips, so you each have thirty in total.¡± Anne got a six of clubs. Margaret got a ten of the same suit. Glancing at the face-down card she had in front of her, she saw she had a King of spades. In poker, there are nine valuable hands. From least to most valuable, they are: Margaret was no gambling expert, but she knew the basics from watching her husband play. Her hand wasn¡¯t valuable right now, but she knew that she had a decent chance to get a straight, which was a pretty good hand. All she¡¯d need was a Jack, a Queen, and either an ace or a nine. But it wasn¡¯t enough to bet on. Not yet. She looked up at Anne. She was staring at her face-down card for a suspiciously long time, occasionally glancing up herself to match eyes with her opponent. Her martini was half-empty already. ¡°Anne has first bet.¡± Juan started, although his professional veneer dropped a bit. ¡°There is no bet limit, by the way. Sorry for not saying that earlier.¡± ¡°Hmm.¡± Anne muttered. ¡°I¡¯ll bet one.¡± She tossed the chip into the pot. Margaret called. ¡°Very good.¡± He burnt the top card of the deck, and dealt each player their next card: Anne got the ace of hearts, while Margaret got a King of hearts. Internally, her own heart gave a little leap: it wasn¡¯t a straight, but a pair of kings meant she actually had something on the board. A winning hand, assuming Anne¡¯s face-down card wasn¡¯t an Ace. ¡°Aces high. Anne has the bet again.¡± Anne chuckled, and took another drink. ¡°Kinda funny, ain¡¯t it Margaret? This is the most we¡¯ve spoken in a long, long time. And I¡¯m still half-convinced it¡¯s a dream.¡± ¡°...I hope it¡¯s not.¡± Margaret replied stiffly. ¡°...if it means I can get your love back.¡± ¡°That¡¯s rich.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve tried everything else.¡± Despite herself, her poker face was breaking. ¡°I¡¯ve called, I¡¯ve written, I¡¯ve begged¡­ I wish I didn¡¯t have to literally gamble money to get it back, but this is the first chance you¡¯ve ever given me.¡± ¡°And if I¡¯m lucky, it¡¯ll be the last.¡± Despite her strong, painful words, she didn¡¯t bet. But Margaret did, throwing two chips into the middle of the table. Anne called. Twelve chips in the pot so far. At least six of them represented Anne¡¯s love. The other six¡­ some combination of trust and money. She wasn¡¯t very good at math, but that had to mean each chip was worth¡­ something like 600 dollars? The realization chilled her again. That was a lot of cash. The third face-up card was dealt. Anne was on the board, suddenly, with a six of diamonds. But then Margaret, sucking in her breath, was dealt a ten of spades. She had two pair. Anne looked irritated, and checked her face-down card again. ¡°Margaret starts with a pair, ten high.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll wager-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t bother, I fold.¡± Anne huffed, crossing her arms. Margaret¡¯s earlier chill transformed into an exhilarated rush of adrenaline as the chips she had wagered were returned to her, as well as six beautiful green-and-white chips. She took the time to stack them neatly as Juan retrieved the cards and shuffled the deck. ¡°You know, this is kind of fun.¡± She hummed as she finished stacking her winnings. ¡°I can see why your father does this so often.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not a game, mom. This is serious.¡± ¡°I know. I¡¯m treating it very seriously. I hope you see that.¡± ¡°Ugh. Just deal.¡± Juan did as he was told as the pair offered their ante. The first card was dealt face-down: Margaret peaked at it, and saw a two of clubs. A bad start. But her disappointment turned right around when her face-up card was another two, this time of spades. Anne was dealt a seven of clubs. ¡°Margaret bets first.¡± ¡°...you know, when we¡¯re a family again, maybe we can do a family poker night.¡± Margaret suggested with a smile. ¡°That might be fun, right? Your dad would love it.¡± ¡°Course you¡¯d like that.¡± Anne muttered, looking away. ¡°You¡¯ve always been good at taking my money.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°Just bet!¡± Margaret frowned, but glanced at her card again, pretending to think. She was off to a good start, but her husband always told her that being too excited with your bet was suspicious, and would lead to the other party folding quickly. So she played it cool. ¡°Nothing this time, I think.¡± ¡°Same.¡± The top card was burnt. Anne¡¯s next card was an eight of clubs, which meant she could possibly have a straight, a flush, or even both in the most unlikely of cases. Margaret got a Queen of hearts: useless, outside giving her the chance to bet first. It was only now that she realized ¡°Pinball Wizard¡± had been playing for the past two minutes. ¡°I¡¯ll bet one.¡± ¡°...fine.¡± The chips were pooled and an uncomfortable silence had settled over the table, one that Juan respected with brisk movements that minimized the clatter of the table. He dealt Anne an eight of hearts - giving her an exposed pair of eights - while dealing Margaret her first bad draw of the game, an ace of spades. She was stuck with a pair of twos: and for all she knew Anne had an even better hand. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Anne wordlessly tossed two chips into the pot. Margaret paused, but didn¡¯t back down. She could bet two now and fold next turn if it looked bad: all it would do was even out their chips. ¡°Final card.¡± Juan announced, dropping Anne a King of spades, but giving Margaret¡­ the two of hearts! Three of a kind! She was bursting with joy despite her thoughtful expression: unless Anne¡¯s hidden card was an eight, she won! ¡°A pair, eight-high. Any wagers, Anne?¡± At this, Anne considered. Scratching her chin a little bit as her eyes darted: to Margaret, to the pot, to her own waning pool of chips,and to the dealer, who was smiling, either oblivious of the tension or relishing in it. But then she clasped one coin, and dropped it into the pot. ¡°One.¡± Margaret smiled,matched her chip, and threw in another. ¡°I¡¯ll raise.¡± Anne paused again. She looked to be in a certain kind of agony. Indescribable and untouchable, but one that Margaret could feel from across the table despite her best-crafted poker face. And in that moment, Margaret dropped her guard, and leaned forward. ¡°We don¡¯t have to do this, you know.¡± ¡°Yes, we do.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t how I wanted to get your love back in the first place. There¡¯s no need for this¡­ this theater.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not theater, mom.¡± She said, steeling her resolve and dropping the extra coin into the pot. ¡°I¡¯m in.¡± Margaret sighed, but slouched back against her chair: the victory was tainted by her daughter¡¯s stubbornness. She had always been like this. Prone to over-react. To make a drama out of the smallest things. Now she was putting twenty grand on the line because she didn¡¯t want to talk it over like adults. But it was going well, at least. Better, when Anne flipped her hidden card and revealed a seven: two pair. A good hand¡­ but not as good as three of a kind. And when Margaret revealed her hand, Anne released a deep, almost pained moan. ¡°Sorry, honey.¡± She tried to appear apologetic as the pot was added to her side of the table: giving her fourteen of her daughter''s chips. Almost half. Anne was visibly flustered, and tears were starting to swell in her eyes: a sight no mother should cherish. ¡°But I think you¡¯ll be happier if I win. You want us to be a family again as much as I do. You¡¯re just too stubborn to admit it.¡± ¡°Is that really what you think?!¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°Why would I be happier loving you?! So you can hurt me again? Use me again?!¡± ¡°I never used you. I was looking out for you, sweetie. I¡¯ll admit I made a mistake but I did it because I love you and I wanted to help and-¡± ¡°If you want to help.¡± She snarled, chugging the last of her drink before slamming it on the table. ¡°Forfeit right now. Come on, mom. Show me how much you love me. It¡¯s still possible to earn my love the ol¡¯ fashioned way. The way you wanted. The way you said.¡± Juan looked to Margaret, patiently. As if there was a chance she would actually give up. But the older woman could only sadly shake her head. ¡°If I trusted that my doing so would work, I would in a heartbeat.¡± ¡°This is why I hate you, mom. You¡¯re all sweet and nice words until you actually have to do something. You¡¯re the worst.¡± ¡°It¡¯s for your own good, honey. Could you please deal us again, Juan?¡± Margaret got an ten and a face-up Jack, both diamonds. Anne showed a five of hearts. She bet two chips, which Margaret was happy to call: she had been lucky all night, and she was in a good spot to get either a straight or a flush. And her good feeling paid off when she was dealt a nine of diamonds, which made Jaun pause, just for a moment, before dealing Anne a King of clubs. She glanced at her own cards, then Margaret¡¯s irritably. ¡°Kings high. Anne bets again.¡± ¡°Sure. What the hell. Two more.¡± Margaret wanted to raise, of course. She knew logically it was a bad idea, as threatening a straight flush and actually getting one are two very different things. And in a game like stud, where there¡¯s no draw phase, the odds of getting such a hand were astronomically low. All the same¡­ a certain thrill had gripped her heart at this point. An excitement and optimism she hadn¡¯t felt in a long, long time. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that things would turn out okay, no matter what the odds were. Through faith, hard work, and a little bit of luck, anything could happen: she believed that five years ago, and she believed it now. ¡°I¡¯ll call and raise two.¡± Anne looked at her hand again, then at the pot, sitting at sixteen chips¡­ which would be at least eighteen, assuming she didn¡¯t fold. An analytical eye would know for certain such a raise would have to come from sheer bravado: with only one hidden card, at best all she could have was a Jack-high pair. And with two cards left to deal, Anne probably figured she had lots of chances for luck to turn. So she called. Eighteen chips in the pot. And Anne¡¯s side of the table was looking downright barren: only seven tokens of her love were left to wager. Which could all turn around if she won this hand, but then Margaret was dealt a two of diamonds: she no longer risked a straight flush, but she was one card away from a flush: still one of the best hands you could hope for in a game like five-card stud. That, however, was when Anne got a King of spades. The frigid, tense thrill of a stand-off gripped both sides of the table, freezing everything, even the sound of their own breathing and heartbeats. Were it not for a muted ¡°Free Bird¡± playing in the background, they could have heard the sound of a pin dropping. Anne had a pair showing. King-high. That, currently, would win the hand. Even if Margaret was dealt a Jack for a pair, a pair of kings would outrank it, and Anne would take the pot. And given Anne¡¯s high bet earlier, it wasn¡¯t unlikely she already had a pair¡­ or worse, a third king. But a flush beats even three pair. And Anne wasn¡¯t showing a single diamond. There was a chance, a little less than one in four if her math was right, that she¡¯d get a fifth diamond. And then she¡¯d win. Margaret could tell Anne knew that as well. From the terror that reflected in those beautiful eyes of hers. One lucky draw, and she¡¯d basically have her family back. Juan broke the silence with the obliviousness of a sledgehammer. ¡°Anne¡¯s showing a pair. She has first bet.¡± Anne put a finger on the top of her small stack of remaining chips. Her nails looked awful: unpainted and clearly gnawed on. She¡¯d never known Anne to chew her nails. Or to dye her hair. She¡¯d have to help her deal with the finger-chewing thing when she got back home. Get her some fake nails to hide the damage. And some bleach or what have you to get that awful, unnatural shade out of her scalp. She hadn¡¯t decided if she was betting or not. Margaret leaned forward again. ¡°This is clearly stressing you out, honey. Just give up and come home.¡± ¡°Why? The odds are in my favor.¡± ¡°Maybe. But I¡¯ve been very lucky so far. And I think that, maybe, it¡¯s fate that I¡¯m doing so well.¡± ¡°Fate?¡± ¡°Yes, sweetie. It¡¯s only natural for families to come together, in the end. Isn¡¯t that right?¡± Anne stopped tapping the top of her stack of chips. ¡°...yeah. Yeah, maybe it is.¡± She shook her head, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping from her naked lips. Another thing they¡¯d have to fix when she moved back in. She didn¡¯t look pretty at all without makeup. ¡°But you know what, mom? Maybe we¡¯d still be a family if you weren¡¯t so good at pushing us apart.¡± ¡°I did no such thing.¡± ¡°You stole my college fund.¡± ¡°I stole nothing. It was my money. And I was going to use it to make money, to be my own boss. All I had to do-¡± ¡°Five seconds of research!¡± Anne cut her off with an abrupt, pent-up screech. Teresa, who neither of them had noticed was replacing her martini, paused. ¡°It took me five seconds of research to know that was a pyramid scheme! But you trusted some painted whore selling snake oil over your own daughter!¡± Margaret grew red in the face, and her cheeks flared. Still, like a lady, she kept her voice moderate, and increased sharpness instead of volume. ¡°I was investing in my home business, and in the process, investing in you. If I had stuck to it we could have made that money back, and then some. But you never believed me. And you ran off and destroyed my family before you gave me the chance to succeed.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right, I never believed in you, and I don¡¯t care what these freaks say, I never will. All! In!¡± She pushed what was left of her chips into the pot. All seven. Making the pot twenty-five chips strong. If Margaret called, it would be thirty-two chips in the pot. If she lost: she¡¯d be down to twenty-eight chips, and Anne would have an edge, but she¡¯d still be firmly in the game. But if she won¡­ she could end things right now. And she was feeling very, very lucky. ¡°Well. Lucky for me¡­¡± Margaret grinned, grabbing seven of the green-and-white chips that represented her daughter¡¯s love ¡°...that doesn¡¯t matter.¡± And she dropped them into the pot. Juan drew the first card. As with every round before, he dealt to Margaret first. It was a Queen. A Queen¡­ of clubs. Anne loudly exhaled as she slouched into her seat, not even looking at the four of hearts that had been dealt to her. With one hand rubbing her eyes, she flipped the upside-down card; it was an ace. She only had pair, but it was more than enough to beat Margaret¡¯s worthless hand. Anne won the round. And as the chips that had been in the center were slid over to her side of the table, where they remained in an unorganized pile, the tension and anxiety that had been overflowing from her side of the table suddenly dried up. She stopped slouching, raked the chips closer to her, and shot her opponent another cocky smile. ¡°Thanks for the chips, Margaret.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t over and you know it, hone-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t call me that, Maaaarrrrrrrrgggggrrrrreeeeeet. It¡¯s inappropriate.¡± Margaret bit her lip and narrowed her eyes. That spoiled little bitch, why was she going through all this trouble for such an ungrateful brat again?! All that time away from home must have twisted her mind: when she had her love back, they¡¯d have to double-down on fixing all these problematic behaviors. Anne anted her required three, but Margaret paused as she hovered over her smaller stack. Three chips. Each one about 600 dollars. It was costing her 1800 dollars every time a hand was drawn. 1800 dollars just to play. When she had already spent so much money and time raising this brat across the table. How on earth was this fair?! What did she ever do to deserve this?! ¡°Something wrong?¡± Juan asked, bringing her back to the game. ¡°Do you want another drink, Margaret?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t call me-¡± She nearly snapped. Stopped when she saw the concern and hurt in his eyes. She exhaled, once, twice, and shook her head. ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. Thank you.¡± ¡°I think she¡¯s freaking out. She always freaks out when she loses control.¡± Margaret didn¡¯t respond. She just dropped her chips into the center of the table. Her first face-down card was a Queen of spades. Her face-up card was a Queen of hearts. She already had two pair. Anne''s first face-up card, however, was an ace. Margaret had first bet, and getting a pair in her first hand was pretty good. And she wasn¡¯t feeling very modest right now. ¡°Four.¡± She dropped four chips into the pot. Anne whistled. ¡°Must be a hell of a hand.¡± ¡°You¡¯re free to fold.¡± ¡°At this point? Never.¡± She called, and the next cards were dropped. Margaret got a Jack of hearts: useless, but it made it appear she threatened a straight. Which would have been fine¡­ if Anne wasn¡¯t dealt another ace, giving her the better hand¡­ both seen and unseen. Margaret took her first sip of water through clenched teeth. ¡°Not a bad hand. You¡¯re free to fold if you¡¯d like.¡± Anne said, dropping four more chips into the pot. Eighteen strong now. It was true that Margaret¡¯s hand couldn¡¯t compete as-is, the question was if it was worth cutting her losses. Folding now would lose her seven chips¡­ seven chips, that was forty-two hundred dollars. Numbers that high bleached her mind. How was she supposed to just give up on forty-two hundred dollars?! There were still two cards to the hand: there was still a decent shot for three of a kind, or two pair. ¡°Call. And you¡¯d better watch your tone, young lady.¡± ¡°Fuck off. Margaret.¡± All of a sudden, without being quite aware of it herself, Margaret was standing, and her chair was tipped over on the floor. She hadn¡¯t intended such a violent reaction, but the button had been pressed one time too many, and the boiling blood made it hard to hear her better senses. ¡°I said watch your tongue!¡± ¡°And I said fuck off!¡± Anne shouted right back, although she didn¡¯t stand for effect. ¡°Why can¡¯t you even appreciate what I¡¯m doing?! I¡¯m gambling twenty thousand for your love and you don¡¯t even seem to care! Why are you such a selfish, crude, thoughtless brat?!¡± Anne laughed. The cruel laugh of someone who felt utterly justified in their contempt. Confident and knowing and completely beyond negotiation. ¡°Why should I appreciate this? It¡¯s what you always do. Gambling money and trust and love for your own selfish ends. It¡¯s what drove us apart in the first place. Y¡¯know. When you gambled with my future and lost.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t lose!¡± ¡°You lost your money and your daughter, how is that not losing?¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m going to get at least one back today! Dealer! Hurry up!¡± She sat back down, fuming at the exchange, and even angrier that she didn¡¯t have the cards to back it up. But she knew fate. She¡¯d worked hard, and hard work was rewarded: and in her rage-fueled conviction, she was rewarded -- her next card was another Jack, of spades this time. Two pair, Queens high. While sweet Anne only got a seven of clubs. Anne was showing the stronger hand¡­ but Margaret knew she had it beat. ¡°I¡¯ll bet five this time.¡± Anne started. The piles of chips on her side of the table were getting noticeably smaller. The same could be said of Margaret. Five chips. Three-thousand dollars. But then, she wouldn¡¯t lose a penny if she won. She eyeballed the pot hungrily. The only way Anne could beat her hand was if the face-down card was an ace, and judging by how easily she¡¯d been parting with her chips, that was not unlikely. Three aces would be hard to beat, but then, it was always possible she was bluffing, as she had been at the start of the game¡­ and if Margaret called that bluff, Anne would fold for sure next draw. Three-thousand dollars. But after only a little bit of hesitation, she dropped it into the pot. And then the next card was drawn. And Margaret saw God. A god, who blessed her with the Queen of clubs. A full house. If there was ever such a thing as a sign, this was it. She had a full house. She was going to have a full house again. It took all her willpower not to drop to the ground and sing praise. She was sure some hint of her joy bled through: but she was showing two-pair. That was only natural. Neither Anne nor the dealer knew she had a full house just one card flip away. But in her excitement, she forgot to check what Anne had been dealt. And when she glanced up, her euphoria was strained and her newfound will was tested. Anne had gotten her third ace. ¡°Three of a kind. Anne bets first.¡± Anne wasn¡¯t smiling though. A more analytical, thoughtful expression had taken its place. And her eyes, despite herself, were locked on Margaret¡¯s face-down card. She was keenly aware of the possibilities. A single finger tapped on the green felt of the table. Each tap felt deafening. The tension and anxiety plucked at the very edge of every nerve. Margaret was going to win, goddammit, and she was going to get all her money back in the process. ¡°...are you scared, Anne?¡± Margaret prodded. ¡°I don¡¯t care about you enough to be scared, Margaret.¡± ¡°It¡¯s just that it¡¯s been a while and you haven¡¯t bet yet.¡± ¡°I¡¯m thinking. You might want to try that yourself once in a while.¡± ¡°I think you are scared.¡± Anne didn¡¯t reply. ¡°You¡¯re scared of loving me again because you¡¯re scared to admit you need me.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°You¡¯ve needed me all your life. For food and clothes and to put a roof over your head. You even needed me to go to college since you¡¯re too lazy to get a job and earn your own damn money.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not-¡± ¡°-And look at yourself now. With that ugly hair and nails, in those ratty clothes, I bet you¡¯re lonely and friendless. You still need me to tell you how to dress and act and how to be around other people. Without me, you¡¯re hopeless. And you know it, but you¡¯re too damn proud to say it.¡± ¡°None of that¡¯s true.¡± ¡°It¡¯s okay, Anne. You can trust me with your love. I¡¯ll do it better this time. I¡¯ll give you the discipline you know you need, and I¡¯ll make us a happy, perfect family again.¡± Anne was pale and stiff. She¡¯d stopped tapping her finger. And she was looking everywhere, everywhere except at her own mother. So Margaret leaned forward. She pushed. ¡°Your father still asks me what we did wrong with you. It breaks his heart to think about you like this. Sometimes I even hear him crying, when he thinks I¡¯m not around. Crying over you, no doubt. I tell him that we should forgive you and that you can do better but I¡¯m not sure he believes me anymore. So how about we prove him wrong, together?¡± And at this, Anne finally reacted. Her lips pulled back into a bitter, scornful smile. She started shaking. ¡°...mom¡­¡± ¡°...yes, dear?¡± ¡°...do you¡­ really mean that? About dad?¡± ¡°Yes, dear.¡± Anne¡¯s eyes were swelling with tears. Her face was flush, and her deluded smile melted into a frown of distant, miserable horror. She wiped at the corner of her eyes with her sleeve. ¡°...c-can you¡­ can you beat my three aces?¡± ¡°Yes, dear. I can.¡± ¡°...okay. Okay.¡± She put her hands behind the rest of her chips, and pushed them forward. ¡°All¡­ all in.¡± Margaret was shocked silent as all of Anne¡¯s chips were dropped into the pot. She¡­ she had won, hadn¡¯t she? She had finally talked some sense into her dull-witted daughter. She¡¯d get all her money back, she¡¯d get her family back, and be done with this terrible game. Everything she lost was right where it belonged. The full house was, indeed, destiny. She felt short of breath when she put her hands on her chips. The weight of the dollars packed into each one weighed heavy in her hand as she dropped them into the pot. All 20 grand worth. As each chip left she felt the sting of their absence, but the full house in front offered some consolation. They wouldn¡¯t be gone for long. ¡°All in.¡± Margaret repeated. ¡°Very good.¡± Juan smiled. ¡°Then Margaret, why don¡¯t you show your cards first?¡¤¡¤¡± It was only now, as she reached for the face-down card, that she realized they weren¡¯t alone in the room. Jaun was there, but standing by a door were two other people: Teresa, their waitress, with her hands folded neatly in front of her, who had been as easy to ignore as ever. But there was also a young man with blonde hair she didn¡¯t recognize, who was in a casual but well-tailored suit, and seemed equal parts amused and ambivalent. The both of them had been watching, but she had been so caught up in the moment she had no idea they had been there¡­ or for how long. It didn¡¯t matter. Nothing mattered. She slipped her fingers under her face-down card and turned it around. The card itself was too light to make any noise, but to Margaret, it landed with the force of a meteor. The world was shaking. And the smile on her face grew three times the size, from ear to ear, as Anne¡¯s eyes settled, then widened, at the sight of the Queen¡¯s painted, feminine face. Anne had lost, and all her love was back where it belonged. But it did feel good. She had her daughter back, and it hadn¡¯t cost her a damn thing. And look: Anne was so happy about that, she even started smiling. ¡°Looks like it¡¯s game over, honey.¡± ¡°Yeah, mom.¡± She flipped over her own card with a defeated sigh. ¡°...it sure is.¡± It was an ace. Margaret was struck by thunder. ¡°...what?¡± ¡°...Jesus Christ, I can¡¯t believe there was ever a time I fell for your manipulative shit.¡± Anne snorted pitifully as she looked up, smiling, but one twisted by a bitter self-loathing. ¡°But you know, as awful as your bullshit was, what made it worse was that you always believed it yourself.¡± ¡°You¡­ you cheated! You lied! You sick manipulative bratty bitch! How could do that to your own mother?!¡± ¡°You did it to yourself!¡± She shouted back as the chips were pushed to her side of the table. ¡°You were the one who ruined my family with your ¡®get rich quick¡¯ schemes! You were the one who couldn¡¯t own up to her mistakes and told dad that I had spent my college money on drugs! You did everything wrong and you didn¡¯t want to pay for any of it. And this? This barely makes up for it. But it¡¯s a start. And the first thing I¡¯m going to do when I wake up is tell dad everything. Now that he trusts me more than he trusts you, he¡¯ll finally see the truth.¡± ¡°Juan, she cheated! She lied! I thought you said cheaters were disqualified! Disqualify her! Give me my money back!¡± ¡°Sorry Margaret, she didn¡¯t cheat. She bluffed. Did a fine job of it, too.¡± Margaret tried to scream. To shout, to kick, to grab the chips off Anne¡¯s side of the table. But before she could reach, a pair of hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her away. Away from the table. Away from the light. Until she was surrounded by absolute darkness. ¡°...the winner is Anne. Congratulations!¡± Juan smiled carelessly despite Anne¡¯s clearly disturbed expression, having watched her mother get dragged screaming into the void beyond the parlor. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since we had such an emotional game! Would you like another drink before you go?¡± ¡°...uh¡­ um¡­ s-sure.¡± The martini glass was placed in her hands. Teresa bowed ¡°A dry martini. Pst. Might as well drink cold piss.¡± The blond-haired man dismissively spat as she took her first sip. Teresa slammed her elbow into his side. Anne ignored him. ¡°...so¡­ how does this work?¡± ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry.¡± Juan chuckled with a full row of white teeth. ¡°We¡¯ll take care of making sure you get your winnings. You might not remember this game, but we sure will!¡± ¡°Hm. I figured it was that kind of deal.¡± She muttered. Her paranoid eyes examined the surroundings for whatever it was that had grabbed the loser. ¡°So... is this some kind of karma for all the terrible things she did?¡± Juan shook his head. ¡°That sure would be nice, wouldn¡¯t it? But this isn¡¯t that kind of place, Anne. It¡¯s a gambling house, and you were just the better player.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± C¨¦line Dion was on the radio now. Absolutely not what Anne was expecting, considering the other musicians that had been playing in the background. Her country-pop voice encouraging the audience to not surrender. But it was hard to relax, given what she¡¯d been through. And what she just saw. ¡°...well, as cathartic as this has been, I think I¡¯m ready to go.¡± ¡°So soon? Oh well.¡± Juan sighed with an unbroken smile. ¡°In that case, I hope we get to see you again someday at the Silver Wheel Gambling House. You can show yourself out.¡± ¡°...um¡­ you mean out the door?¡± She pointed, laughing nervously. ¡°Well, that¡¯s what doors are for, after all!¡± ¡°And, uh¡­ that, um¡­ ¡®thing¡¯ that grabbed Margaret, uh¡­¡± ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry about Mr. Eight. He¡¯s our bouncer, he only deals with troublesome guests. He¡¯s really quite friendly most of the time!¡± ¡°He smells like shit though.¡± The blonde-haired man grunted. ¡°...right.¡± ¡°Take care, now!¡± ¡°Thank you for coming.¡± ¡°Fuck off.¡± As the employees at this most unusual gambling house bid their farewells, Anne approached the frosted glass door. She put her chapped, chewed nails on the handle and gave it a twist. It opened to reveal a small waiting room, an ornate and well-stocked bar, with several stools that looked as if they had never been used before. The room was even more poorly lit than the parlor, with only one low light flickering above the polished bar: casting wide, clawing shadows across the painted walls and the gray potted plants in the corner. It was also the source of the music: she couldn¡¯t see the radio but the music wasn¡¯t muffled in this room. But there was another door at the end of the bar. The frosted glass did very little to obscure the black void that waited on the other side. The way out, presumably. When she put her hand on the silver handle, the door swung open with no further provocation. And suddenly, she was falling.
The next day, Margaret would accidentally rear-end a car during her drive to work. Nobody was seriously hurt, but unfortunately, the car she rear-ended belonged to a very petty lawyer, who couldn¡¯t help but notice her auto insurance had expired just the week before. He sued. If she had simply accepted the lawsuit, pled guilty, and paid the fees, she would have only lost a few thousand dollars. But she panicked. Feigned innocence. Claimed the lawyer had been drinking and driving. As each and every one of her lies were discovered, the fees and penalties went higher and higher. By the end of the case, between the lawsuit itself, the legal fees, and the car damage, she was forced to pay exactly twenty-thousand dollars. But it was also during this court case that her husband, Bo, was forced to confront the fact that his wife was, apparently, a pathological liar. Watching the prosecution dismantle her many stories made him think to all the other things she had told him in the past, and he did some investigating; and he discovered she had lied to him about everything, even their daughter. Angry, humiliated, and full of regret, he called his daughter, hoping they could talk things out and rekindle their relationship. Anne was more than happy to. In fact, she said she¡¯d even pay for dinner: she had just come into twenty-thousand dollars thanks to providing information that lead to the arrest of a dangerous arsonist. She was going to spend most of that money to go to school¡­ but she could spare a little for her dad. They ate. They talked. They forgave. And Anne enjoyed her winnings from the Silver Wheel Gambling House. Round 2: Craps ¡°Say, would you care to hear a joke?¡± ¡°Only if it¡¯s funny.¡± The blonde-haired bartender was named Ture, who despite his aggressively European name, had the accent of an American trying too hard to sound American. Unlike most Americans, however, he was neither talkative nor terribly outgoing, as the whole ten minutes Hugo had been here Ture had only asked him for his drink order and insulted him for it. And for the past nine minutes, the two men had simply waited in silence, neither of them volunteering much in the way of information or conversation. But Hugo was a socialite at heart, and nine minutes of silence was too much to bear, especially with a brand-new mind for him to pick apart. ¡°I can¡¯t promise you¡¯ll find it funny, but I can guarantee it¡¯s tasteful.¡± ¡°Then your taste in jokes must be better than your taste in drinks.¡± Hugo took a sip of spritzer. ¡°Layla¡±, sung by Eric Chapton, was playing on some invisible radio. ¡°So, a dog strays into a jungle, and is terribly lost and scared. While he wanders, a lion notices him, and never having seen a dog before, figures him to be an easy meal. The lion charges, and the dog, thinking quickly, sits next to some nearby bones and says aloud ¡®what a delicious lion!¡¯. The lion, overhearing the dog, panics and runs away.¡± The bartender folded his arms over his chest. ¡°So the dog had seen a lion before? Otherwise it wouldn¡¯t know what animal was charging it.¡± ¡°I suppose it must have, at some point.¡± ¡°Alright. Go on.¡± ¡°Well. A nearby monkey happened to see this and figured he could befriend the lion by telling him the truth. So the monkey tells the lion what the dog did, and furious, the lion says ¡®get on my back, we¡¯ll get him together¡¯.¡± The bartender leaned backwards. His bangs fell into his eyes, which he pushed aside with a single finger. ¡°So the monkey¡¯s seen a dog before?¡± ¡°Perhaps. Or maybe it knew the dog hadn¡¯t created the skeleton.¡± ¡°But the lion didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure a monkey would pay more attention to stray skeletons than a lion would.¡± The bartender bopped his head from side to side, thinking. ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll concede that.¡± ¡°Anyway, the dog sees the lion and monkey charging, and gets another idea. Aloud, he says ¡®where the heck did that monkey go? I sent him to fetch me another lion an hour ago!¡¯¡± There was a pause. Ture eased his butt against the wooden railing of the ornate bar behind him, where hundreds of bottles of liquor were on display behind a sheet of beautiful glass, shimmering despite the sole, dull light in the room. ¡°...and?¡± He pressed. ¡°And that¡¯s it. That¡¯s the joke.¡± ¡°Fuck. Lame joke. You should stick to drink orders, now those are worth a laugh.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry it wasn¡¯t to your taste.¡± ¡°And I¡¯m sorry I have good taste. Christ, my life would be so much better if I didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Hmmm. Are they quite done in the other room, do you think?¡± ¡°When they¡¯re done, you¡¯ll know. This ain¡¯t a social club.¡± ¡°I can tell.¡± ¡°I serve drinks, man. I¡¯m not paid to be charming.¡± Hugo Snidely aspired to be a gentleman. One might argue he had already achieved that goal but he would firmly rebuke such claims. To be a gentleman, he argued, was a journey, never a destination. Gentleman is an evolving label, with a foundation steeped in tradition but an ever-shifting body to accommodate the sensibilities of modernity. Unfortunately it was a somewhat dirty word these days thanks to cretins who misappropriated it for their misogyny or self-aggrandizement. But he tried to not shy away from it himself: after all, no one could reclaim the word if nobody tried. There was no reason to be ashamed of being a true gentleman anyway. Gentlemen practiced respect for all people, restraint in all times, wholesomeness in thought and deed, and dignity in all situations. Upholdinging these four principle pillars would make anyone a gentleman, no matter who they were, what they wore, or how magnificent the mustache (although he was certainly proud of his handlebar). All the same, he often found himself tested. Ture was hardly the most outrageous man to test him but his attitude combined with the surreal nature of this establishment was putting him on edge. He asked for another spritzer. Ture predictably sneered. ¡°If you want I could just jack off into a bottle for ya.¡± ¡°That¡¯s quite alright, the spritzer will do. I personally don¡¯t care much for alcohol. A sensitive nose means a sensitive tongue, you know.¡± ¡°Whatever helps you sleep at night.¡± As the cap was popped open, however, the door to the main parlor opened. Teresa was standing in the door, head bowed down apologetically. ¡°Thank you for your patience, sir. Your opponent is ready to play.¡± ¡°Ah, speak of the devil. How delightful. Well, thank you for the company, Ture.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t choke old man.¡± Of course, when Hugo first arrived at the Silver Wheel Gambling House, he had the same confused reaction that any level-headed man would. But with the mellow atmosphere, scented air, and the familiar beats of Tears for Fears thrumming in his ears, he had gotten over his initial shock quite quickly and painlessly. The same could not be said for the man on the other side of the table: the moment his eyes opened his mouth followed suit, and he started screaming and thrashing as if the devil itself were worming its way into his gut. The host, a gentle-looking latino man, had invited Hugo to the bar while they tried to settle down his fellow guest. It seems they had finally managed the feat, as the wiry, frazzled-looking sir was currently seated quietly, nursing a small glass of straight vodka. ¡°H-hey.¡± He started with a sore, quiet voice. ¡°Sorry about that¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s quite alright, friend.¡± Hugo smiled. ¡°I was quite panicked myself at first. May I have the pleasure of a name?¡± ¡°I¡¯m, uh¡­ Benny.¡± ¡°Pleasure to meet you, Benny. I¡¯m Hugo Snidely. Although you¡¯re welcome to call me Hugo. And you?¡± He turned to the well-dressed man at the head of the table. The host. He smiled back. ¡°I¡¯m Juan, your host and the arbitrator for the game you¡¯ll be playing today.¡± ¡°Yes, your lovely associate- where did she go, anyway- well, Teresa told me about this place. Quite fascinating, if I should say so myself.¡± He took a seat at the table, opposite his opponent for the evening. Benny flashed a smile, revealing a row of twisted, yellow teeth. Hugo kept a straight face, and cringed only on the inside. Juan offered a smile that was easier on the eyes, and placed both hands on the table. ¡°Ha! She might have told you the rules, but that¡¯s sort of my whole thing. So I hope you don¡¯t mind if I do a little refresher.¡± ¡°Go ahead, sir.¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡­ fine.¡± ¡°Alright. Well. Here at the Silver Wheel gambling house, we allow our guests to wager anything for anything. You can wager your health, your home, your money¡­ anything you own, as long as both parties agree it¡¯s fair. The only exception is time: you can¡¯t wager years of your life.¡± That little exception seemed fair enough. Otherwise someone could live almost to two hundred, Hugo figured, and that might be a bit suspicious. ¡°The second rule- the first being about what you can gamble, I mean- is that once the game starts, it must be played till the end. If you decide to leave early, it counts as a forfeit, and your opponent wins. Here, every game is all-or-nothing.¡± ¡°The final rule,¡± Juan cracked a slightly sinister grin, ¡°...is that if you¡¯re caught cheating, you lose automatically. Remember: cheaters never prosper!¡± Hugo nodded, and Benny did the same. They both took a sip of their respective drinks, then turned their attention to one another. ¡°Well, with introductions out of the way, I suppose all that¡¯s left is to make our wager. But it¡¯ll be hard to know what to bet if I don¡¯t know anything about my opponent.¡± Hugo mused aloud. ¡°I know¡­ I know what you should bet.¡± ¡°Oh? But we¡¯ve barely met, sir. I might not be able to provide-¡± ¡°-your mental health. Please. Wager your mental health.¡± Hugo, despite himself, did a double take. ¡°...excuse me?¡± ¡°I, uh, I¡¯m not in the best place right now. B-but you, you¡¯re so¡­ you seem so composed. You¡¯re so¡­ together. I¡­ I want that. And I know if I were to have it, I, I could do so much more with my life. I want it. I need it. It¡¯s the only thing¡­ it¡¯s the only thing I want to play for. So please. Bet your mental health.¡± ¡°...I see.¡± That was not a small wager. Far more than he had anticipated betting when Teresa first told him the rules. He¡¯d hoped for something small and fun: cars, money, perhaps a talent or a skill or two. But something like his own mental soundness¡­ not only was it a rather large wager, it was one that came with all kinds of philosophical implications. About the nature of the mind, and the nature of the soul. What would become of him, he wondered, if he were to lose his mental soundness. Would he inherit the mental stability of his opponent? Would he just go completely mad? Would he no longer be a proper gentleman? He furrowed his brow in thought. ¡°Well, let¡¯s say I made that wager. Would I¡­ go insane if I lost?¡± ¡°At the Silver Wheel, you cannot wager yourself to death, so to speak. In this case, you two would switch mental states, if you should lose,¡± Juan stepped in. ¡°...I see. And what would you bet in return?¡± ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ve had a lot of time to practice things. Drawing. Piano. Coding. I¡¯ve had people say I¡¯m the most, um, talented artist they¡¯ve ever seen. It¡¯s how I make my living right now. Heh. I¡¯d wager that.¡± Of course, Hugo was interested at the idea of winning some easy skills. Who didn¡¯t want to sing like an angel, or draw masterpieces that the world would admire? And this fellow, Benny, seemed rather desperate. He had this look of impossible yearning, as if this were his only chance to turn his life around. And Hugo felt an immense sympathy for that. All the same¡­ ¡°I would feel terrible, asking you to wager the source of your livelihood.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine! It¡¯s okay. Please. Just make the wager. Please. I¡¯ll be fine. Please.¡± Benny was practically doubled forward. His hands were white as they gripped the table. Hugo suspected that drugs were involved with his degraded mental state, but he couldn¡¯t know for sure. Either way¡­ to imagine himself, so desperate, and in such pain¡­ he didn¡¯t want to chance that. But then again¡­ he would hate to deny Benny this spot of hope. After all: if he ever was so desperate, and in such pain, he could only imagine the earth-shaking disappointment if he were to be refused. So he took a deep drink of his spritzer, and placed it aside. ¡°...very well. I¡¯ll wager my mental health.¡± Pure black chips appeared next to him in three, equal stacks of ten. He felt his mind numb and tremble as they materialized, as something impossibly profound and important was torn from the very core of his brain and placed at his side. He winced and his toes curled, but when his eyes opened, he was fine... his mental stability was still tethered to his soul, but it was by the thinnest of threads. The light above them swayed slightly. And the shadows danced to the tempo. Instantly, Hugo was filled with regret. His breath grew ragged as his eyes locked on the chips. The mental health stolen from him. The mental health he¡¯d have to protect. ¡°And I¡¯ll wager my skills as an artist.¡± ...and yet, nothing happened. ¡°E-excuse me, I said I¡¯d wager my skills as an artist.¡± ¡°Yes, we heard you the first time.¡± Juan nodded. ¡°But both parties must agree that their bets are fair.¡± ¡°Y-you heard him, though. He agreed to the bet...¡± ¡°Indeed he did. So clearly you¡¯re the one with the problem. Benny, you know that wager isn¡¯t fair, don¡¯t you?¡± Benny looked away. Not so much humbled as frustrated. Not the kind of frustration that would slow him down, however, and he quickly added. ¡°F-fine! My coding talent too! And the piano! Everything!¡± And so, striped yellow-and-white chips appeared at his side. Nearly every valuable talent at his disposal, put on the line. And yet, this made Hugo feel even worse: how terrible must his affliction be that he had to gamble so much for this game to be fair? But the chips were on the table. There was no backing down now. ¡°Very good.¡± Juan closed his eyes, reaching into his front pocket to fish out five red dice. ¡°The game, gentlemen¡­ is craps.¡± Craps is one of the oldest gambling games in existence, and while the oldest recorded reference to the game was in the 14th century, called ¡°Hazard¡± within the Canterbury Tales, it¡¯s suggested its history could span back even further to crusading times, created by knights under Sir William of Tyre during the siege of Azart or Hazarth. Craps as we know it, however, was first developed in 17th and 18th century European gambling parlors, with simplified rules for easier competitive play. It was brought to America by a man named Bernard Xavier Philippe de Marigny de Mandeville (just one of his many accomplishments), who, upon discovering the game was unpopular amongst his own social class, took it to the working man, who found it far more agreeable. He was also the man who, some say, gave it the name ¡°Craps¡±, although there¡¯s some disagreement on this. There are two ways to play craps - bank craps, which is played in casinos against the house, and street craps, where players wager against each other. Of the two, street craps was simpler (and the version played at the Silver Wheel gambling house), but it was still far from a simple game. At the start of each round, the players bet ¡°Pass¡± or ¡°Don¡¯t Pass¡±, and the shooter (the person rolling the dice) takes two of five dice offered by the house. They then throw the dice, but the roll is only valid if both dice bounce against the back wall of the table (although many casinos will call the roll valid if only one hits the wall). This is where things get interesting. If the shooter rolls a seven or eleven, then anyone who bet on ¡°pass¡± wins, while ¡°don¡¯t pass¡± loses. If the shooter rolls a two or a three, then anyone who bet ¡°pass¡± loses, while ¡°don¡¯t pass¡± wins. If the shooter rolls a twelve, then anyone who bet ¡°pass¡± loses, while ¡°don¡¯t pass¡± are forced to push - that is to say, keep their chips on the table until a new roll is thrown. If the shooter rolls anything else, the second phase of the round begins. The number rolled is marked - for example, a four - and the shooter rolls the dice again until they either roll a seven, or the marked number. If they roll a seven, the ¡°pass¡± bets lose and the ¡°don¡¯t pass¡± bets win. If they roll the marked number, then it¡¯s vice-versa. At this point, the round is over, and the next shooter rolls. ¡°Of course, at the Silver Wheel gambling house, we play things a bit differently. Since you are not playing against the house, you¡¯ll have to cover each other¡¯s bets, until you are out of chips. That is the first main difference between this and normal craps.¡± ¡°The second difference, to keep things going at a decent clip, the roll of twelve is considered an instant loss, like a two and three. No pushing in this house!¡± ¡°...but we have a final, third extra rule to make things a bit more¡­ interesting. You see - three of the five dice we have at this table are perfectly normal. Two, however, are loaded: one of them will always roll a three, and the other a four, but only when thrown properly.¡± Juan tossed all five dice into the air, catching them with a relaxed ease that defied the tension between the two men at the table. ¡°At the start of each round, before the shooter chooses his two dice, the other player can pick one die and keep it on their side of the table. And at any point during the second phase, the other player can replace one of the dice the shooter is currently using with the die they picked.¡± ¡°...other than that, it¡¯s exactly like normal craps!¡± Juan finished with a smile, although Hugo was not smiling. No, he was thinking¡­ because these loaded dice fundamentally changed the way the game would be played. Having either the guaranteed three or four would mean it would be impossible to roll a two, three, or twelve in the first phase of the game, giving a substantial edge to any ¡°pass¡± bets, and making it impossible for ¡°don''t pass¡± bets to win in the first throw. And if you had both loaded dice: it meant you¡¯d simply win at first toss. But it really became interesting during the second phase. Normally, a seven is the most statistically common roll you can get with two dice, which is why in bank craps, rolling it counts as a loss for the ¡°pass¡± bet during the second phase of the game. But having one loaded die evened those odds: a guaranteed three or four meant the other die would have to roll a four or three, respectively, to get that seven. A one in six chance. And since you had a one-in-six chance of getting whatever number was marked, on the surface, this situation gave an enormous advantage to the ¡°pass¡± bets in both stages of the game. But that could all change if the non-shooting player was smart about the die they take away, or when they choose to replace it. But that would only matter if you could find some way to know which die was loaded, and from what Hugo could tell, there was no way to figure that out... ...right? ¡°To determine who shoots first, we¡¯ll flip a coin. Are you both okay with this?¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± ¡°Yes, that¡¯s fine.¡± Hugo turned his attention to his opponent. Benny had bloodshot eyes and a terribly wild expression that was underlined by his unkempt hair and twitchy motions. But he didn¡¯t look totally lost, either to the game or the implications of the dice. He was staring at them with a savage intensity, as if his sheer obsession would be enough for the loaded dice to present themselves to him. Or maybe he always had that look of unhinged focus about him. Even when he was demure earlier he didn¡¯t seem relaxed in the slightest. But then, Hugo was hardly relaxed himself. ¡°Benny, would you like to call the coin?¡± He asked with the best smile he could manage, given the circumstance. Benny shuffled in his seat. ¡°U-uh¡­ sure. Considering the wager, heh, I-I think I¡¯ll call heads.¡± ¡°Very well.¡± Juan flipped the coin, and caught the glinting silver mid-air with a graceful snap of his wrist. He placed the coin on the back of his hand, and revealed it to be heads. Hugo bit his tongue¡­ looked as if the first roll was out of his hands. And that¡¯s when the panic struck. If Benny was the kind of unhinged crazy Hugo feared he was, then the smartest thing to do from a purely strategic and statistical standpoint is to wager all-in on the first roll. With absolutely no other information to go on, the odds of a ¡°pass¡± victory were far higher now than in normal craps, but giving your opponent time to think of a way to strategize around the loaded dice could lose you that edge. So now was the time to strike: to make an all-or-nothing wager with your temporary advantage and hope for the best. And if Benny did decide to do that¡­ ¡°But first, Hugo, please pick the die you¡¯d like to deny the shooter.¡± Hugo was shaken from his thoughts as five identical-looking dice were pushed under his nose. Each one was in pristine condition: and as he examined them over, there wasn¡¯t so much as a rounded corner or a flake of chipped paint that could tell one from the other. If Benny did the all-in bet, then this could very well be the most important decision of Hugo¡¯s life. He needed to grab a loaded dice. If he didn¡¯t, it would dramatically increase Benny¡¯s chance of getting at least one¡­ or, even worse, both. If he did, then he would have a way to fight back in the worst-case scenario. Grabbing one at random didn¡¯t seem right. So he grabbed the one in the middle, the third die, for his three children, and put it in his hand. Rolling it in his palm, it felt like a normal plastic die to him. The fact that it, and four others like it, would arbitrate the future of his mental stability, made it feel a lot heavier. So he dropped it and let it sit inanimate on his end of the table while Benny picked his two as well, apparently at random. ¡°H-heh, you know, t-those random loaded die sure seems like, uh¡­ kind of pointless, huh?¡± ¡°You figure?¡± Hugo asked. He didn¡¯t intend to share his thoughts but he would be happy if Benny volunteered his. ¡°Well if we can¡¯t know which dice is loaded¡­ we c-can¡¯t really strategize around it. A-all we can do is hope, and, well¡­ that¡¯s all craps is to begin with.¡±Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. ¡°I suppose so. Your wager?¡± Hugo held his breath. ¡°I think I¡¯ll bet pass¡­¡± Here it comes¡­ ¡°...Four chips.¡± He exhaled. That was close. Or at least, it felt close. ¡°Four it is, then.¡± Benny had no reservations about throwing four chips into the pot. Hugo was not so eager. Every time he put a hand on those pure black disks, he felt an uncomfortable twinge on the edges of his brain. Not quite a headache, more like¡­ the painless but unnatural feeling of shaving just under the skull. He did not relish it. And when he begrudgingly pushed four chips into the center of the table, he felt a thin, invisible blade drag down from the top to the bottom of his head. It stoked the guttural, animalistic dread that he had tried so hard to suppress. ¡°W-well¡­ good luck, me.¡± Benny sighed, bouncing the dice once in his palm before lobbing them into the table. Not quite hard enough to crash into the back wall dramatically, but there was no doubt it was a legal throw. The first die to settle showed a four. The second showed a three. Either he was very lucky, or he got both the loaded die. Either way: thank god he didn¡¯t bet everything. ¡°A natural. Pass wins.¡± The mild joy Hugo felt for avoiding an instant loss was very quickly replaced with disquiet as Benny grabbed the chips and dragged them over to his side of the table. As his chips were pulled farther away, Hugo expected to feel the insides of his mind melt as his sanity was sucked from him, and yet¡­ it was nothing so dramatic. He felt different, unquestionably, but rather than being bombarded with sanity-stripping hallucinations, he simply felt¡­ tired. Tired and a bit anxious, as if there was a small but manageable unpleasantness around the corner that he could predict, but not prevent. ¡°Congratulations on your luck.¡± Hugo smiled in an effort to not look too perturbed. ¡°Not to make things too personal, but I¡¯d like to ask: how exactly are you mentally ill?¡± ¡°Hmm?¡± Benny¡¯s attention was absorbed by his winnings, but he glanced up when addressed. ¡°O-oh. Well. It¡¯s not much, heh. O-or rather, it¡¯s only one thing. One¡­ one small thing.¡± ¡°...which is? I would guess something like insomnia¡­¡± Although tact prevented him from revealing how he figured as much, he mentally pointed to a few signs: the jitteriness, the bags under his bloodshot eyes, visible anxiety... ¡°S-something like that¡­ It¡¯s more like¡­ night terrors. Really¡­ really bad night terrors.¡± Hugo froze. ¡°It¡¯s bad, man. It¡¯s every night. Every single night. I¡¯m so scared to go to bed because I know what¡¯ll happen. I¡¯ll be paralyzed in bed, staring at the shadows¡­ they grow faces and hands and grab me and scream at me and I can feel their nails digging into my body. Sometimes it¡¯s this giant insect thing that will stick me with the stinger and lay eggs in my guts. It c-changes up. B-but it¡¯s been getting worse. I¡¯ve been awake for the past two days just trying to avoid it.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve tried everything. Nothing makes it go away. S-so you can imagine how happy I am to be here. I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll win but¡­ if I even have a shot¡­ I¡¯ll bet anything to get rid of this a-and get my life back.¡± Hugo didn¡¯t say anything. But Hugo was thinking: if this was how he felt after just four chips had changed hands, he couldn¡¯t leave this to chance. He needed to win. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for what you¡¯ve had to deal with, sir.¡± He swallowed the paleness in his cheeks, ¡°Teresa? Are you here?¡± ¡°I¡¯m here, sir.¡± He jumped a bit as he looked to the side: apparently she had been standing next to him. How¡­ long had she been there, exactly? It didn¡¯t matter. He grabbed the half-empty glass at his side and swallowed the rest in a giant gulp, before handing it to her. ¡°May I have another drink, please?¡± ¡°Of course, sir. Another spritzer?¡± ¡°No, no, I think¡­¡± he glanced at the vodka Benny had been sipping. ¡°...I think a stout, strong beer would be wonderful right now, thank you.¡± ¡°I shall tell the bartender immediately.¡± She walked away, and Hugo turned back to the table. He couldn''t win immediately with an all-in wager anymore, so the reward was no longer worth the risk. And he didn¡¯t want to give Benny any ideas, either. So he would play more conventionally for now. Benny didn¡¯t think hard about the die he grabbed, and Hugo didn¡¯t either. ¡°I¡¯m not so bold. I shall bet just two, and I shall put them on pass.¡± ¡°T-two. Got it.¡± Four chips in the middle of the table. And Hugo rolled the dice, flicking his wrists and releasing the bones to the table and the wind of fate. He was a bit more forceful than Benny was, and his two dice crashed into the wall with an audible and satisfying ¡®clink¡¯. This also meant they bounced and spun more than Benny¡¯s did, giving them more time to watch as the numbers settled. Neither Hugo nor Benny looked especially nervous: two was a small wager, and they still had plenty of chips on the table. The first die showed a five. He¡¯d need a two or a six for an automatic win. Unfortunately, he got a one. And clearly, he did not have either of the loaded dice. ¡°Six is marked. Shooter, roll again.¡± Juan noted, dragging them both back with his die stick. Benny didn¡¯t move to replace his selected die with either of the two: the logic was fairly obvious. Since it was clear Hugo didn''t have either of the loaded dice, to receive a loaded die now would be doing him a favor, since it would equalize the odds. That meant this was, for all intents and purposes, a normal game of dice. So he rolled. A six and a four. A four and a four. A five and a three. A five and a five. And then, finally, a six and a one. ¡°Seven-out. Don''t pass wins.¡± ¡°Hooray!¡± Benny cheered as he raked in his two-coin profit. He was only six ahead. Far from insurmountable. And since gambling was not a game where momentum mattered, Hugo knew he should relax. But he was having a hard time of it at the moment: that anxiety he had inherited earlier was growing worse, as was his exhaustion. A bit of paranoia had slipped in there as well, and he thought perhaps he was being watched, before a large mug of beer was placed on a coaster at his side, shaking him out of such dark thoughts. He licked his lips as he saw it, but he didn¡¯t drink. Not yet. ¡°Seems lady luck¡¯s taken a shine to you.¡± ¡°It¡¯s just been two rounds. Too soon to celebrate¡­ but¡­ I¡­ I kinda feel like I deserve it. This is the first night I can remember where something good has happened. I wanna savor this for a bit before I roll.¡± ¡°...hm.¡± ¡°O-oh, I mean, you seem really nice and I feel bad about¡­ well, I mean, I¡¯ll feel bad if I win but...sorry. This is my one chance. I¡¯m not going to waste it.¡± ¡°I understand. No hard feelings.¡± There were a few hard feelings, but he stomached them for now. ¡°Actually¡­ it occurs to me I don¡¯t know much about you, Hugo.¡± ¡°Yes, well, a gentleman never volunteers unwanted information. And I think if you did know more about me, it would only make this game harder for you if you¡¯re being honest about feeling bad.¡± ¡°I guess¡­¡± Hugo¡¯s internal stiffness softened a bit as he saw the genuine disappointment in Benny¡¯s eyes. He supposed a man with his malady never had many chances to socialize. So with a sigh, he continued. ¡°If there¡¯s time after the game, after everything has settled, then perhaps we could share a drink and keep this dream going a little bit longer, if you¡¯d like.¡± ¡°O-okay¡­!¡± ¡°In that case, I suppose we must select our dice.¡± He had been watching the dice on the table all through their conversation, trying to keep an eye on the two he had chosen so as not to grab one of them before Benny¡¯s next throw. But after dragging the dice back to his side of the table, Juan mixed them together, making it impossible to keep track of them that way. He figured it wouldn¡¯t be so easy. But he hoped. The five dice were slid over to Hugo, who again had no way to know which were which. With nothing better to go off, he selected the second die from the top (after his favorite child) and let it sit on his end of the table, to watch on the sidelines with him. Benny hovered over the dice, as if feeling their heat or energy. He picked two very deliberately, and gave them a squeeze in his pale, thin hand. ¡°Hmmm¡­ l-let¡¯s bet five. On pass. The chips were put in the center of the table, and with one, final deep breath, Benny swung the dice loose. It was a legal throw, and the numbers revealed themselves in due time: a four and a four. Eight. Either one could be loaded. ¡°Eight is marked. Shooter, roll again.¡± The dice were pushed back. Benny, whose champion smile wavered slightly, gave them another toss. A four and a one. Hugo had two choices. Assuming that four was loaded (which was a good bet), he could replace it with his die, which could get rid of Benny¡¯s equalized odds and make it far more likely he¡¯d roll a seven. Or¡­ if he had the loaded die, he could replace the die that rolled a one to guarantee he rolled a seven next time¡­ but if he didn¡¯t have the loaded die, he wouldn¡¯t accomplish anything. Or, of course, he could do the third thing. Take a big, long swallow of beer while Benny rolled a third time, getting the same results: a four and a one. Out of carelessness or forgetfulness, he didn¡¯t shuffle his dice before rolling them, so it was easy for Hugo to see the clearly loaded die. ¡°Switch the die that just rolled a four with mine, please.¡± ¡°Aww.¡± Benny huffed as Juan oversaw the swap, a knowing and confident little smile on his face as he did so. A smile that made Hugo uncomfortable, as when they locked eyes the host made it clear it was directed at him. He swallowed his hesitation, then his fear, then his doubts. It was a lot to digest, but he¡¯d have to do it later: for the time being, he dropped the swapped die directly in front of him and leaned forward to watch the rest of the rolls. A three and a three. He possibly gave him a loaded dice. A six and a three. It seems he could have won last round if he had swapped the other die. He slouched in his chair. A one and a three. ¡°Heh, this one feels lucky¡­¡± A six and a three again.¡± ¡°Or not.¡± Then, the five and a three. ¡°O-oh, I was just one off.¡± Hugo dropped his head and sighed, loud and hard and wet, so hard it momentarily turned into a throaty cough. He was down another five. And had lost eleven in total. Even more of his mind was scraped, uncomfortably, as the chips were dragged away to Benny¡¯s side, and he was starting to really feel the impact of it now. Anxiety had escalated to a shade of necrosis. It was as if there was a pit of darkness where his hope used to live. It was heavy and thick and it almost felt as if it were strangling the parts of himself he took for granted. If this was only a fraction of what Benny endured¡­ then those once-irritating chuckles and laughs he had been peppering their conversation with became a bit more admirable. Hugo did not feel like smiling or laughing. How could he? He was a family man. There were people who relied on him, every day, for support. For care. To be there for them, or to be there at all. When he first agreed to his ¡°mental health¡±, the novelty of his situation and his pity had overwritten his caution. Now he felt trapped. He couldn¡¯t run. And he knew he couldn¡¯t ask for mercy: Benny, for all his smiles and cheer, would not provide it. All he had to rely on were his slowly-waning wits and his luck, which seemed to have abandoned him now, when he needed it most. And he was starting to really feel the lack of chips. Did he also inherit Benny¡¯s lack of sleep? Everything wasn¡¯t spinning, or swaying, but more¡­ shifting. Like a distant mirage. And there was a fuzziness to his eyes he couldn¡¯t seem to shake. His breathing was no doubt raspy and- ¡°Excuse me, Hugo?¡± A hand on the shoulder shook him from his stupor. His focus returned. ¡°Ah. My apologies, I zoned out there.¡± He murmured an excuse. ¡°Happens to me all the time,¡± Benny said from across the table. I¡¯m sure it does, Hugo thought bitterly, but kept it to himself as Benny grabbed a random die: his desire to be a gentleman would be the last thing this game stole from him. The dice were pushed in front of him. Like Benny did before, he held his hand over them for a moment before grabbing two, the top and the bottom. Unlike Benny, however, he pulled them close to his face and blew on them. ¡°For good luck.¡± He explained, ¡°And¡­ in that spirit...I think I¡¯ll bet eight this time.¡± Hugo muttered as he pushed a stack forward. ¡°On¡­ don''t pass.¡± ¡°...wait, what?¡± Benny tilted his head. ¡°Is this¡­ because he¡¯s been losing chips?¡± Hugo understood what that implied. But he didn¡¯t dwell on it. With focus, resolve, and a touch of dramatic flair, he threw both dice at the wall. They crashed like the waves of a storm, appropriate, as ¡°I¡¯ve Got a Lot to Learn About Love¡± was streaming into the parlor from the barroom. The dice settled. A four and a one. ¡°Looks like a five to me.¡± Juan hummed. ¡°So five is marked.¡± Benny was looking at that four, and playing with the die he had selected. Playing with the idea of replacing it. But one four was no guarantee it was loaded, and both of them knew it. So Hugo got to roll again. A five and a six. Nothing loaded here. ¡°R-replace the six with my die, please.¡± Benny pushed his die forward, and Juan oversaw the swap. It was only natural he would do as much: with a bet on ¡°don''t pass¡±, equalizing the odds between rolling a seven and a five was the best idea, if he had the loaded die. And if he didn¡¯t¡­ then nothing changed. Hugo took the new dice to his face to blow on them, since they were technically new, and gave them another chuck. A five and a three. Maybe the new one was loaded. A six and a three. Probably loaded. Another six, another three. He felt safe in assuming this die was loaded. Cupping both die in one hand, he decided to take a quick drink from his beer¡­ but he drank a bit too fast, too deeply, or too anxiously: either way, he found himself coughing, covering his mouth to avoid spraying over the table. ¡°Get this¡­ from me please.¡± he wheezed as he pushed the beer away. ¡°I think it¡¯s just making things worse.¡± ¡°You alright?¡± Benny asked with tilted head. ¡°Yes, yes, just¡­ let¡¯s roll.¡± He rolled again. A five and a three. Hugo couldn¡¯t hide the mild excitement at the sight of his fourth three in a row. Then, finally: a four and a three. Hugo didn¡¯t smile, but he did sigh: relief. But all the weight that had dropped off his chest dropped on Benny. ¡°Seven-out. Don''t pass wins.¡± ¡°H-heh. Guess it couldn¡¯t last forever¡­¡± Benny sighed. Eight chips were handed over: all yellow and white. It seemed he was intent on keeping the black mental health chips as long as he could. ¡°G-good roll¡­¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± The die were shuffled without much ceremony, and all five were presented to Hugo. He grabbed one at random and watched Benny pick his, after taking a long chug from his vodka, emptying the glass completely. ¡°Okay. Okay. M-maybe I¡¯ll give it a try, too.¡± Benny half-smiled, blowing on his two dice as he rolled them in his palm. ¡°I¡¯ll wager¡­ um¡­ eight. eight again.¡± ¡°...on?¡± Juan pressed after a brief pause. ¡°O-oh! Right. Pass. Pass, please.¡± And he rolled. He seemed keen to mimic Hugo¡¯s styling this time, and threw the dice with power. He lacked confidence, however, so the bones didn¡¯t so much clatter victoriously as they popped up against the table, jumping only a few times before settling on a five and a four. ¡°Nine is marked,¡± Juan announced, and Hugo smiled. "Before you roll again, please replace the five with my die.¡± Benny was caught off guard by this declaration, but Juan, with his knowing smile, did as he was told, and gave Benny the new die. He didn¡¯t seem to like them very much, his face twisted in distaste as he weighed them in his palm... but they were the only dice he could use. So he threw them. And he got a three and a four. ¡°Seven-out.¡± Juan announced, and all eight of the wagered chips were sent to Hugo, who cracked a faint smile as he stacked them up, savoring his new advantage. But the loss was making the cracks in Benny¡¯s mask become all the more pronounced. He let out a small breathy chuckle, followed by a half-second sob, and grabbed the sides of the table until his pale fingers trembled from a lack of hot blood. ¡°H-how did you do that?¡± He whimpered between clenched teeth. ¡°I didn¡¯t. It was just bad luck, friend.¡± Hugo shook his head, ¡°Take your die, please.¡± They grabbed their die. Benny picked slowly but impatiently, forcing himself to be slow as if it might somehow help. Hugo grabbed his dice casually, and gave them a slow, romantic blow from relaxed lips. The extra few seconds that took seemed to fill Benny with agony. Two losses, and the bags under his eyes became pronounced, and his twitches grew more erratic. ¡°I¡¯ll bet¡­ two. On pass.¡± He chucked the dice without passion. As they bounced against the green table, they barely bounced against the back wall. Some casinos could rightfully call it illegal: but Juan held his tongue as the numbers unveiled themselves: a one and a two. ¡°Aces Deuce. No pass for our gentleman friend.¡± Benny looked enthralled. Hugo didn¡¯t so much as flinch. Two wasn¡¯t much. But it wasn¡¯t nothing. And Benny would take every victory that he could. He had no choice. And Hugo, despite everything, still admired that desperate optimism. If this should go poorly, he hoped he could be so strong in the face of his newfound adversity. He grabbed a die. Benny grabbed his two. And Hugo leaned down to take a deep, slow breath. ¡°There¡¯s certainly a lot of tension in this game, wouldn¡¯t you say?¡± Hugo lamented. ¡°If it were legal, I¡¯d suggest we take a break at the bar to cool our heads.¡± ¡°H-heh. I could use a break¡­ yeah¡­¡± ¡°I never enjoyed high stakes gaming, myself. I like knowing I can win. I like being able to blame something other than luck when I don¡¯t.¡± ¡°I¡­ I get that.¡± Benny shook his head and shuddered. Some unnatural mix of a moan and a laugh fell out of his mouth. ¡°B-but¡­ heh¡­ I-I guess I¡¯m used to it. All I could do all my life is¡­ blame my shitty luck. That this just¡­ happened to me, that this became my whole life. Is it wrong, do you think, that I can only blame luck? Is there something else I¡¯m supposed to do?¡± Hugo was silent. ¡°I guess I can blame god, too. Or¡­ or blame my parents for falling in love and¡­ and making me. Heh.. . you, you know what, I-I¡¯ll blame just about anything except my luck right now because it¡­ it¡¯s all I have right now. Okay!? J-just this once I need good luck, please!¡± Hugo looked away. Benny grabbed his dice. ¡°...I bet three. On pass.¡± He threw the dice. A one and a three. A four. ¡°Four is marked.¡± Juan reported, but Benny looked horrified, and Hugo knew why. If that three were the loaded die, then that meant Benny would need to roll another one if he was going to win. But: Hugo could replace either die with his own, assuming it was loaded, and it would be impossible for him to win. So there was no logical reason for Hugo not to replace the die that showed the one with his own die. And yet, he didn¡¯t. He remained perfectly silent even as Juan slowly dragged the dice over, giving him the chance to replace either die. He just watched. Silent even as they were rolled again. A four and a five. His dice wasn''t loaded. A three and a six. A two and a two. Benny finally exhaled, and deflated. ¡°Four is hit. Our luckless friend has another win, and our score is even.¡± The chips were returned, and they were back where they started. Thirty chips to either side. From a gains standpoint, nothing had changed. But the rolls they had shared had rattled them. There was a maelstrom in the thin, unmoving air that surrounded them. Lightning struck every time the dice touched the table. And the electricity was affecting them both. Hugo had grown numb and cold as his mind still ached with what was lost. Benny had the look of wild hope of some injured animal thinking they could still wrestle out of a lion¡¯s maw. And there was fear seeping in from every corner not illuminated by the cheap lights above the table. Benny took his die. Hugo grabbed his. One in each hand, blowing into them one at a time. Then, with calmness, he pushed one stack of chips into the center of the table. Then the second stack. And then the third. ¡°All in. Pass.¡± Benny turned white as a sheet. As mentally exhausting as this game had been, he was not prepared for it to be over. He was not ready for things to be decided. The mask fell away completely, revealing Benny¡¯s true self: hollow, empty, and sick. The false light that shimmered in his eyes had faded, and the charmingly ill smile that he had painted on his lips chipped away into an exhausted melancholy that dragged every corner of his face down with its tremendous gravity. He was tired in so many ways. But he was scared to rest. ¡°...are you sure?¡± he asked. His voice had cooled, and so his stammer simmered into a small tick of the lips. ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°I see.¡± ¡°...are you ready?¡± ¡°No. But that doesn¡¯t matter, does it?¡± ¡°I can wait.¡± Benny scrunched his fingers into thin dull claws that raked across the green table. ¡°Juan¡­ am I asleep right now? In the real world?¡± ¡°Yeah. You are.¡± ¡°Well¡­ no matter what, then¡­ I¡­ I guess at least I got a good night¡¯s sleep out of it, eh?¡± He tried to smile. But with his true face exposed, it was clearly an impossible task. After the edge of his lips cracked a few times, trying to fight that gravity, they fell back down into a static, numb, nothing. ¡°Alright. Here I go.¡± And Hugo rolled. The dice bounced and leapt across the green table as they escaped his palms. Spinning in an unobservant glee, throwing themselves into the tall green cliff on the other side of the table. They were deflected, and rocketed up. Into the heavens, their six faces twirling with the grace of dancers, their corners and dots blurring into something indistinct and beautiful. They bounced once, and clapped together, falling to opposite ends of the table. They bounced again, losing their upward momentum, rolling into the green as each one tumbled towards a man on either end of the table. And with the final tumble, skidded to a stop. The die in front of Benny was four. The one in front of Hugo was three. A natural seven.
¡°So. How did you do it?¡± Benny was still sobbing, uncontrollably, in the parlor. His wails had gone uninterrupted for the past fifteen minutes. Juan and Teresa were still trying to console him, to spare him the wrath of one ¡°Mr. Eight¡±, who might be summoned if things got too messy. Hugo, too, had tried to offer consolation, even going so far as to try to give the wagered chips back: but Juan had informed him that¡¯s not how things work here. You lost what you lost, and you won what you won. There was no negotiation. There was no way for him to help. So instead, he sat in the bar, and he nursed a spritzer. Benny¡¯s wet heaving cries weighed heavily over the entire establishment, casting a dark shadow over everyone and everything except Ture, who seemed characteristically ambivalent to the enormous human suffering happening on the other side of the door. Hugo was not. Hugo had preserved his sanity, but he did not feel very good about it. Not at all. ¡°Hey. Answer me.¡± ¡°W-what?¡± ¡°How¡¯d you do it?¡± ¡°...I was lucky, is all.¡± ¡°Pft. Bullshit. We both know this game wasn¡¯t designed for luck.¡± He was slouched on the stool. He was told he could leave anytime, but he couldn¡¯t turn his back on Benny. Not after knowing what would happen to him when he woke up. And not after knowing he was responsible. Not after they had agreed to a drink once it was all over. But guilt was hard to drown in spritzer. Still. He didn¡¯t answer. So Ture leaned forward, and allowed the most devilish of grins to slide onto his face, revealing a row of surprisingly sharp teeth. ¡°Alright. Well. Let me take a stab at it, won¡¯t you?¡± Hugo looked away. Towards the door leading towards the void. ¡°Well. You knew that the loaded die gave a pretty big advantage to the ¡®pass¡¯ player, amiright? It could, in theory, help a don''t pass bet¡­ but only if you knew which dice were loaded. But since all the dice looked the same, you¡¯d have to mark ¡®em, right?¡± Hugo furrowed his brow. The words were weighing heavily on his mind. ¡°But hey: two problems with that. For one, any obvious mark would be noticed by your opponent, and you¡¯d be back to luck of the draw. And for two, well, marking dice is cheating. And you wouldn¡¯t want to get disqualified, would ya? So you had to mark them, but¡­ you couldn¡¯t do it in a way that your opponent would notice.¡± ¡°Where are you going with this?¡± ¡°I¡¯m just saying, it¡¯s weird that a guy who doesn¡¯t drink, because he doesn¡¯t like ¡®the smell¡¯, would order one of the smelliest drinks on offer. And it¡¯s weird that he suddenly started coughing and sighing when he was pretty damn sure he had the loaded die in front of him. And, isn¡¯t it funny that you started blowing the dice -- pulling them right up to your face and within smelling distance -- the moment you got your beer?¡± Hugo clenched his teeth until his jaw turned white. ¡°Oho. I¡¯m right¡­¡± ¡°Shut up.¡± ¡°Hey, hey¡­ no judging here, man. In fact¡­ you played perfectly.¡± Ture leaned forward so his cruel grin cast a shadow over the slouched man. ¡°You noticed it, didn¡¯t you? How we had you pick the die before you bet, rather than after? The game was designed for people like you.¡± Hugo flinched at what came next. ¡°I really admire it, man. You saw his trust and you played him like a fucking sap. Is that what gentlemen do these days, eh?¡± ¡°I said shut up please.¡± ¡°The door¡¯s right there, man.¡± Ture gestured to the void. ¡°You can wake up anytime you want.¡± It was tempting. This space offered him nothing anymore. The air itself seemed contaminated by the tragedy, a tragedy he had unfortunately perpetuated. But as l¡¯appel du vide evolved into a far more intense, tangible desire, he noticed the wailing from the other room had steadied. Hugo turned to the other door, the one that lead to that accursed parlor, with eyes wide and expression stiff. ¡°...Ture. Could you pour me a glass of vodka?¡± ¡°Wanna see what loser tastes like?¡± He goaded, but Hugo did not engage. When the glass was poured, he picked it up, as well as his unfinished spritzer, and advanced towards the parlor for the second time this evening. Even knowing what he had done, and the lengths he had gone to achieve it, he had made a promise. And he would keep it.
When Hugo woke up, he was filled with inspiration. He was a fairly busy man, but he had a yearning he could neither explain nor wished to ignore. He found the time to take night classes, and started practicing drawing, piano, coding: things he had admired from afar but never imagined he would ever attempt himself. It only took a few lessons in each to discover he was a natural: with steady hands, an inspired mind, and his sharp wit, he was proficient at all three in a matter of months, and had nearly mastered them before the end of the year. He was able to entertain his family at Christmas with his piano, paint his wife for her birthday, and impress his boss with his knowledge of C++ and Python. And best of all, he felt fulfilled... it may be impossible to teach old dogs new tricks, but he was no dog -- he was a gentleman. And gentlemen, above all, are never too old or too experienced to be beyond self-improvement. Especially if it brings joy into the lives of those around you when you share your gifts freely, and with laughter. He was oblivious, however, of a young man whose life had become a living hell. Nightmares had plagued him every night, but they had been getting worse: he had always been plagued by demons as he slept, but now, they were coming from his own creations. He would watch, paralyzed and helpless, as the subjects of his drawings crawled out of their pages and slowly ate him alive. The scream of some abyssal piano would hound his ears and wrack his mind. Even his computer seemed to ooze with an awful, terrible evil that he could feel even if he couldn¡¯t see it. They were the worst nightmares he¡¯d ever had. So awful, that when he was awake, he couldn¡¯t bear to look at his art, or the computer, or the piano. Even approaching a canvas with a brush in hand brought back horrible memories, and paralyzed him anew. And he felt an undeniable dread with every line drawn¡­ as each one, he knew, would bring life to even worse nightmares when he was forced to sleep. At one time, his work and art had been his one reprieve from his miserable existence. Now, they were his greatest tormentors. And he was left with nothing. The risk one takes when they roll the dice at the Silver Wheel. Round 3: Pai Gow The Silver Wheel Gambling House is not a social club. But sometimes, people would treat it like one. And sometimes, Juan would let them. ¡°...It was a little rough, ya know? He said right in the email what he wanted and how he wanted it done. Even when I showed him the email, all he said was ¡®well that¡¯s not what I meant¡¯. Which, fine, I could expect that from him. But then when I asked him to be more clear next time he turned it around and blamed me for trying to escape responsibility. Sometimes I really hate this job.¡± ¡°Mhm. Sounds rough.¡± ¡°But he¡¯s not the only problem. I dunno if it¡¯s the weather or the time of year or what, but Patna is way worse than when I was here last time. It¡¯s been so humid I can barely breathe, and the air is bad enough as is with all the pollution. And I tried a little corner store for lunch and I saw what must have been a pack of rats running out of the kitchen. At least seven.¡± ¡°Really?¡± ¡°I really wanted to leave, but the waiter asked me to stay and I felt awkward.¡± Aarav Ray took a sip from the Sex on the Beach he ordered for himself, and bobbed his head in time with ¡°Dream On¡±, streaming in from the other room. Ratna Ray, his wife, who was seated on the same side of the table and was squeezing his hand with hers, chugged her third glass of authentic Scotch whiskey with the other. The kind brewed in Skye. She wasn¡¯t even so much as tapping her feet, as she didn¡¯t like Aerosmith very much. But she did enjoy the Blacktop Mojo cover, despite being unable to articulate exactly why. ¡°That¡¯s awful.¡± The two had arrived at the same time, but reacted very differently. Aarav Ray assumed it was some happy dream, considering it had been two weeks since he had seen his wife. Ratna Ray, on the other hand, was absolutely convinced she had died and was in some kind of afterlife, and it had taken a considerable amount of reassurance from Juan in the other room to convince her otherwise. And even then, they spent what must have been their first few minutes of the visit locked in a wordless embrace, at Ratna¡¯s insistence. ¡°Yeah, it was. But it¡¯ll be worth it. I¡¯m on the fast-track to a promotion. In a few more months, I¡¯ll be senior, and from there? Well¡­ maybe an executive position?¡± Juan was listening, quietly and politely. He wasn¡¯t smiling, but his lips were permanently curled upwards in a gentle, pleasant sort of way. A resting kind face, if such a thing existed. Despite his lack of participation in the conversation, he had been sitting straight and staying attentive, as was right and proper for a table host at a gambling house. ¡°But anyway. How¡¯re you? How are the headaches? Seemed pretty nasty last time we spoke.¡± ¡°I¡¯m... fine. They¡¯re fine. But I wish we did this in real life more often.¡± ¡°Hey, I¡¯m sorry. You know how busy things are, especially this time of year. I¡¯ll make a point to take you out somewhere nice when things slow down. Or¡­ well¡­ I guess I can say this, since our memories will be wiped of this place¡­ but just two days ago I booked us some tickets to Berlin. I¡¯m going to come home early on your birthday and we¡¯ll be going as a surprise.¡± She gasped, covering her mouth. ¡°Really?!¡± ¡°Yeah! I know how much you like World War Two history and I hear they have a lot of great museums, so I figured we could see them all, take the tours, visit the monuments¡­ you know, do the whole thing.¡± ¡°...Goodness.¡± She gasped again, putting a hand on her head. ¡°I think I need another whiskey.¡± ¡°Haha, what? Aren¡¯t you happy?¡± ¡°Yeah. Yeah of course. That¡¯s¡­ really nice. That¡¯s a great gift, thank you.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t sound happy.¡± He rocked back and forth in his seat, which creaked under his weight. They¡¯d been talking for the past hour (he would guess, anway: there are no clocks in the Silver Wheel) and he¡¯d been carrying about 90% of the conversation. After their unusually long embrace, she had been dazed for the first part, lost in thought in the second, and now distracted in the third. He could understand all of it, considering where they were and how much she was drinking. But something seemed more unusual than usual. ¡°It¡¯s a perfect gift, Aarav. It really is.¡± She wasn¡¯t smiling. ¡°...are you upset I¡¯m spoiling it?¡± She didn¡¯t answer him. The glass was put next to her, and she took her first gulp almost instantly, as if she intended to savor the flavor in her stomach. She paused for a moment, then swallowed the rest, pushing the glass aside. ¡°Another, please.¡± And before her husband could get a word in edgewise, she finally untangled their fingers and leaned away from him, looking down. ¡°Aarav, I¡¯m¡­ oh, god I can¡¯t believe I¡¯m saying this, but¡­¡± ¡°...what?¡± ¡°Aarav, I¡¯m having an affair.¡± He looked like a lost, slightly kicked puppy. ¡°...what?¡± ¡°I mean¡­ as long as we¡¯re making confessions we won¡¯t remember. I¡¯m having hot, sweaty, passionate affairs. Every time you¡¯re gone.¡± He wasn¡¯t sure what had shocked him more: the confession, or the abrupt, almost casual way it was introduced into the conversation. Or maybe that wasn¡¯t right. Maybe all the silence and distance beforehand was the preamble to the announcement, and he simply wasn¡¯t aware of it until now. But she wasn¡¯t distracted anymore. In fact, more than guilty or ashamed, she looked determined and focused. The juxtaposition did not help his confusion. ¡°...what?¡± ¡°You can¡¯t be this dumb, Aarav. An affair. I¡¯m fucking other men outside wedlock, behind your back. I wasn¡¯t going to say anything, obviously, but if you¡¯re coming home early there¡¯s about a 50/50 chance you¡¯ll catch me with some guy.¡± It¡¯s said that people experience either fight or flight when they encounter danger. Aarav was firmly in the ¡®fight¡¯ category, and right now the growing tumor of anger and hatred in his stomach was the biggest danger in the room. After very calmly throwing his half-full glass of Sex on the Beach against the far wall, he took a few deep breaths to combat his urge to do something violent and stupid. Deep breaths. Until he could open his eyes, look at her, and not see a wall of pure red rage. It was more a hot pink now. Which was a start. ¡°Why.¡± ¡°Isn¡¯t it obvious? You¡¯re always gone. I have needs. I don¡¯t feel special or loved. I want more dick. Just¡­ pick a reason at random it¡¯ll probably be at least kind of true.¡± He was still reeling. Emotionally. The wind knocked out of his stomach and leaving him adrift in a confused sea of anger where the sky and the water looked the same. But he could talk. And he needed to address the issue like an adult. ¡°With who?¡± ¡°A few other guys. None that you¡¯d know except Haj.¡± ¡°Haj? The asshole from the gym? You complain about him all the time.¡± ¡°He¡¯s hung, though.¡± That was about his limit for addressing the issue like an adult. Aarav stood up, walked to the bar, and slammed the door shut. His wife didn¡¯t follow. She watched the door. She waited while he stirred in the bar, not alone, but left alone by the normally crude bartender, who seemed to opt out of this particular engagement. She took another chug of her whisky, and didn¡¯t reveal her surprise when her husband barged back out after only a few seconds. Fuming. But lucid. He sat down on the opposite end of the table. ¡°Tell me the rules of this place again.¡± Juan lowered his eyes. ¡°You can wager whatever you want, so long as both parties agree it¡¯s fair, you only wager what is yours, and you don¡¯t wager your time on the earth. Every game must be played to completion, as they¡¯re all-or-nothing. And if you¡¯re caught cheating, you immediately lose.¡± ¡°I want you to bet your loyalty.¡± He spat directly at his wife. ¡°No.¡± She answered immediately. ¡°What?! Why?¡± She didn¡¯t answer immediately this time. She had to think. ¡°...because¡­ I wouldn¡¯t be happy if I was loyal. You¡¯re gone too long. I would spend all day missing you and only be happy when you¡¯re around. I want you to bet your forgiveness and acceptance.¡± ¡°Excuse me?!¡± ¡°I want you to forgive and accept me for what you¡¯re going to catch me doing. ¡± ¡°That¡¯s¡­ so you¡¯re basically asking me to let you keep fucking other men. What could you possibly give me that could equal that?!¡± ¡°You can fuck other women?¡± His scowling made it clear that was not an acceptable tradeoff, and it certainly wasn¡¯t a fair gamble. But he really wasn¡¯t sure what she could offer other than loyalty. He loved her. He didn¡¯t want to divorce her. But if he did (and depending on who he caught her with, he just might), he would take everything. There was nothing material she could bring to the table. And judging by how long she was thinking, she knew that as well. She was thinking so long the first hints of a genuine panic started to appear - but then a dawning epiphany put those fears to rest. ¡°Alright, how about this: I¡¯ll bet my smarts.¡± ¡°Your¡­ smarts?¡± ¡°You know how much better I am than you at math. And speaking Chinese. And socializing. All things you definitely need if you want that promotion you¡¯re working for. If I won¡¯t get your forgiveness when you catch me, then your consolation prize for losing a wife is getting a giant shot of intelligence.¡± ¡°But-¡± ¡°I am not going to wager my loyalty Aarav. I can¡¯t. It¡¯s this, or nothing.¡± Aarav clenched his teeth. For the first time, tears threatened to take the corner of his eyes. He was upset about the affair, of course, but if it were just betrayal, that was a knife-wound he could endure. What made this so profoundly painful was the slow and gradual process of dismantling the future he had architected for the two of them. The trip to Berlin would be canceled, obviously, but he had hoped to get promoted soon, and to use that new money to invest in a second car, and a bigger home. He was going to send her back to university, and support her as she finished her degree. Once she was finished, he figured she could start her own job, and maybe he could take some time off to take care of a child. He would have written a book during naps. And gotten into the stock market. When they were old enough for daycare he¡¯d go back to work. Climb the ladder. Become international. And get paid to see the world, striking deals in decorated halls, his decorated wife at his arm. The longer he sat in silence, the further ahead he saw, and the more dramatic the collapse became. And watching his future crumble, knowing he¡¯d have to build it again, brick by brick, was too painful to bear. He didn¡¯t want to forgive her. No matter what she said, or what he thought, there was no excusing an affair. But she was right--one way or another, he was going to catch her at one point or another. On paper, then, this whole arrangement seemed like a win-win: he would either be forced to forgive the woman he loved and save their marriage, or he could be true to himself and his feelings while also getting a much-needed professional boost. But it felt like a lose-lose. He took a deep breath. But it felt more like a swallow, the air heavier than a stone. ¡°...fine. I wager my forgiveness and acceptance.¡± ¡°And I wager my intelligence.¡± Sixty chips, thirty on each side, appeared on the table: his, a pearly white mixed with traces of gray, while hers were a combination of blues. And as they appeared, Juan bowed his head slightly and took center stage, uncurling his clenched hand to reveal a single domino. "Tonight¡¯s game¡­ is Pai Gow.¡± Pai Gow originates from China, and like many of the oldest forms of gambling, was originally played with dice. It¡¯s not quite certain when it transitioned to dominos, although the very first mention of dominos in China can be found in Former Events in Wulin, by Zhou Mi, which was penned between 1232 and 1298. It became prominent in the 19th century, which was also when it became introduced in the west¡­ although it was extremely unpopular due to its many complicated rules. It wasn¡¯t until the 1980¡¯s that two Americans, Sam Torosian and Fred Wolf, crafted a card-based alternative that was simpler and thus more palatable to most western casinos, which is the version most often played. However, the Silver Wheel played the dominos version, albeit a version adjusted for simplicity. The game starts with eight stacks of four face-down dominos called the ¡°Woodpile¡±. Players can rearrange this pile if they want, after which, the players draw one of the eight stacks. The players are then tasked with arranging the four dominos into two ¡°hands¡± with two dominos each, called the ¡°front hand¡± (which is of lower value) and the ¡°back hand¡± (which is higher). If both the player¡¯s hands are a higher value than the dealer''s, they win. If they¡¯re both lower, they lose. If only one is higher, then the player ¡°pushes¡±, getting their money back and nothing else. Effectively, it''s a draw. Scoring a hand typically involves adding all the dots on both dominos, then dropping the tens digit: which meant all the dots adding up to an eight was much more valuable than a fourteen, which scores as a four. A nine, in this respect, is normally the highest-scoring hand you can get, although a 1/1 tile (called a Day) and a 6/6 tile (Called a Teen) can be combined with an eight or nine to score a ten or eleven (A gong and a wong, respectively). There are two more unusual dominos in the game: the 1/2 and the 2/4, called Gee Jon. Those are considered ¡°wild¡±, and can either be worth three or six, depending on which helps the player score more. But if you get a pair, then you automatically beat the opponent''s hand, no matter what they score. ¡°That said, how pairs work in proper Pai Gow is way too complicated for our game at the Silver Wheel, as almost every combination of pairs has its own unique value. We¡¯ll play with significantly simpler rules: a non-matching pair, that is to say, two dominos that have the same value but a different arrangement of dots - for example, a 2/2 and 1/3 - are ranked in traditional poker style, with higher numbers being more valuable. They, however, will be out-ranked by matching pairs - like two 1/3''s - which will follow the same rule.¡± ¡°There¡¯s one more change we¡¯ve made to the rules. As you won¡¯t be playing against the house, you¡¯ll be taking turns as the dealer: one of you bets against the other, and if you win, the other has to pay what you bet. If you lose, the dealer takes the bet. However. To keep things moving along, if you should draw, instead of returning your chips, they will remain on the table as a pot. The next person to win - dealer or player - will take whatever they wagered from both the other player and the pot, which could triple their winnings. And to entice you all to make big bets, there¡¯s one more rule you should know: whoever has the most chips in the pot wins ties. So don¡¯t be stingy: in a game like this, that edge can mean the difference between victory and defeat. In the event both people have the same number of chips in the pot, dealer wins ties.¡± ¡°I know it¡¯s a lot to keep track of, but I¡¯ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.¡± Juan smiled apologetically. ¡°The bar can be made soundproof so you can ask me your questions without the other player hearing your strategy¡­ but that doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯ll play the game for you!¡± ¡°So, are we ready?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°...as ready as I¡¯ll ever be.¡± ¡°Then let¡¯s flip to see who deals first. As the offended party, I¡¯ll let Aarav call the coin.¡± Winning any draws certainly seemed like an advantage (Juan certainly played it up as one), but it wasn¡¯t an enormous one as near as he could tell, as much like the coin toss, the game ultimately came down to luck. So he said ¡°tails¡±, without thinking, and watched dispassionately as Juan flipped the coin. Juan caught it. And revealed a tails. He had won, but he felt nothing for it. ¡°And Aarav deals first. You may rearrange the wood pile as you see fit.¡± Again, with all the dominos face-down, Aarav didn¡¯t see much point, outside trying to thwart an attempt to cheat. But neither he nor his wife had touched the dominos since they arrived, so¡­ he just pulled four at random, and the game began in earnest. A 1/3, a 2/3, a 5/5, and a 1/5. But since none of them were pairs, it would be easier to call them a four, a five, a ten, and a six. A bad hand, if he understood the rules right. A four and a five could be combined to make a nine, the best normal hand, in theory. But then he¡¯d have to combine the ten and the six, which left him with¡­ a six. More troubling still, no other combination would be as good: the four and the six made a ten (worth nothing), the five and the six made 11 (worth one), and the five and the ten made 15, (worth 5). Suddenly, however, he realized another disadvantage of being the dealer: the player controls the bet. If he were the player, he¡¯d have bet low to keep the losses at a minimum. But his wife could bet anything she wanted¡­ and he¡¯d be forced to pay, in the likely event she had him beat. Trying to not look nervous, he glanced up at her: she was still constructing her hands with the dominoes she had picked, not paying any attention to him yet. He didn¡¯t like how hard she seemed to be thinking about it... But then, there was a lot he didn¡¯t like about her right now. Eventually, she glanced up, and their eyes met. ¡°You seem stressed.¡± ¡°It¡¯s been a rough night.¡± ¡°Relax. When you wake up, it won¡¯t even be a dream.¡± ¡°But I¡¯ll still catch you fucking another man.¡± ¡°Mhm. Always living in tomorrow, aren¡¯t you?¡± She hummed, grabbing four chips and throwing them onto the table, giving her the edge in ties. ¡°Is your hand ready?¡± He put a hand on his chips, flipping one, two between his fingers as he stared at her. She met his glare with neutral, dead eyes, that betrayed not even the slightest emotions. His fingers tightened around his chips, and his teeth clenched, and a temporarily repressed rage started to boil in his gut again. ¡°How the hell can you be so relaxed about this?!¡± ¡°You know they call it a ¡®poker face¡¯, dear.¡± ¡°Fuck that! You just out and out admit you¡¯re having an affair and you make this whole game happen-¡± ¡°The game was your idea.¡± ¡°Shut up!¡± She sighed. ¡°Aarav, sweetie, no matter how this turns out it¡¯ll work for me. Either I get to keep having my affair, or I¡¯ll be too stupid to realize how miserable I am. You probably don¡¯t realize how depressing it is to be smart, but it can be quite the chore.¡± He growled. And now she smiled. ¡°So why shouldn¡¯t I feel relaxed?¡± Juan shifted and glanced away. She seemed to notice this with a sideways glance, and her smile turned into a smirk. She had the floor to herself: Aarav was too furious for words. ¡°Look. Our lover¡¯s spat is making our host uncomfortable. How about we play our hands and get this over with, hm?¡± He had always known she could be a little bitchy. But he hadn¡¯t known she was capable of such¡­ emotional sadism. He dropped his chips, which clattered back into his pile gracelessly, before flipping over his front hand: the six. She revealed a 5/5 and 2/3 Worth five points. His front hand had been a six, so he won the first hand: a good start, but he would still need to win the back hand if he was going to win the whole round. With a bit more confidence backing his rage, he showed his back hand: the nine. She paused for a moment, snorted comfortably, and revealed hers: a 4/5, and a 3/6. ¡°A non-matching pair beats a nine. Aarav won the first hand, Ratna won the second, so it¡¯s a draw. The wager remains in the pool, and Ratna wins any draws for now.¡± ¡°Too bad.¡± Ratna shrugged, finishing off her¡­ whatever glass of whiskey this was. Aarav didn¡¯t say anything. He could only grind his teeth and throw his dominoes back into the woodpile, which was already being shuffled by Juan. ¡°Sohnea¡± was playing on the radio now. Not exactly what he was expecting in a place like this, but muffled as it was, it matched the muted atmosphere well enough. ¡°Ratna will deal now. Does anyone wish to adjust the wood pile?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°Then please draw your tiles, Ratna.¡± She reached for the pile, but didn¡¯t grab any immediately. She toyed with them a little first, tapping the edges and corners of them at random, either straightening out the uneven lines or perhaps seeing if there was some puzzle she could solve. On some normal day this playfulness might have been charming. But right now, the delay was aggravating. Aarav considered calling her out for stalling, or trying to annoy him, but he didn¡¯t want to sound like a child. So he decided on something else. ¡°Trying to cheat?¡± ¡°If ¡®thinking¡¯ were cheating you¡¯d be the only honest man here.¡± ¡°As far as I know I am the only honest one here! We already know you¡¯re a cheat.¡± He should have said ¡®trying to cheat again¡¯ at the start, he only now realized. ¡°It¡¯s okay to be mad, Aarav, but it would be better for your heart if you relaxed. No point breaking it twice in one night.¡± It was as if she weren¡¯t merely picking her dominos, but pushing his buttons. Before words of protest could fall out of his gaping mouth, she grabbed four dominos and pulled them close. ¡°There, happy? Now you can pick.¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. He violently grabbed the first four he could reach. And he immediately regretted it: 2/2, 4/6, 4/5, and 6/6 Or, effectively, a four, a ten, a nine, and a twelve. Not a lot to work with. The ten and nine could be merged for a nine, which would make his back hand, while his front hand would be a six. Exactly the same score as he had last time. What were the odds of that, he wondered? ...what were the odds she had another pair? She was looking quite smug across the table, but right now that was her default emotion. Something he was having a hard time wrapping his head around, even now. He had long enjoyed her wit, and she had occasionally flaunted her intelligence in front of him: at Ehsan¡¯s birthday she roasted him until the room was flush with laughter. But her smiles and her sneers had been kinder then. He spat those thoughts away. No matter how many times his mind returned to them, they didn¡¯t matter. He had to accept she was apparently very different from the woman he thought he knew. If these were her true colors at least he could get her brains so he¡¯d never make this mistake again.. ¡°Your bet?¡± This wasn¡¯t a good enough hand to bet much. He dropped three into the pot. ¡°Then, if you¡¯re ready, feel free to show us your hand.¡± He revealed his first six. His wife snorted. ¡°Ah. So close.¡± And she flipped a 3/4 and a 5/5¡­ a seven. She won the first hand, which meant he¡¯d have to win the back hand if he was going to force a draw. But then, without prompting, she flipped over her second hand: and revealed a 4/4 and a 3/6. Another seven. ¡°...but I¡¯m guessing you have this beat, right?¡± ¡°So another draw, then.¡± He muttered as he revealed his dominos, and his score of nine, which soundly beat hers. ¡°And the stakes get higher.¡± The woodpile was reshuffled. And as they were, the married couple stared at each other from across the table. She ran her fingers along the lip of one of her empty glasses. He was taking deep breaths. Considering ordering another drink. But then his wife leaned forward. Flashed him the kind of smile he used to know too well, the kind she used to give him when she wanted his hands on her body. It used to be his favorite sight in the world. Now it felt tainted. And horrible. ¡°You know, I learned a lot about gambling from Haj.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡± ¡°Not as much as I¡¯d like, but, it was hard to hear everything from under the table.¡± His deep breathing was not working. ¡°...you know, sweetie, all the smarts in the world won¡¯t make this pain go away. But you know what would? Forgiveness. You wouldn¡¯t mind one bit when I start talking about sucking his fat, veiny-¡± ¡°Shut up shut up shut up!¡± The temptation to throw something at her peaked. There was never a time in his life he felt more tempted, or justified, to attack a woman. The fact that he was still seated and his hand was not raised was a mark of immense pride for him, once he was done seething. This time, however, it was Juan who spoke up first, pushing the newly-prepared woodpile onto the table. ¡°...you need a minute?¡± He asked Aarav in a low, soft voice. The kind of thing that didn¡¯t register with him at that moment. He took another shivering breath. ¡°...I¡¯m fine.¡± And he took his four dominos, making no ceremony out of eyeballing them: 5/5. 4/6. He already had a pair of non-matching tens. His eye twitched with excitement, and then he flipped over the next two dominos, a 3/6 and 3/5. Finally, something better than a six -- a seven. Not great but if he could win the first hand then the second would be a given. He made his hands quickly, then jealousy glared at her as she more carefully put her dominos together: a sign, perhaps, that she didn¡¯t have a good hand? The relief from her vicious smugness was enormous. Emboldening, even. With a crumbling smile, he pushed. ¡°Having a hard time with the math?¡± She didn¡¯t answer. ¡°You can ask Juan for help you know.¡± He was out of his element, he realized, and she was very much in hers: even when he was the one with the upper hand, she knew exactly how to turn the tables and make him feel worse. She just ignored him. Completely and totally. There wasn¡¯t an indication she had even heard him. And he knew she was doing it on purpose. She wasn''t ignoring him. She just knew it was the best way to irritate him. And it was working, because all of the sudden he felt powerless and emasculated. Again. ...could this actually be real? Or was this some kind of hellish nightmare, and he just hadn''t realized it yet? He used to have nightmares a lot, when he was younger and overworked at school. He discovered, rather on accident, that he could wake up from any nightmare if he counted backwards from ten. As she continued to shuffle her dominos around, he decided to give it a try, under his breath¡­ counting down from ten¡­ nine¡­ eight¡­ seven¡­ Juan glanced his way, frowning. In some respects his host looked more miserable than Aarav did. Maybe it was because his face looked meticulously designed to smile, and every frown seemed unnatural and uncomfortable. Six¡­ five¡­ four¡­ Teresa was also here, he realized. She had a habit of escaping his sight and, immediately, his memory. But she was standing to the side, by the door, eyes cast down in a dispassionately disinterested way. She was a witness until she was needed as a server, and he got the impression she didn¡¯t care for either jobs. Three...two¡­ ¡°You can stop counting, this isn¡¯t a nightmare.¡± One¡­ zero. Ratna looked up, throwing seven chips into the pot and sliding her hands forward. Now, she was looking at him. As bloated with confidence as ever before. ¡°But I understand why you¡¯d want it to be.¡± ¡°The alternative is realizing you¡¯re not the woman I married.¡± ¡°Heh. You think so?¡± ¡°She was kind. She was smart but compassionate. She was quiet and sharp-witted. I have no idea who you are.¡± ¡°Hate to break it to you, sweetie, but I am that very same woman. The only thing that¡¯s changed is that I got married to you.¡± ¡°Are you saying I turned you into this?!¡± She took a breath, short and sharp and cold. And she actually looked away. ¡°Well¡­ a woman can¡¯t be a cheater if she¡¯s not in a relationship.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant and you know it.¡± Her jaw tensed, and suddenly he realized a bit of color had drained from her cheeks: only noticing its absence as he watched it return. ¡°Why are you asking questions that you know will only hurt you?¡± She threw three more chips into the pot. For a moment, Aarav felt as if perhaps she might be as scared as he was right now: although if she was, it must have been a very different kind than his own. He knew his own fear: it was the terror of staring down some mysterious, dangerous animal, and being trapped between dread and rage. It was a deeply unsettling and alien fear that she had no right to feel. Because he knew, at least, that he had always been the same man. She flipped over her front hand. His teeth felt like they cracked as he bit down, seeing the 1/5 and 1/1¡­ an eight. Just barely beating his own six. She knew immediately that he had lost, and made no effort to muffle her chuckle. And while he steamed, she slowly stood up, sauntered over to his side of the table, dragging her fingers along the edge, and leaned over next to him, her hot breath washing over his ear and her breasts pushing against his shoulder. She flipped over his dominos one at a time. ¡°A 3/6¡­ and a 3/4. That¡¯s¡­ one, two¡­ seven¡­ I can¡¯t remember, that¡¯s¡­ less than eight¡­ right?¡± He pushed her away. It was harder than he had intended, and she had to catch herself on the table to avoid tipping over. Her hair fell over her face as she corrected herself¡­and then the rest of her fell down as well, a howl dropping out of her painted lips as she folded in on herself, wrapping her body around her head. Being so suddenly jostled, combined with all the alcohol she¡¯d been drinking, must have triggered one of her migraines. The old instincts kicked in. He left his rage at the table and rushed to her side, helping her sit up and covering her head with his coat, casting a much-needed shadow to protect her from light. With a comfortable authority, he shouted for cannabis oil: an unusual request, but Teresa bowed her head and went to the bar to accommodate. ¡°Fuuuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!¡± She hissed, grabbing his hands as she rocked back and forth. ¡°Even in my fucking dreams?!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t talk. Breathe.¡± ¡°Hnnnngggggg¡­¡± ¡°Your oil, sir.¡± Teresa offered it on a silver plate, which he immediately took. She¡¯d chug the ornate glass given the chance, so he carefully measured the proper dosage with the glass cap and handed that to her instead. ¡°Come on. Open up.¡± ¡°I fucking got it.¡± She moaned. She swallowed. And they waited. ¡°Youth¡± by Daughter was streaming into the room by the time he removed the coat from over her. He had no idea how long had passed, but the exhaustion of the evening had caught up with him in that time, from having his emotions throttled and forced to grapple with a thousand different things at once. And when he looked over at her, truly vulnerable for the first time that night, he could see a more profoundly deep weariness radiating out of her. The kind of fatigue that can only grow if left untreated for a long span of time. The kind of fatigue he¡¯d never seen in her, despite how comfortably it seemed to drape itself around her shoulders. The kind of fatigue he really should have noticed sooner. ¡°...thank you.¡± She gently placed her head against his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I pushed you.¡± ¡°I deserved it.¡± ¡°You really did.¡± He started a laugh, but she finished it. ¡°...are you sure you want to finish this game?¡± Weirdly, he wasn¡¯t sure who asked that. The words just appeared in the space between them. He didn¡¯t remember saying it, but then, he couldn¡¯t be absolutely sure he hadn¡¯t. Still. He decided to answer. ¡°Yes. I do.¡± ¡°Why? What¡¯s so wrong with forgiveness?¡± He closed his eyes. A mistake, it seemed, because the moment his lids were closed they weighed ten times as much. ¡°Nothing, Ratna. I want to forgive you. But you should earn it in the real world, by being honest with me, talking to me, and asking for it. I don¡¯t care what these people say: it won¡¯t be real if it¡¯s just... won and forced.¡± ¡°But¡­ what if I can¡¯t guarantee you¡¯d forgive me?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the gamble you have to take when you decide to break someone¡¯s heart, isn¡¯t it?¡± They both went silent. The room went silent. And for a moment, everything was just¡­ still. ¡°I can¡¯t take that gamble, Aarav. Not this time.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± She went silent again. And then took a deep breath, as if preparing to throw herself into a deep pool, and never emerge. A determination he recognized from the start of the game crashed over her face, and she turned to face him directly. ¡°Because I won¡¯t fight for your forgiveness. You don¡¯t deserve it.¡± She twisted the knife he¡¯d forgotten was in his heart. And that callous venom that had dripped from her tone earlier returned. ¡°I want your money and I want to fuck other dudes. There¡¯s no way you¡¯d give that to me if I asked you for it. So I have to fucking earn it, don¡¯t I?¡± ¡°...I¡­¡± he stammered. She had fucking stabbed him when he had let his guard down. There was literally no level to which she wouldn¡¯t sink. ¡°And you know if you weren''t such a fucking pussy, you could have just made my headache worse and worse until I gave up, right? You had a free win on your fucking lap but you nice guy¡¯d your way out of it.¡± She stood up. ¡°Sweetie, face it: you¡¯re soft. In every meaning of the word. No wonder you could never keep a woman happy.¡± She fixed her hair and sauntered back to her side of the table. Swaying her befouled hips as she moved. When she reached it, she casually flipped over her second hand, as if they had never interrupted the game, and revealing another unimpressive back hand a 5/5 and a 4/5. A nine. ¡°Your turn, sweetie.¡± If he thought his eyelids were heavy, the rest of his body was twice as much: but rage makes for a powerful generator. He realized how mistaken he was, as he clawed his way back to his side of the table: this game wasn¡¯t about winning her smarts. It was about making sure she would never, ever get his forgiveness. He bitterly revealed his second hand, the non-matching tens, frustrated he had fallen for her tricks and couldn¡¯t show a win for it, but confident that his victory would come one way or another. ¡°... and the pot grows larger.¡± Juan spoke after a long period of silence. ¡°Ratna, your deal.¡± Aarav took another deep breath to better remember where he was. The smoke that thinly veiled the air was no longer perfumed, just a smoky, tasteless fuzz that gave texture to each breath. Florence + The Machine was on the radio now, streaming ¡°Big God¡± into the room from behind the walls. And he had only just now realized how big the pot had gotten. Seventeen chips at a quick glance, most of them from her last ten-chip bet. With a pot that big, and her own stockpile of chips so low, one good hand was all he needed and he could win the game. He had gotten so close so often, so far. He was due for a win. He didn¡¯t bother shuffling the dominos, and grabbed his stack. And a wave of validation washed over him. His eye twitched as he looked at his 4/5, two 6/6¡¯s, and 2/6: a seven and a twelve-matching pair. This wasn¡¯t just a good hand: it was a winning one. She may have beaten a seven once, but the chances of a front hand beating it again should be low... and having a pair of matching twelves meant he literally had the best back hand possible. And he had twenty-seen chips still in his hands. If he wagered sixteen, he could empty out her side of the table, and win any ties, giving him an extra edge. He glanced up. As with every other hand, the hand construction phase was the one time she wasn¡¯t somehow mocking him. But he secretly wished she was. He wanted her to lord over him, a king basking on a golden bed, unaware of the cobra hidden between the pillows. About to strike. He could feel the venom on his own fingertips, seeping into his pieces, burning impatiently to sink into her veins. But she was taking longer than usual with her dominos. She was thinking. Hard. Or¡­ more likely¡­ she was just stalling, hoping to get another rise out of him. He was tempted to goad: after all, she was the dealer, which meant she couldn¡¯t control the wager, so it didn¡¯t really matter if she knew he had a good hand. But last time he tried that, it just made things worse. So he sat. He waited. Edging on the inevitable moment when she smugly met his eyes. And soon, she did. ¡°Someone¡¯s confident.¡± She noticed clearly, sliding her hand forward. ¡°Or is the delusion finally seeping in?¡± ¡°Think I can¡¯t win?¡± ¡°Oh, honey. If you had any luck, or any real confidence, we wouldn¡¯t be in this situation right now, would we?¡± He flexed his fingers. ¡°Then you won¡¯t mind if I make this wager a bit bigger than usual?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what the chips are for, aren¡¯t they?¡± He counted out sixteen chips - exactly enough to win him the game - and dropped them in the middle of the table. Juan jerked to alertness. Ratna wolf-whistled as the chips crackled against the table, toying with one of the curled strands of hair falling from the side of her head. ¡°Looks like little Aarav is all grown up. But let¡¯s see if he has the hands to back up that big number, shall we?¡± Now that the chips were down and it was time to put up, the once-unassailable confidence in his hand began to waver, if only slightly, and his fingers paused just shy of the wooden tiles, as if he were drawing it out for dramatics. It was a good hand, that was true, and her earlier pause made him fairly confident in his ability to win, and yet¡­ there was something ineffable about this moment, too great for him to describe or even understand. The inevitability of his victory, the validation of his rage¡­ and the possibility, small but unignorable, that it could all still go so wrong. That he had made some mistake. But he tightened his throat and swallowed those torments clear. The sooner this was over the sooner he could start planning for a new tomorrow. Rebuilding his future would be long and painful. But that first brick had to be laid at some point, win or lose. So he flipped, revealing his 4/5 and 2/6: the seven. His eyes locked to her, his teeth borne like a starved wolf as her confident smile drained away into a pale, wide-eyed look of concern. The joke was over, it seemed. Her eyes darted between his dominos and him. ¡°Seems I might be in trouble¡­¡± He sneered, edging forward, heart beating with joy as she flipped over the first domino: a 3/3. To beat him with that, she¡¯d need a 6/6 (and he had both of those), a 1/2, or she¡¯d need¡­ She flipped the second domino of her first hand. A 1/1. An eight. An eight. ¡°...oh, honey¡­¡± She purred, her voice slathered in sadistic venom, ¡°...did you actually have hope?¡± She stuck her tongue out. And the heat in his stomach hit critical mass. The dying star reached as far as it would go, and it collapsed into something dark, something heavy, and something cold. The kind of heavy, dark, cold thing that didn¡¯t burn, it didn¡¯t ache¡­ it just loomed and devoured and felt like his entire body was made of TV static. ¡°Well, show me that back hand and keep we¡¯ll pounding that optimism out of you.¡± She flipped over her back hand, showing a 2/4 and 1/4: another eight, thanks to her Gee Jon tile. ¡°It¡¯ll be good practice for when you catch Haj pounding your wife.¡± Her words just glided through him, but like a stiff breeze warmed by the tongue of some distant flame, he could still feel it. In fact, it tickled him enough to actually produce a broken little smile. ¡°...Ratna¡­ thank you.¡± ¡°For what?¡± She blithely asked, another drink placed in front of her. ¡°Finally figuring out you¡¯re into the cuckold life?¡± He didn¡¯t answer with words yet. Rather, he flipped over his dominos first, showing his twelve-pair match. It was another draw, but Juan didn¡¯t announce it. Rather, he silently took the dominos from both sides and started shuffling them again. Rebuilding the woodpile for what would be the next round of play. He watched them shuffle for a while. Meditative and quiet. And, for the second time that night, that overwhelming aura of confidence and pride radiating from the other side of the table shuddered. ¡°...Aarav? You there, big guy?¡± ¡°Thank you for not wagering your loyalty.¡± He shook his head, refusing to look at her again. He had found a paper-thin calmness in his numbness, and from this calmness, he found clarity. ¡°I just realized I don¡¯t want it. You are a horrible, sadistic, terrible person. And I don¡¯t love you.¡± A song he didn¡¯t recognize was playing on the radio. It was ¡°The Good Fight¡± by Dessa, but neither of them had heard of her before. ¡°...Aarav.¡± Her voice was familiar. It had lost the cruel edge it carried the whole game. It was the same voice she had used on their first date. When he had gotten on one knee and asked for her hand. When she said ¡°I do¡± two years later. When she had told him ¡°I love you, good night¡± during their last phone call. And he broke all over again. ¡°Just shut up.¡± He heaved the words out, caught somewhere between a bark and a sob. ¡°Just shut up and draw. I¡¯m not falling for your bullshit again.¡± Without another word, she did. He did too. It was unimpressive. A 3/6, 1/6, 4/4, and 5/6. A nine, a seven, an eight, and an eleven. The latter two could be mixed to make a nine, but that meant his front hand would be a six. A terrible hand. But he was the dealer this time, so the entire thing was out of his control. It was all in hers. From the beginning, to the very end, it was all under her command. And of course, it was somehow no surprise when she pushed the rest of her chips into the center of the table. She was betting it all. He didn¡¯t even need to see her hand to know it was over. He stared at the pot, an unorganized multicolored pile of intelligence and forgiveness. And she shot him a profoundly sad, terrifyingly sincere little smile, revealing her front and back hands at the same time. A 1/2 and 1/5. A nine. And then a pair of matching sevens. It was over. ¡°...I¡­ I did it all for us!¡± His fragile composure broke further into a sob, ¡°The long hours! The trips! E-everything you cheated on me for, I, I did it to make a better future for us! How¡­ how could you do this to me?¡± He was trembling again. Trembling and pale. As the chips were dragged over to her side of the table, his anger was washed over with a terrible and painful forgiveness. He didn¡¯t mean what he said earlier. He still loved her. He loved her so much. He wished he didn¡¯t, then maybe he wouldn¡¯t ache so badly he couldn¡¯t even see straight. But he did. She bit her bottom lip. Then, surprising both himself and Juan, suddenly reached out and dragged the stack of dominos towards her. Juan didn¡¯t protest, and watched as she shuffled through them for eight very specific tiles. She found them quickly. ¡°You thought Pai Gow is a game about luck. But that¡¯s only half-right,¡± she explained in an unexpectedly weary voice. ¡°It¡¯s not about trying to win each round: it¡¯s about not losing until you draw two hands that are guaranteed to win¡± She flipped over four dominos. A 3/3, 1/1, 2/4, and 1/4. It was her second-to-last hand. ¡°The obvious pairing here is to put the 3/3 and 2/4 into the back hand: that¡¯s non-matching sixes. But that meant the front hand would be 1/4 and 1/1¡­ a seven. Not a bad hand. But I knew you had a good draw, so I rearranged it to give my front hand the slightest edge and make both hands eight-eight. Which was just enough to beat your front hand¡¯s tie-winning seven.¡± ¡°...but how did you know I had a good hand? We didn¡¯t bet until after the hands were made.¡± She stifled a laugh, and pointed to the corner of his eyes. ¡°You have a twitch, dear.¡± She revealed the next four dominos. A 4/5, the 2/6, and the pair of 6/6¡¯s. His second-to-last hand, the one he had bet sixteen chips on. ¡°You focused too hard on making the best obvious combinations, and that gave you a strong back hand, but it came at the expense of your front hand. For example, you turned these four dominos into a seven and twelve-matching pair. But¡­¡± She rearranged the dominos. The front hand was now 6/6 and 2/6, while the back hand was 6/6 and 4/5. Thanks to the ¡°Gong¡± and ¡°Wong¡± rule, this meant his hands could have been a ten and an eleven: scores that would have soundly beaten her, and won him the game. ¡°Maybe I do have a sadistic streak. But I wasn¡¯t insulting you just to be a bitch. When you get mad, you don¡¯t think. When you don¡¯t think, you don¡¯t notice things. You get so caught up in your rage and so blinded by the pairs that made up your back hand that you didn¡¯t see how you could make the front hand better.¡± There was a lump in his throat and in his eyes that nothing could dislodge. So he didn¡¯t bother trying. ¡°The one thing you never understood, Aarav, was that sometimes you have to take something from tomorrow to make a better today. It¡¯s why you¡¯ve lost this game. And it¡¯s why you¡¯ve lost me.¡± He didn¡¯t respond. He couldn¡¯t. He was tired. So, so tired. So he simply stood up. ¡°Aarav?¡± He started walking to the bar. ¡°Wait, Aarav- Don¡¯t go, I-¡± She stood up too, knocking her chair to the ground in the process. But he didn¡¯t slow down. He went into the bar, slamming the door shut behind him. She raced after him, calling his name, but by the time she could throw the bar door open, he was already teetering on the void, staring into the darkness. ¡°Aarav, I have to tell you-¡± He fell. And whatever else was trying to say was caught in a whisper that barely fell from her lips. She leaned hard against the glass door, resting her head against it, as the door to the void slowly closed itself. She hissed under her breath. Whispering something that only she could hear. Lost to her own thoughts until a soft, tender hand fell on her heaving shoulders. ¡°Will you be staying a bit longer, Ratna?¡± Juan offered with a hopeful smile. ¡°...no,¡± she said. ¡°No. I have his forgiveness. That was the only thing worth sticking around for.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯ll be moving on, then?¡± ¡°Yes. I¡¯d like that.¡±
When Aarav woke up the next morning, his phone was ringing. His ringtone was ¡°Gal Mitthi Mitthi¡±, and as he listened to it in his unguarded, half-awake state, he was filled with both nostalgia and love: whereas normally the music would simply alert him to a message, now, dazed and discombobulated, he was vulnerable enough to actually remember why he liked it so much: it was the song he and his wife danced to at their wedding. He closed his eyes and listened to it, far longer than he probably should have, before he finally picked up. But even while talking business, his mind was at home, and how much he suddenly missed and loved his wife. And as he thought of her, he found his affection partnered with guilt: he remembered the forgotten or neglected anniversaries, the times spent away from home, the dropped phone calls and the failure to notice all the little ways she betrayed her inner sadness. He realized, to his dismay, that he had been taking her for granted, a bad husband and a worse friend. He had made neglect so routine it had become downright palatable, and that was unacceptable. He decided he¡¯d need to do something to make this up to her and show his dedication to being a better husband. He decided he¡¯d surprise her and come back early. He raced home. He found her locked in their garage with a running car. She had fallen asleep, and never woke up. She had left a note on the counter. She begged him not to blame himself: that she had fallen in love with him and married him knowing and admiring his hard work and determination to make a better future for himself and everyone in his life. But for her, the depression had made even the present too difficult to bear, and when the doctors told her the migraines were actually cluster headaches, and they were only getting worse, she couldn¡¯t see herself living in the future he was building for them. It was a role better fit for someone else, even if he didn¡¯t want to admit it. She asked for him to forgive her, and to accept her decision. And it hurt. It hurt more than he could describe. But, somehow, he did.
¡°One thing I don¡¯t get is why she didn¡¯t just bet her loyalty. Woulda saved a lot of trouble.¡± ¡°It¡¯s because he already had it,¡± Teresa dutifully reported, the ¡®Ture, you idiot¡¯ implied in her tone. ¡°She wasn¡¯t having an affair.¡± ¡°Tch. Fuck ¡®em both. He¡¯s an asshole and she¡¯s a coward. They were perfect for each other.¡± Juan, who had been silently raking the dominos back into their proper box, shot Ture a glare. Teresa followed up with an elbow to the rib. Harder than usual. Almost doubling him over. ¡°Ow. Watch the elbow, bitch!¡± ¡°Watch your tongue first.¡± She sighed. ¡°Get Juan some water, please.¡± ¡°Water? I thought he liked hard liquor.¡± ¡°He needs water.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need anything.¡± Juan slid the box under the table before walking over to them with a half-cocked and thoroughly fake smile. ¡°But thank you, Teresa. Sometimes running the Silver Wheel is just a little trying, y¡¯know?¡± ¡°Sucks we can¡¯t take a vacation.¡± Ture loudly moaned as he leaned against the back wall, crossing arms in front of his chest. ¡°You realize it¡¯s been who knows how long since we¡¯ve seen, like, a river? Or the goddamn sun?¡± ¡°We¡¯re beyond that kind of thing here, Ture.¡± Teresa said. ¡°To step outside the Silver Wheel as you are now is to vanish entirely. It¡¯s unproductive to dwell.¡± ¡°He¡¯s not wrong, though, I miss rivers and the sun, and a whole lot of other stuff too,¡± Juan chuckled. ¡°Like¡­ ice cream. And pajamas.¡± ¡°And fucking women.¡± Juan shook his head with a laugh. ¡°I wasn¡¯t going to say that, Ture.¡± ¡°But you were thinking it.¡± Ture ribbed him. ¡°No I wasn¡¯t!¡± He laughed harder. Teresa stared on, increasingly dulled to the conversation. ¡°Ah. Maybe I do need that water.¡± Juan breathed out, his eyes drifting from his companions to the table he had manned. ¡°I¡¯m not feeling the kind of sad that needs to be drowned, but I could use a little something for the throat.¡± ¡°As your friend, I hate to give you water, but as your employee, I guess I have no choice,¡± Ture said as he opened the door to the bar. ¡°One tall and frosty glass of water coming up.¡± The door closed. Juan and Teresa had the parlor to themselves, sharing it only with Frank Sinatra singing ¡°My Way¡±. They both stared into the middle distance, past the swinging lights above the single green table. Juan could sense the tension from Teresa. He thought about laughing, a conscious, weaponized laugh of someone trying to break ice. But he knew Teresa too well. That wouldn¡¯t work with her, the ice was too thick. He¡¯d just have to wait. It didn¡¯t take her long. ¡°You mustn''t encourage him like that.¡± ¡°It makes him happy.¡± ¡°That is not your job.¡± ¡°But I¡¯m so good at it, right?¡± ¡°I cannot make that assessment.¡± ¡°Oh, come on. What¡¯s the harm in a little hope, anyway?¡± He knew the answer, and she knew he knew it too. So she didn¡¯t bother telling him. She just cast him another weary, guilt-inducing stare, before turning back to the middle distance, watching nothing, and melting with the background¡­ as she always tended to do. At least, until something shook them both from their sullen stiffness. ¡°Who the hell are you?!¡± It was coming from the bar. When they arrived, they found someone at the door: someone in a heavy suit, covered from head to toe in lights and mechanical instruments, face covered with a mirrored mask that obscured their features. Ture was staring, angry and dumb, as those were both his natural state of being. Teresa gasped in worry and the slightest hint of fear. Juan, however, watched with fascination as the figure removed their helmet, revealing a young chinese woman with wide, sparkling eyes and a smile that reached from cheek to cheek. ¡°Is this the Silver Wheel?!¡± She asked breathlessly. ¡°...yeah¡­¡± Juan stepped forward, head tilted. ¡°...and¡­. you are?¡± ¡°I¡¯m Rebecca Wu, I-I work for Bigger Sky Labs - and we¡¯ve been looking for you for a long, long time.¡± She extended her hand, and hesitantly, he took it. For the first time in its long history, the Silver Wheel had an uninvited guest. Round 4: Darts Bruno Kelly¡¯s nickname, although no one ever said it to his face, was ¡®Fat Dog¡¯. To date, he¡¯d heard three contradictory stories behind why it stuck to him. After a few drinks, his secretary said it was just because he was fat, and he always seemed happy, like a dog. The CO of Engineering, Charlie Blake, told him while they were pissing it was because ¡®he would agree to anything as long as you throw him a bone¡¯. And his wife had suggested that it was because he was was fiercely loyal and very well compensated by CEO Marie Walker, who did seem to have a soft spot for him. He didn¡¯t mind the nickname no matter which of those stories was true. He was fat and he liked to seem happy. It might seem bad he had a reputation as being easy to please, but it could give him an edge if his partners expect him to roll over for anything. And he was, indeed, fiercely loyal and very well compensated by Marie Walker, a woman he considered both ahead of her time and very much a product of it. But however he got the title, it was likely the reason the invitation on his desk had a rubber bone attached to it. Flipping it open, he found it unsurprisingly light on details, listing only a time, a place,and a dress code: extremely formal attire. ¡°If you¡¯re wearing jeans or tennis shoes, you¡¯ll be stopped at the door¡±, was at the bottom, and underlined twice. Right next to Marie Walker¡¯s signature. In pink. As was her way. His only good suit was in Hong Kong, so he had to go shopping that evening, calling his wife so she could give him the fashion advice he desperately relied on. Men¡¯s fashion had more-or-less been figured out at this point, of course, but his wife insisted the shade of black that looked best on him was very specific, and finding a tie that matched his unique shade of green-grey eyes was a task she only trusted herself with. She was very satisfied with her work as he walked out of the boutique, and he had to admit, he almost liked it better than his usual suit. Almost. When he arrived at the selected location, however, Marie Walker wasn¡¯t there. Just one of her limos, and a chauffeur who invited him inside without a word. A little dramatic, but he appreciated Marie¡¯s eccentricities, so he played along, drinking champagne while watching Vancouver fly past him in a neon haze. But his fondness for her eccentricities did not prepare him for drugged champagne. And it certainly didn¡¯t prepare him to wake up in a small, smokey, dimly-lit bar, filled with laughter, the clink of crystal glasses, and ¡°Sympathy for the Devil" from The Rolling Stones. ¡°Ah, shit. Another one.¡± A surly blonde-haired bartender spat. ¡°Party¡¯s in the parlor, chubby. Try not to fall on anyone. And don¡¯t ask me for any more fucking Himbeergeist. We¡¯re almost out of fucking Himbeergeist. Christ.¡± ¡°W-where am I?!¡± ¡°Allow me to answer that.¡± A feminine but robotic voice came from behind him. He turned to see a white-haired young woman with narrow eyes and a stern but professionally acceptable expression. ¡°I am Teresa, your waitress here at the Silver Wheel Gambling House. I understand you are here at Marie Walker¡¯s¡­ invitation?¡± She said the last word with a certain acidity he couldn¡¯t quite ignore. But he was comforted to hear her say a name he recognized, and he nodded his head once. ¡°Very well.¡± She bowed, gesturing to the door ahead. ¡°Please join her in the parlor.¡± A gambling house? That was somehow hard to believe. It¡¯s not so much that he didn¡¯t think Marie wouldn¡¯t enjoy gambling -- quite the opposite, in fact -- but rather that it seemed strange she would feel the need to knock him out just to take him to something so mundane. That was the kind of thing you did in a drug trade, or¡­ or some human trafficking thing. But this all looked very normal. And if it were some prank she probably could have done a better job of playing it up before he figured it out. At least put him in a basement. The thought alone made him laugh. To think, he was working for someone who he thought would actually lock him in a basement as a prank. Stepping through the door, he found himself in a very moderate-sized parlor, choked with tobacco smoke, the smell of alcohol, and shadow, as there was only one good light to illuminate the room and it unreliably flickered. But rather than a table, which he might have expected to find in a gambling parlor, the room instead hosted four dartboards, which hung from the far wall: each dartboard with twelve face-down cards pinned to them in a circle, like the numbers on a clock, with a thirteenth card in the middle, covering the bullseye. Standing before them, in a formal stiffness he would expect, was a dark-skinned man with beautiful green eyes and hair pulled back into a small braid. But this host was far from the only man in the room. There were at least a dozen other people, dressed in their best suits and dresses, holding ornate glasses and chattering amongst themselves, cigars being passed around on a silver platter by the white-haired woman who¡­ was just in the other room a moment ago? When did she slip past him? Whatever. Among all the faces there, he only recognized Charlie Blake, who was uncomfortably chatting with a stranger, and¡­ Marie Walker, who noticed him the same time he noticed her, and immediately waved. ¡°Ah, it¡¯s our second guest of honor!¡± She announced fearlessly, cutting through the other conversations happening around her as she advanced on him. ¡°Bruno! So glad you could make it!¡± ¡°Well, it was an honor to be invited to¡­ wherever this is.¡± ¡°Ah, did Teresa not introduce you?¡± She asked, offended. Marie was a fan of pink, and everything she wore, from her shoes all the way to the bow atop her dyed hair, was some shade of it. It didn¡¯t look good, but she wasn¡¯t the kind of person who was ever ugly no matter how she dressed. ¡°I did, ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°It¡¯s the Silver Wheel Gambling House!¡± She laughed, wrapping an arm around his broad shoulder. ¡°A class S-REM pocket dimension recently discovered by Rebecca Wu. I¡¯ve been looking for it forever I¡¯m so¡­ freaking glad to finally be here!¡± ¡°Oh?¡± He blinked a few times, suddenly very anxious. Despite his job at Walker Horizons, he personally never had much interest in visiting the alternate dimensions his company had made its fortune mapping and exploiting. Until now, that had never been a problem, as the team dedicated to actually visiting these worlds had always worked as its own separate unit, Bigger Sky Labs, which was merely a subsidiary of Walker Horizons. But as far as he knew, this was the first time she had ever brought¡­ or rather¡­ tricked civilians into visiting a new reality¡­ The anxiousness must have bled onto his face. Because she started laughing. ¡°Relax, Bruno! It¡¯s perfectly safe here! It¡¯s very small, the locals -- well, most of the locals -- are very friendly, and-¡± ¡°-Most?¡± ¡°-And¡­ well, yes, there¡¯s the one called Mr. Eight, sent all the soldiers I sent in first packing, but as long as you don¡¯t get too violent you don¡¯t have anything to worry about, right?¡± She paused, and turned to Teresa. ¡°...right?¡± ¡°That is correct, ma¡¯am.¡± ¡°See? There ya go. It¡¯s a dream world. The minute you want out, just walk out the door, boom. Ya wake up, you¡¯re back at the limo, probably riiiight outside your house. So relaaaaax. Order something to drink. It¡¯s all free. Network. Say hi to Charlie Blake. He¡¯s our second guest of honor, y¡¯know.¡± She paused again. ¡°...first. You were the second. He was the first.¡± He relaxed a little bit: regardless of what she was actually saying, she was a familiar face. And everyone else around here, sans Charlie (who always looked a bit on edge no matter the situation) seemed extremely at ease. He afforded himself a laugh, and plucked a cigar from off the silver tray, which was lit with one graceful motion by Marie and her pink, bedazzled lighter. ¡°Guest of honor, you say?¡± He mused aloud as he scanned the crowd again, but then leaned over to her to whisper. ¡°I don¡¯t recognize any of these other people¡­ investors?¡± ¡°Sure, sure,¡± She whispered back. ¡°They¡¯re money. Big money.¡± ¡°I see. So¡­ why am I the guest of honor?¡± ¡°Ah! The meat of the evening.¡± She suddenly shouted aloud, once again gathering the attention of all those in attendance. ¡°Right, right, let¡¯s get on with it! This is a gambling house! That means we need gamblers, players! That¡¯s why you¡¯re here! John! Take it away!¡± ¡°Heh, It¡¯s actually ¡®Juan¡¯.¡± ¡°Right, John. Explain how this place works.¡± The host slicked back his hair and loosened up his collar as Charlie was ushered towards them. Bruno had always admired Charlie, although it was one of those unspecific admirations that had neither form or function. He just seemed the admirable type. He was a younger man by at least two decades, having clawed his way into the company straight out of college and working up the ladder. He understood Charlie was far from the most gifted engineer in the team -- and he certainly wasn¡¯t the most social -- but he had a genuine passion for his work and a creative mind that could find better solutions for seemingly solved issues. Marie once described him as a man who never empties his head: he¡¯ll keep thinking about something even after it¡¯s already been settled. Charlie offered Bruno a curt nod. It was returned, although Bruno was actually smiling. ¡°At the Silver Wheel,¡± the host started, ¡°You can wager anything for anything. Money, talent, health, fate¡­ even your past. As long as you own it -- and if it isn¡¯t the years of your life -- you can bet it! Think of this as a once-in-a-lifetime chance to change your life forever!¡± Bruno whistled. Charlie hummed. Everyone else was murmuring excitingly. ¡°Both parties must agree that what they wager is fair before the betting can begin. Once the game starts, you can¡¯t leave until the game is completely finished: if you can¡¯t take the stress, the other player is the winner by default, and they take all the chips. It¡¯s always all-or-nothing at the Silver Wheel!¡± ¡°And finally,¡± he broke out in a friendly, full-toothed chuckle, ¡°Cheating is off-limits, of course. If you get caught cheating, you automatically lose.¡± ¡°Wow. What an utterly fascinating place,¡± Bruno marveled. ¡°It¡¯s cool.¡± Charlie muttered between sips of his martini. ¡°And you said we can gamble anything we want?¡± Bruno looked to Juan¡­ although it was Marie who stepped in and answered. ¡°Absolutely, anything at all! But I suggest you wager your weight.¡± ¡°Why on earth would I do that?¡± He laughed jubilantly, ¡°I¡¯m perfectly happy with my weight, and more importantly, so is my wife! But one thing I could stand is to get some hair back, if Charlie wouldn¡¯t mind.¡± ¡°I wish I was better at talking to people, yeah.¡± Charlie shrugged. But Marie just smiled. ¡°Because the bombs I¡¯ve placed in your limos are triggered by weight, and can only be disarmed if you gain five pounds!¡± Bruno was still smiling, but only because he wasn¡¯t able to completely absorb what she said. She capitalized on their silence, and continued onwards, bobbing as she walked circles around them, swinging a champagne glass without a care for how often it spilled. ¡°Right now, the limos holding your sleeping bodies are cruising around Vancouver, locked from the outside so there¡¯s no chance you can escape. In thirty minutes, they will both explode, and probably kill you both! The only way to disarm these bombs is to gain five pounds very quickly, and right now your only chance to do that is by gambling it!¡± Finally, he stopped smiling. Confusion and disbelief took its place, and the first thing Bruno was able to stutter out was a half-formed and breathy ¡®why¡¯. ¡°For science! We need to understand how this place is able to manipulate fate if we¡¯re ever going to do it for ourselves, and that means we need data. Right now countless instruments and cameras within the limos are measuring everything you can possibly imagine, and a dramatic, almost impossible bet like this, gaining or losing five pounds in less than half an hour, will no doubt unearth something.¡± ¡°But why me?!¡± Bruno shouted back immediately. Almost everything she said had gone in one ear and out the other. That wasn¡¯t the ¡°why¡± he was really asking about. ¡°...because you¡¯re both predictable, of course. You both brown-nose me so I knew you¡¯d accept the invite, and you¡¯re both cowards so I knew you¡¯d play. Neither of you will make the noble sacrifice of giving up his own life for the guy across the table: which is important, because everyone else is here to watch the show! Some good ol¡¯ fashion bloodsports, y¡¯know?¡± He just now realized the only ones stunned silent by this revelation were himself and Juan. Everyone else in the bar, sans Charlie, was still chatting, laughing, watching the two men with eagerness and joy. They knew. They all already knew. And with that veil lifted he could now hear the sinister evil in their laughter, the malice in their chatter, and the bloodlust in their gaze as they waited for the wheel to spin. They wanted to see two gladiators fight to the death with nothing but their wits. And they were going to get it. Charlie, though. He looked¡­ not surprised. He had a look of fear and betrayal in his face, sure, but it was a very articulated expression, and it spelled ¡°about time¡± very clearly. Almost as if he¡¯d expected to be threatened by Marie at some point, and it was almost a relief that the moment had finally arrived. A relief that could almost be confused with calmness. But it got Bruno to thinking that maybe Marie wasn¡¯t telling the whole truth¡­ ¡°Ma¡¯am, I must protest.¡± Juan stepped forward. ¡°The Silver Wheel has never allowed people to wager themselves to death. This is a clear violation of that law.¡± ¡°Then don¡¯t let them gamble and they both die!¡± She retorted with a tap to his forehead with the glass in her hand. ¡°It¡¯d be a shame but, hey, you throw bombs in people¡¯s limos you sorta have to expect this kinda thing will happen amirite?¡± Bruno wasn¡¯t saying anything. He was barely breathing. So she leaned over to him and whispered. ¡°Hey, fat dog. Now¡¯s your cue to say something. Can ya speak, boy?¡± He swung. Wild and undisciplined and terribly inaccurate. She stepped out of the way breezily, tutting all the while. ¡°Ah, ya shouldn¡¯t do that, Bruno. Remember what I said about Mr. Eight?¡± And suddenly, he felt a hand on his back. A long, formless, cold hand, more like a snake with five heads, each one hissing as it coiled around his spine, traveling up his back. He could feel talons, teeth, gingerly scraping against the skin on his back through his shirt, and he could feel his nerves burn everywhere they touched. He dared not turn around. ¡°...we don¡¯t do violence here, Bruno. The only way out is through Charlie. Win, and you can go all John Wick on me if you want. But you have to win first. Right?¡± Juan bit his lip. Bruno¡¯s tension melted as the¡­ thing that had reached for him slithered away. Only to re-stiffen when he remembered he was still very much at risk. ¡°...f-fine. I¡­ I wager five pounds. And I swear to God, Marie, you¡¯ll regret this.¡± ¡°Me too. The wager thing, I mean.¡± Charlie sighed. There were, apparently, two small tables beside them. Either they had always been there and he hadn¡¯t noticed, or they somehow materialized without warning. Atop the one next to Charlie were thirty blue chips. Bruno¡¯s table had thirty red ones. They were cold, clean, and ready to be gambled. ¡°...the game¡­¡± Juan hesitantly started, ¡°...is darts.¡± It¡¯s said that the game of darts can trace itself back to the reign of of King Henry VIII of England, in the late 15th century, by archers shooting at the rings that formed at the bottom of used barrels, although that story is saturated in rumor and myth. But it¡¯s widely agreed upon that modern darts was first created in the 19th century, with an 1844 game called ¡°Puff and Dart¡±, which was primarily aimed at children and played with a blowgun rather than with the wrists. The game was popular enough to earn some variations, but it wasn¡¯t until 1896 that the modern version of the game was developed by a Lancastrian carpenter, Brian Gamlin, although even then the shape of the actual dartboard -- and how much each zone was scored -- was in near-constant flux. It wasn¡¯t until 1924 with the foundation of the National Darts Association in London that the game got a standard set of rules, and started seeing international play. ¡°But darts is an entirely skill-based game with no gambling elements,¡± Juan stated unenthusiastically, ¡°Which is why the variation we play at the Silver Wheel is different.¡± He gestured to the far, now well-lit wall, where the four dartboards hung. To reiterate, each one had twelve face-down cards attached to their edge, going in a circle like the face of a clock, with a thirteenth card in the middle, over the bullseye. However, he noticed there were two other square boards, sandwiching the four dart boards, that were completely empty. ¡°At the start of the game, you will each ante six chips. This will get you five darts. You will each take turns throwing the darts at the boards on the wall. Hit a card, and it will be added to your hand, which will be displayed on the two empty boards next to the dartboards. This way, your opponent will always know the value of your hand. You continue to do this until all the darts are thrown, or both sides agree to end the round.¡± ¡°The goal, of course, is to construct the best possible poker hand. If your hand beats your opponent¡¯s, you win the round, and the pot. Then, we¡¯ll put the cards back on the dartboards in a new, random order, and the next round can begin.¡± Bruno grimaced. He had never been good at gambling, but he had some talent for tavern games like these: he could routinely hit the bullseye of a dartboard three out of every five throws¡­ it seemed Lady Luck hadn¡¯t abandoned him entirely, if nothing else. ¡°Two more things to consider: at the start of each round, you can put two chips into the pot in order to get an extra dart. You can ¡®buy¡¯ as many extra darts as you like, so long as you have the chips to spend. At the end of the round, if you have six or more cards, you simply make the best five-card hand you can and discard the rest. Any darts you don¡¯t use by the end of the round are returned to the dealer.¡± ¡°...and secondly, hidden on these boards are two Joker cards. If your dart lands on a Joker, you automatically lose the round. Furthermore, before the game begins, we will tell you each the location of one of the Jokers.¡± ¡°Now. Any questions?¡± That was a lot to take in for the shell-shocked Bruno, who was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that somewhere in his home dimension, his unconscious body was trapped in a limo with a bomb. He was so overwhelmed that a thick coat of sweat had formed on his brow, but he had to prioritize his emergencies right now: compartmentalize, as his therapist often told him. So he tried his best to push that aside and focus on the task at hand. In poker, there are nine valuable hands: With no way to see which card was which, it seemed on paper that there was very little separating this game from normal five-card draw. But even without much poker knowledge, Bruno could see there were a few key differences: most obviously, without the proper skill, it was very possible to ¡°draw¡± fewer cards than you needed, which certainly gave an advantage to people who knew how to handle a dart. But there were other things too -- knowing exactly what your opponent had made it easier to plan your hand: for example, he wouldn¡¯t bother trying to make a straight with a two, three, five and six if he knew his opponent had three fours. Plus, there were still only 52 cards on the wall, which meant that the two Jokers must have actually replaced two other unknown cards- ¡°-You seem stressed.¡± His train of thought was derailed. It was Charlie. Cool and collected, despite the excited, antagonistic jeers of their audience. In the few moments since Juan explained the game, it seemed he had calmed down considerably. ¡°And you¡¯re not?¡± ¡°No. At the start, maybe. If this had been normal poker I might have been worried. But I can win this game. In fact¡­¡± He shrugged as if it were the most normal thing in the world. ¡°There¡¯s a 100% chance you¡¯re going to lose this, Bruno. Sorry.¡± He said it with such assured certainly Bruno almost believed it, too. ¡°...you can¡¯t possibly know that.¡± ¡°Mhm.¡± He hummed. ¡°Are we starting now, John?¡± ¡°Juan. And yes. Please ante your chips to the pot. Once you¡¯ve made your first wager, we¡¯ll tell you each privately the location of a Joker.¡± Bruno considered: he was pretty good at darts, but he couldn¡¯t guarantee a hand better than a flush with just five darts. Eight¡­ no, nine. Nine would give him a good hand with some leeway, especially if he hit with each one, while still letting him keep over half his chips. So it was six chips into the pot for this first five darts¡­ then eight more chips for the extra four darts, giving him nine red-tailed darts, delivered on a silver tray by Teresa. Charlie, however, dumped all thirty of his blue chips into the pot, prompting a surprised gasp from both the crowd, Marie, and of course, Bruno. Seventeen darts were handed to him, encased within an ornate silver box for easy carrying. ¡°B-but¡­ why?!¡± Charlie looked at Bruno dispassionately and boredly. Like a child staring at a stuffed animal they no longer loved. ¡°Because I¡¯m going to win, obviously.¡± The sweat grew heavier and hotter. There were so few lights in this bar, how the hell was it so damn warm in here? Clenching his teeth and his hands, his eye locked onto his nine darts, and then his wedding ring. Dammit. His wife was waiting for him in the real world, wasn¡¯t she? And the kids. And his parents. And his brother, goddammit. He had to win this: for them and for himself. And so he could take Marie to court for every polished penny she was worth. ¡°Very well.¡± Juan walked up to Charlie and leaned into his ear, to whisper the location of a Joker. Bruno was watching, waiting for his turn, and caught completely unaware when he felt a delicate hand brush up against his shoulder, and a feminine yet monotone voice whisper into his ear. ¡°Far left, at the 11 o¡¯clock position.¡± Bruno violently turned, but Teresa wasn¡¯t where she should be: she was pouring another glass of brandy for someone on the other side of the room. He had more or less figured out she was some kind of ghost, but he still didn¡¯t like it. When he turned his back to her, he felt an uneasy tickling against the base of his spine. He¡¯d be a lot more comfortable if he knew where she was at all times. Or if he wasn¡¯t here at all. Goddammit. ¡°We¡¯ll flip on who throws first. Would you be so kind as to call, Bruno?¡± Juan was back at his place besides the boards, and there was enough of a lul following the question to give Bruno some much-needed space to think. Was there any advantage or disadvantage to going first? Going first would mean he¡¯d have his ¡°pick of the litter¡±, such as it was, and no cards could be claimed by his opponent first¡­ but since he only knew what one card was (a card he should absolutely avoid), that didn¡¯t give him an enormous advantage outside helping him start on his hand. However, for every card exposed, it did mean the odds of hitting the Joker by accident was technically smaller¡­ so in that respect¡­ there was a small, small edge given to the player who goes first. Come to think of the Joker¡­ he couldn¡¯t imagine they were both told the location of the same Joker. That meant Charlie must have been told the location of the other one. Assuming that both Jokers weren¡¯t on the same board, and that Charlie would avoid throwing a dart at a board with a Joker on it¡­ maybe it would be better to let him throw first. In throwing at a dartboard, Charlie would telegraph one that was safe, and then Bruno could swoop in, pick it clean as long as the cards were easy to hit, then risk one of the other boards. But then¡­ Charlie had seventeen darts. Maybe he needed to think of this differently. Charlie would have lots of opportunities to make a better hand than Bruno, but that also meant he¡¯d have a better chance at hitting the Joker. But since Charlie knew where one was¡­ his odds of hitting the second one, the one Bruno knew about, were extremely low. No, if he was going to win, he had to try to trick Charlie into hitting it. ...well. His opponent was smart. He would also likely figure that Bruno would avoid throwing darts at the board he knew had a Joker on it. So Charlie would probably throw his darts at whatever board Bruno threw at, both because he would figure it¡¯s safe, and because it would deny Bruno any information on which of the other boards might be safe as well. It was a win-win from a strategic standpoint¡­ unless he bluffed Charlie by throwing at the board he knew had a Joker on it. But if Charlie threw first, that would change things. Since the natural strategy would be to throw at the board your opponent chose, throwing at a different board would look suspicious. So for this to work... ...Bruno had to go first. ¡°Heads.¡± Bruno finally said, remembering some old statistic that the heads was 1% more likely to land than tails. Juan¡¯s thumb popped from his closed fingers, and the coin spun wildly in the air. And time, for its part, slowed to a crawl. The music, whatever the hell it was, dimmed until it was little more than a muffled whimper. It seemed every conversation around them, already hushed, had stopped on a dime to take a collective breath. Marie was leaning forward, watching the players while the world watched the coin. And Charlie¡­ Charlie looked utterly and completely bored. Juan snached the coin from the air. ¡°Shall I flip the coin before the reveal, Charlie?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He replied immediately. ¡°Very well.¡± And he slammed it against his closed wrist. Bruno was still sweating, of course. Any man would, with such a spotlight on him. But he couldn¡¯t reveal how much this flip actually mattered. If Charlie noticed something odd, he would think. And if he was thinking, he couldn¡¯t be predicted. In that sense, his boredom, which should have been infuriating, was actually giving Bruno some hope: a man decided can be manipulated. But you can¡¯t predict a man who was still unsure. The coin was revealed. The tension had hit a new peak for the third time that night: if Bruno had any real hope of winning, he needed.... ¡°Heads. Bruno, would you like to throw first?¡± He had to roll an enormous amount of stress off his shoulders with what appeared to be little more than an indifferent shrug. ¡°...fine.¡± ¡°Good luck.¡± Charlie stepped aside, giving Bruno the floor to throw. ¡°Yeah.¡± He didn¡¯t want to hate Charlie, who was every bit the victim of Marie that he was. But he had no choice. If he didn¡¯t hate Charlie, he¡¯d have to pity him. And if he pitied him, he¡¯d be weak. A mistake it was clear neither party had any intention of making. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. He stared at the dartboard on the far left, examining it carefully as he lifted his first dart. If this bluff was going to work, he¡¯d need to do more than just hit a board with the Joker: he had to make a bet on his own talent and throw at a card near the Joker: at the one or nine o¡¯clock position. Whatever he could do to make the Joker card look all the more enticing, and that part of the board safer. That said, as he continued to aim, his tongue poking out and right eye squinted shut¡­ he could feel his body quivering in fear. He could still only hit his targets in darts three out of five times consistently¡­ not bad, but not great either. Plus, as the room had entered a hush in preparation for the first throw, he was forced to rediscover the simple fact that if he failed this, he would die. He had only grappled with his mortality once in his lifetime so far -- during the heart attack -- and he was incredibly unprepared to do it again, right now, when he needed to focus on throwing darts with pinpoint accuracy. His breathing grew shallow. His skin, clammy. His fingers slick with sweat. Compartmentalize¡­ compartmentalize¡­ He remembered what he needed to live for. He remembered his family. He remembered his plans. And he imagined Marie¡¯s too-smug grin twisting in despair when he got out of here. They might call him the dog, but he doubted Charlie would have the balls to try to take her down for this. Bruno wouldn¡¯t. So he was going to win. He exhaled the excess stress he didn¡¯t need (keeping only a little to give him an edge), and threw the first dart. Fourth board, 12 o¡¯clock. Almost perfect. ¡°Two of spades. Great first throw, Bruno.¡± ¡°Thanks, Joh- Juan.¡± The card was gingerly plucked from the dartboard and tacked onto the empty board on the left, the one closest to Bruno, for the world to see. There was a polite round of golf clapping as well, although the cynical hollowness of the gesture made it sting more than anything. Investors, Marie called them. Exactly what were they investing in anyway? He¡¯d likely never know, so he simply tried to pretend they weren¡¯t there. He stepped aside. Charlie took the floor. Bruno had expected some kind of hesitation or at least consideration from Charlie¡¯s part, but there was none: he grabbed his first dart, aimed it as he pulled back his hand, and threw it: the blue-tipped dart soared in a perfect spiral, and landed on¡­ the six o¡¯clock card of the fourth dartboard. His bluff worked! ¡°Four of clubs. Technically¡­ Charlie has a lead.¡± The card was lifted off the dart board and placed on the empty board on the right. Each man had his own board, logically enough. ¡°A wonderful throw,¡± Bruno offered a shaky congratulations, but it was sincere enough to catch Charlie off-guard, ¡°Do you play darts often?¡± ¡°...I¡­ mess around with a lot of stuff when I think. Including darts.¡± ¡°Not bad¡­ but I¡¯m something of an old pro at these myself. If we weren¡¯t already betting our lives, I¡¯d bet that I don¡¯t miss a throw before you.¡± Charlie froze. He must have figured Bruno was planning something, and his always-on brain was trying to analyze exactly what it was. Poor thing looked trapped in the headlights, as if there were some kind of puzzle to decode hidden in his statement. Good. Maybe that¡¯d throw him off a little. Bruno threw again. Another solid hit, at the five o¡¯clock card. A Jack of hearts. Charlie appeared to shake off the taunt, although he took slightly longer with his next throw. Same dartboard, thank goodness, hitting the nine o¡¯clock card. The two of hearts, and dangerously close to where the Joker was. With the twelve o¡¯clock and the nine o¡¯clock card gone, that meant only the 10 o¡¯clock card was still adjacent to the Joker. Logically, Charlie would want to throw at where the largest clusters of cards would be, to avoid missing¡­ so Bruno would have to make the rest of the dartboard equally sparse if this was going to work. Because if it didn¡¯t¡­ he¡¯d have to win through the quality of his hand, by some impossible method. And while two cards was still far too early to call, a Jack of hearts and two of spades did not build much confidence. Not when he only had seven more throws, compared to his opponent¡¯s fifteen. Hoo boy¡­ here comes that sweat again. Compartmentalize... ¡°A towel, sir?¡± ¡°A-A-¡± He yelped, ¡°D-don¡¯t¡­¡± He didn¡¯t get the chance to finish. As he turned to face Teresa, who had helpfully delivered a towel to him on a silver platter, they both noticed that the audience was laughing. A long, dry, and terribly wicked laugh: at his sweating, and his nervousness, and now at the humiliated red that crawled up his face when they started calling him ¡°fat dog¡±. He grabbed the towel, both to dab his face and hide his shame, if only for a moment, but then¡­ ¡°I¡¯d like to invite all our lovely guests to shut the hell up!¡± Juan did not shout, it seemed he was incapable of that. But his voice was louder, somehow, as if he had turned up the volume of his voice without taking up more air. What¡¯s more, it was dangerously cutting, and did an excellent job at least silencing some of the laughter. But since more persisted, he did as well. ¡°These two gentlemen are currently being threatened- they¡¯re being forced to gamble their lives! Something we at the Silver Wheel do not endorse, and certainly don¡¯t want to abide! It¡¯s only natural that they should be nervous! However nervous they want to be!¡± He was coming off as an overprotective mother, which actually made things worse. But as he returned the towel, Bruno could at least appreciate how irritated Teresa looked: either at the crowd, or at Juan, or maybe both. He couldn¡¯t tell. ¡°Now I¡¯m not going to pretend we¡¯re noble,¡± Juan continued, ¡°Gambling is not a¡­ good thing, I guess, but it was always a choice! And someone always walked away with a better life by the end of a game here, and that, if nothing else, could be respected! But there¡¯s nothing good about this! Not for the people who¡¯re playing. Not for the people who matter.¡± ¡°Would you like some ice water as well, sir?¡± Teresa asked in a hush. Bruno nodded slowly. The laughter had turned into whispers. Maybe not for the content of Juan¡¯s speech, but the mere fact it was happening was proof to some that perhaps Marie didn¡¯t have the full control over this dimension as she might have claimed before inviting them here. ¡°You should all be ashamed of yourselves¡­ but I know you¡¯re not. So since I can¡¯t shame you, I can at least warn you: as the operator of the Silver Wheel, I also decide what¡¯s a bannable offense. And if one more of you laughs at these two poor souls, I¡¯ll be more than happy to have Mr. Eight not-so-politely escort you outside. Do you understand me?!¡± A few people turned to Marie, as if they expected her to be responsible for this wet blanket over their once-enjoyable cocktail execution. All she could do was shrug. ¡°People. Can¡¯t get away from unknowns in any dimension. Just stuff your faces, cram those smile-holes and you¡¯ll be fine. Or just go out the front door, I don¡¯t care. It¡¯s not like any of you are sleeping on bombs. That I know of.¡± She paused. ¡°...I need to make a few calls, actually. Don¡¯t freak out.¡± And she briskly stepped to the bar, leaving the room completely subdued by Juan¡¯s threat. No one was leaving, but no one was laughing, either. ¡°Now. Gentlemen. I believe it¡¯s Bruno¡¯s throw, still?¡± Bruno hadn¡¯t been paying attention to Charlie at all during that speech, and if he had any emotional response to it at the time, he certainly wasn¡¯t showing it now. But he knew enough tact to offer the host a polite nod -- perhaps thanks, perhaps mere acknowledgement -- before stepping aside for Bruno again. Alright. There was some much needed and appreciated silence now. Bruno carefully lined up his dart with the three o¡¯clock card¡­ and with a flick of the wrist¡­ Ah, he was off. But he still hit the center card, which was actually a Jack of spades. Not bad: he technically had the lead, although it was the very definition of tenuous. Regardless. The board was getting empty. A little too empty. Fewer cards meant he was more likely to hit the Joker, but it also meant he was more likely to move to another board, to minimize the odds of just missing. And Charlie was actually thinking before he even picked up his dart, pulling at the thin, reddish strands of hair that grew unevenly along his chin. But then he picked one up, and threw it at the fourth dartboard again, landing at the one o¡¯clock position. It was a Queen of spades. Bruno hit at two o¡¯clock, getting the seven of clubs. Charlie hit at eight o¡¯clock, getting a three of spades. There were only five cards on the board left. One at three o¡¯clock, one at four o¡¯clock, one at seven o¡¯clock, one at ten o¡¯clock, and of course, the Joker at eleven. If Charlie intended to empty this one dartboard clean before moving on to the next, he would likely aim for one of the clusters, which meant Bruno would have to hit the three or four o¡¯clock card. He liked his odds: they had astonishing luck hitting cards so far¡­ Bruno hadn¡¯t always got the card he was aiming for, but he was always able to somehow get something¡­ which, so far, had been an immense relief. He also had the lead with a pair, another small relief, although he still had five darts to throw¡­ while Charlie had thirteen. Of course, it was always possible to get thirteen cards and lose to a pair. It just isn¡¯t odds Bruno felt comfortable betting his life on. Particularly when Charlie was only two cards away from a straight. He didn¡¯t want to pause too much. It would reveal something he didn¡¯t want, and it was making him realize that ¡°Everlong¡± was playing on the radio, a song he always hated for every reason other than its actual quality. So he simply threw, aiming for the three or four o¡¯clock card, and landing squarely on the three. He allowed himself a sigh as the eight of diamonds was revealed, and placed on his board. But this was it. It was now or never. Charlie stepped up, and seemed to examine the board with a casual disinterest. He put his feet in position, lined up his shot, and then threw the dart. It hit the card at eleven o¡¯clock... ...on the center-left board. Bruno was heartbroken, nearly falling to his knees in defeat as the revealed Ace of diamonds was placed on Charlie''s board. That was it. That was game. There was no way he could naturally trick Charlie back to the far left board with the four darts he had left. And attempting to goad him there would no doubt lead to failure: pride could move mountains but when they were both being silently mocked by a bloodthirsty crowd it was hard to rouse one¡¯s sense of ego. Dammit, what was he going to do now?! Win by the better hand?! Right now, he was ¡°winning¡±, with his hand consisting of a two of spades, a Jack of hearts, a Jack of Spades, a seven of clubs, and a eight of diamonds. Effectively, a pair of Jacks. Charlie had the weaker hand, with a four of clubs, a two of hearts, a Queen of spades, a three of spades, and an Ace of diamonds, but the number of extra draws he had at his command¡­ and neither of them had missed a single time! It would be unreasonable to expect him to start now. A better hand. It was literally his only hope as he stepped up and stared at the board with clenched teeth. He threw at the same board Charlie did. A five of clubs, and three darts left. Charlie got a six of hearts. One card away from a straight, with eleven darts left to throw. Bruno bit his lip as he approached the dart board again. He was an idiot. He should have thought of buying all the darts in the first round too. The advantages it gave Charlie were obvious, and if Bruno had thought things over with a clear head for five seconds, he could have come to the same conclusion. He couldn¡¯t let this one stupid mistake cost him his life. He was sweating hard again. He felt a towel dab across his forehead. At least no one was laughing this time. He threw. The Jack of diamonds. Three of a kind. He had three of a kind. Good. But not good enough to beat a straight. His happiness was short-lived. Charlie threw. The Queen of hearts. He had a pair, and finally a good hand. Hell, there were no other Queens showing: now all Charlie needed was another Queen or a five and he¡¯d win. This was hell. This was literally hell. He only had two darts to get a hand that could do him any good. He wanted to sit down with a drink and think about this. Take a moment to breathe. Maybe call some people. His therapist. He was having a hard time compartmentalizing this all. Hell, he was having a hard time breathing, but he only realized it when he stopped to think about it. He had not come here planning to die, he was just supposed to meet Marie, have some drinks, go over a new project¡­ this wasn¡¯t right, this wasn¡¯t fair! He threw at the center-right board in a sudden fit. It hit straight in the middle. ¡°A five of hearts. Full house.¡± He stared at his board with disbelief. Three Jacks, and two fives. That was, indeed, a full house. And perhaps more important was the fact he had two fives. Two of the fives Charlie would need for his straight¡­ a straight that wouldn¡¯t even win him the game anymore. He still only had one dart to Charlie¡¯s ten. But...but it wasn¡¯t¡­ impossible¡­ he could win with that hand¡­assuming he didn¡¯t hit any Jokers with his last throw... Charlie seemed entirely unphased, throwing his dart at the same board to reveal a seven of hearts, giving him one shy of a flush. Nine darts left. And Bruno had one throw left. He stepped up. He exhaled slowly And threw his dart clean. It landed, and when he flipped it over, he revealed¡­ ...the three of clubs. Worthless. But he had his full house. If he could somehow survive nine more throws, then it was possible, just barely possible, that he- ¡°-Alright.¡± Charlie¡­ laughed? Snorted? Coughed? ¡°I think that¡¯s enough theatrics. Let¡¯s end the game.¡± He threw, and his dart landed squarely on the five of hearts. In Bruno¡¯s hand. ¡°...w-wait, you can¡¯t-¡± ¡°Says who?¡± Charlie sneered, adjusting his glasses as the snickering of the crowd started to emerge once again, the infectious, joyful cruelty unable to be repressed. ¡°They said I could throw at any board on the wall. That includes yours.¡± The card was lifted dutifully by Juan, placing it on Charlie¡¯s board. His full house had become a three of a kind again. And Charlie¡­ Charlie had his straight. He had won. ¡°And that¡¯s the round. If you had more darts, you could take it back, but you don¡¯t. So there¡¯s no point in continuing.¡± ¡°...w...w¡­¡± Bruno was still reeling. He had been catapulted into orbit, and he was still tumbling through the black cold of space. How¡­ how was that legal? How was that allowed?! This game was broken, if you could throw at your opponent''s hand! This time, he did fall to the ground, sweat falling onto the carpet like tears. ¡°Try to not take it personally.¡± ¡°...Bruno?¡± Juan stepped forward. ¡°...do you¡­ do you want to end the round?¡± Bruno slowly nodded. There was no point. The round was over. ¡°...alright. Then the winner of the round¡­ is Charlie. Please excuse us while we prepare the boards for the next round.¡± Bruno knew he had to stand up. But he couldn¡¯t. The weight of things was just too damn heavy. He had made a stupid mistake. A stupid, stupid mistake, and even then, he had almost won: if any one of the first few shots hit the eleven o¡¯clock space, Bruno could have won. That¡¯s all that had needed to happen. But it was too late for that now. Charlie had won the pot, and taken fourteen of Bruno¡¯s chips. ...which¡­ which meant¡­ ¡°-The board is ready. Please buy your chips and we¡¯ll tell you each the location of one Joker.¡± This was going too fast. He didn¡¯t want to move. He didn¡¯t want to be here. But if he didn¡¯t, the jeers would get louder, and he.. he really would lose. So Bruno slowly dragged himself to his feet, shoving all sixteen of his chips into the pot. Earning him ten darts, delivered on a tray by Teresa. Unsurprisingly, Charlie once again bet every chip he had, and got himself twenty-four darts. Two trays were needed to deliver the whole set to him, which were placed on the table where his chips would normally sit. The difference in darts was staggering. How could he win like this?! ¡°Far right, center card¡± Was whispered into his ear, but he barely registered it. ¡°Bruno, would you like to throw first?¡± ¡°...n-no.¡± ¡°Charlie?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t mind.¡± He took the center stage, aiming at one of the cards while Bruno was left racing for something, anything, that could turn this around. But there wasn¡¯t a solution he could think of: not before Charlie hit the seven o¡¯clock card on the far right board, drawing a four of clubs. Bruno stepped up, fingers pale and cold. His hands shook as he tried to aim. He closed his eyes and focused, slowly counting, breathing softly, whatever he could do to get his hand to stop quivering¡­ but it wasn¡¯t working. So, he just threw, hitting the three o¡¯clock card on the center-left board. Drawing the King of hearts. He stepped back. And Charlie rather casually threw his dart at the very same king. Completely emptying Bruno¡¯s hand. ¡°...wait... ¡° He blinked as the card was taken from him, ¡°Wait, h-how¡­ how am I supposed-¡± ¡°You¡¯re not.¡± Charlie answered curtly.¡±I won the first round. Which means I have more chips than you. Since I have more chips, I¡¯ll always have more darts. Since I have more darts, I can always have more cards and I can always steal yours. The only way I¡¯ll lose is if I miss, which won¡¯t happen, or if I hit a Joker, which will never be a risk as long as I always steal your hand. You lost the moment the game started.¡± The words were just so much empty air. He couldn¡¯t accept that. Bruno couldn¡¯t just¡­ let things end. Seized by a sudden terror, he pushed Charlie aside, throwing a dart at the center-left board again. It hit at seven o¡¯clock, and he drew an three of spades¡­ but Charlie pushed back, sending Bruno to the ground despite the differences in their size, and simply stole it again. He had three useless cards, but three cards would beat an empty hand any day. ¡°So. My condolences, Bruno, but shall we end the round, and this game? You might still have time for a few drinks before we have to wake up.¡± Bruno heaved, verging on hyperventilating, as he lay on the ground. The laughter grew a bit more bold, more open, until Juan loudly coughed, reminding them of their place. It was a noble effort. Wasted on a man gripped in the jaws of defeat and death. He had eight darts. How, how could he possibly win with eight darts?! It was impossible. His mind went over the rules, again and again and again, looking for some kind of loophole or flaw or something he could exploit, but time and time again he realized his options were gone. Anything he could have done, he should have done earlier. Now¡­ with no chips, and eight darts left¡­ all he had... ...all he had¡­ He again dragged himself up. Face red, but eyes tightly clenched shut. All he had now was one word. ¡°...no.¡± ¡°...what?¡± Juan, for the first time that night, actually cracked a grin. ¡°I don¡¯t agree to end the round.¡± The room had gone dead silent. The only noise, ¡°Emperor¡¯s New Clothes¡± by Panic! at the Disco. Soon, it was accompanied by a few whispered murmurs. Some even verging on excitement. Could this beaten dog have one last trick hidden in his collar? ¡°...alright, so we¡¯ll play. Take your throws.¡± Bruno had done this all wrong, he realized as he took his first throw. Seven of clubs. It was stolen by Charlie. If he had been calm and smart at any point, he could have won. Five of spades. Stolen by Charlie. But he made mistake after mistake. Even at the start of this round, he made a mistake. Two of clubs. Stolen by Charlie. He knew this wasn¡¯t much of a last resort. Three of diamonds. Stolen by Charlie. He had thought about stalling forever. Keeping them both stuck here out of mere spite. But Marie wouldn¡¯t have had patience for that. She knew where his wife was. She knew she could motivate him. Six of spades. Stolen by Charlie. So instead all he had was this. Jack of diamonds. Stolen by Charlie. It was a desperate hope. Jack of clubs. Stolen by Charlie. But it was hope. King of clubs. Stolen by Charlie. ¡°And you¡¯re out of darts, with an empty hand.¡± Charlie sighed, clearly annoyed by the little show Bruno had put on. ¡°You¡¯re unable to throw. Surely now you agree to end this game.¡± ¡°No. I do not.¡± Bruno replied. ¡°...but why?¡± Charlie tilted his head. ¡°You can¡¯t play. It¡¯s over.¡± ¡°Juan said the round only ends when we run out of darts, or we agree to end it. And I don¡¯t agree.¡± Charlie swallowed. He knew what this meant. He knew what was coming. And that icy mask of indifference was starting to show some cracks. ¡°So keep throwing.¡± His opponent paused for a moment longer, glancing at the huge stack of thirteen darts still in his possession¡­ his mind was racing, Bruno could see it in his eyes¡­ although his last-ditch hope seemed to vanish as Charlie let out a half-insulted snort. ¡°I¡¯ll admit you had me going for a second, Bruno, but your strategy isn¡¯t a strategy at all. All I have to do is miss.¡± He picked up one of his blue-tipped darts and casually tossed it over his shoulder. ¡°But I can understand why, in your desperation, you¡¯d think-¡± ¡°Ten of hearts.¡± Both men turned: despite the dart being lobbed carelessly in the opposite direction, it had somehow managed to squarely land in the center of the center-right board. Juan bowed his head, to address Charlie¡¯s confusion. ¡°At the Silver Wheel, we strive to keep things as fair and fun as possible. To allow our less-coordinated friends to enjoy their time here, we offer a little bit of assistance to assure that every dart hits a target, every time.¡± ¡°...what is this bull-¡± ¡°-You didn¡¯t notice?¡± Bruno pushed in a cold sweat. ¡°I¡¯m pretty good at darts and even I thought it was strange I was hitting a card every time I threw. I realized pretty fast this stupid fucking gambling house must have been responsible some way or another. You probably would have noticed, too, if you weren¡¯t so full of yourself you assumed you could never miss.¡± Charlie furrowed his brow and pulled his thin lips back into a nearly cat-like hiss. ¡°But now it really does come down to chance, doesn¡¯t it? If you hit the Joker: I win. If you don¡¯t, I lose. Odds are still in your favor, asshole, so try to not look so indignant about it.¡± Of course, Bruno knew why Charlie was so clearly peeved: it wasn¡¯t that he might lose, it was the fact that he had been so confident in his victory and his strategy, only to be so narrowly out-maneuvered at the finish line. It was a blow to his pride more than anything else, and Bruno breathed that in like a drowning man pulling above the rolling waves of a tumultuous sea. And Bruno¡¯s odds genuinely weren''t terrible. There were forty cards left on the wall, and Charlie still had twelve darts to throw: even knowing the location of one of the Jokers, that gave Bruno a slightly better than one in four chance of winning. He was able to turn Charlie¡¯s strategy against him, in some small, last-ditch way. Bruno still might lose, god forbid, but at least he¡¯d leave a scar to remember him by. The audience wasn¡¯t terribly impressed. But Marie, at least, was doubled over like a gleeful child at this sudden reversal. ¡°Good boy!¡± She called over to Bruno, ¡°Good dog!¡± over and over, but he ignored it. It was impossible for him to hate her more than he already did. And this particular middle finger was aimed squarely at Charlie: a man he had once admired from afar, who had revealed himself to be callous, plotting, and wholly unsympathetic. Charlie looked between Bruno and the darts. And he snarled. ¡°Fine.¡± He grabbed his first of twelve darts, and actually aimed it at the board this time: if he threw without aiming, he would turn Bruno¡¯s one-in-four odds of winning into a one-in-two, since it would double the number of Jokers he could accidentally hit. But this time, for the first time since they started¡­ he seemed to hesitate. As if suddenly, the number of darts and cards had become a genuine concern. As they should. Bruno had made his last eight throws as random as possible, two from each board. He communicated as little as possible about his Joker¡¯s location. And with skill being removed from the equation, it all came down to luck. Charlie loosed his first dart. The card on the other side didn¡¯t matter anymore, and everyone knew it. When they saw it wasn¡¯t the Joker, everyone else in the room - even Charlie - visibly relaxed. Until the next dart was picked up, and the tension returned. Twuck. Twuck. Twuck. Each throw came, slowly revealing more cards, and increasing his chance of hitting the Joker. He was throwing in a pattern, each of the four darts aimed at one of the four boards: including the board Bruno knew had a Joker. Far right. Right in the middle. He didn¡¯t hit the card, but he felt the thrill of anticipation rise in his throat as it landed at the 12 o¡¯clock card. He had eight darts left. If he continued throwing them in this pattern, one at each board, then Bruno would get two more chances to survive. Charlie was starting to show the faintest signs of stress. He swallowed the empty air as he scooped up his next batch of four darts. Twuck. Twuck. Twuck. Three darts for the three ¡°safe¡± boards. And then he lined up his throw for the fourth. Bruno had been watching his eyes, the way they twitched, darting across the board as they hunted for a target. His eyes would dilate every time he found a card he ¡®trusted¡¯, and his tongue would prod at the edge of his lips as he tried to line up his shot. As if it wanted to slither out, but he actively worked to keep it contained in his mouth. He threw. It spiraled high, creating a tall arch, and landing with a Twuck at the 10 o¡¯clock position. So close. But Bruno wouldn''t let his disappointment show. The final four darts were scooped up. The final four before the end of the game. Before this was all finally decided, and the winner -- the survivor -- could hold their head up high. He threw the first dart to the board on the far left. He threw the second dart to the board on the center-left. He lined up his dart for the board on the center-right. But he paused, glancing at Bruno. Bruno only now realized he was licking his lips, and shaking especially hard. It was the last two throws, it¡¯s only natural he would be anxious¡­ but it seemed as if Charlie had mistaken it for some kind of tell. Maybe all the pressure was finally getting to him, as well. He shifted his feet. And his eyes. He threw his second-to-last dart at the 5 o¡¯clock position on the far right board. Twuck. One dart left. His eyes, and his feet, were still pointed at the far right board. There were still seven cards left on that board. A one in seven chance of survival. Charlie threw.
When Bruno woke up, the very first thing he did was finish the bottle of champaign. He had corked it before he was knocked out, so there was still plenty to down, which he did with a few, whale-sized swallows. When the bottle was as dry as he could make it, he dropped it to the ground with a graceless thud and tried, very calmly, to open the door of the moving vehicle. It was locked. He tried again a few more times, throwing his entire body into the effort, but it was stuck fast. So he crawled to the front, where the driver would be, and slammed his hand against the one-way mirror at the front, demanding to be let out. But at this point, his chauffeur had been replaced with the limo¡¯s auto-drive feature, and he was screaming at no one. Typically, that would mean he could hit the auto-stop button, but it seemed to be broken in this car. A fact that made him laugh, hysterically and bitterly, as he slammed his palm into it the fourth time. He threw his body against the one-way glass, but of course, even if it broke, he was too big to be able to fit through. So he threw himself against the door again, making the whole limo rock violently as it tried to stay roadbound with three hundred pounds of human meat slamming into its insides. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, Charlie was waking up too. He, unlike Bruno, didn¡¯t drink the champagne, and merely looked out the window soberly. He waited for a couple of minutes, before he started to realize that nothing was happening. He stood up, and tapped on the one-way mirror, but of course, he also had a self-driving car that had no ability to understand his desire to leave. And as he suspected, when he tapped the emergency stop, the car continued to speed along comfortably, the button firmly and absolutely broken. Charlie sat back down and continued to wait. He was due to gain five pounds very quickly but he wasn¡¯t feeling it happen. And since nothing else was working, all he could do was hope that the Silver Wheel would ultimately deliver on its promise. After twelve minutes, both cars exploded in the outskirts of the city. Both men were instantly killed. When first responders arrived to Bruno¡¯s car, they found it engulfed in flames. They put it out and pried open the door, finding his charred husk laying on the floor, still burning in some places. By the time he was fully extinguished and being rolled off in a body bag, he had lost exactly five pounds of fat, consumed by the flames. Meanwhile, when they reached Charlie¡¯s car, they found that it was not engulfed in flames: the explosion had been smaller due to some malfunction, and the limo had veered off-road and crashed. They found Charlie mangled in the glass and machinery of the car, attempting to fix the emergency exit button. An enormous amount of shrapnel had embedded itself into his corpse, adding five pounds to his weight. Both men had fallen victim to their employer¡¯s sick game. And yet, both men had still, indisputably, won their just prizes¡­ ...At the Silver Wheel.
The halls of the Silver Wheel had finally gone quiet, although it still bore the marks of this¡­ ¡°party¡±. Broken glass, spilled drinks, and dropped food littered the ground, while empty bottles and half-filled glasses of melted ice covered nearly every flat surface. And of course, not a single person there had used a coaster. So it was, in short, a mess. And both Juan and Teresa were in the process of cleaning. Teresa did her work quietly. Juan did not. ¡°I hate that woman.¡± Teresa didn¡¯t answer. ¡°She killed two men tonight and no one batted an eye!¡± Teresa didn¡¯t answer. ¡°What is the world coming to? That kind of sick behavior¡­ and people were¡­ and I¡­¡± ¡°-You enabled it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s my job!¡± ¡°And it was theirs.¡± She replied brusquely, ending the conversation. He looked away. The sound of clinking glass and "Dancing Days" filled the empty space instead. He stopped, and looked at the back of her head while she swept. ¡°...they also didn¡¯t tip.¡± This made her pause. ¡°...were they supposed to?¡± ¡°It¡¯s rude, is all. Not a single one of them tipped for all the work we did.¡± ¡°We have no use for their money.¡± ¡°Well they don¡¯t know that.¡± She actually rolled the thoughts around in her head a bit. ¡°I suppose that was rather rude,¡± She finally concessed. ¡°And they made a mess. That was very inconsiderate of them.¡± ¡°Exactly.¡± ¡°And only half of them ever thanked me,¡± She continued. ¡°And one man called me ¡®doll¡¯. Unironically. Doll. I thought we were past that.¡± ¡°I know, right? Someone even pinched my ass.¡± ¡°That is very rude.¡± "Super rude.¡± She turned around and looked at Juan. He was smiling sadly. ¡°You know they¡¯ll be back, right?¡± ¡°Yeah, I figured.¡± ¡°If they come to realize you can¡¯t control Mr. Eight, we¡¯ll be in trouble.¡± ¡°Yeah. I figured.¡± ¡°Maybe it would have been more prudent to save that threat for later, then.¡± ¡°I guess.¡± Juan sighed as he went back to stacking glasses, ¡°I just¡­ couldn¡¯t stand it. This is a personal place, y¡¯know? When we have guests, the whole world here revolves around them, and their struggle, and their sacrifice. It¡¯s supposed to be intimate and small, and we¡¯re just supposed to¡­ well, like you said, ¡®enable¡¯ it.¡± She didn¡¯t say anything, but she didn¡¯t start sweeping again either. ¡°Having other people watch and gawk just feels like a violation of everything this place was created to do. I still don¡¯t like the murder. But I¡¯m not so naive as to think we haven¡¯t caused death before. But¡­ the laughing, the mockery, the¡­ the... ¡° He sighed. He stopped sweeping again. ¡°It just feels wrong.¡± She paused for just a moment longer, before she turned around and went back to cleaning. ¡°It seems even we can¡¯t escape progress.¡± The door to the bar swung open with a loud, obnoxious bang. It was Ture, of course. ¡°We still have a swallow of Himbeergeist left. Who wants it!? Me? Damn right!¡± He chugged the bottle, throwing it to the ground for effect when he was done. ¡°Fuck me what a night, right guys? Place actually felt alive for once!¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad you had fun, Ture.¡± ¡°Fuck, who said I had fun?¡± He snorted. ¡°Now I gotta do dishes. It¡¯s been fuck knows how long since I¡¯ve had to actually do dishes. And there were so many people ordering drinks I didn¡¯t have time to properly insult their choices. Because they were all shit choices. Who actually wants to spend a night drinking fucking Himbeergeist?!¡± ¡°I hope you intend to pick up that bottle.¡± Teresa glared. ¡°Yeah, yeah, fuck off.¡± He flipped her off casually. ¡°You idiots want anything before I absorb myself in the goddamn sink?¡± ¡°A water, thanks.¡± ¡°I think I could use a beer, thanks man.¡± ¡°Piss n¡¯ vinegar, comin¡¯ right up. He shambled back to the bar, where the drinks were stacked almost to the ceiling. The radio clicked off. And Juan stared absently at the door to the void for a moment too long.
He gasped. Coughing once, twice, and immediately he screamed. There was an explosion. Fire. Everything spinning. Heat like he had never before imagined. The horrible sting of steel as it drilled into his body. The feeling of his life¡­ ending. He had died. And yet, Charlie was back. Laying in a warm pool, machines latched onto his head. Holding him still like a vice. ¡°Look man I feel really bad. You weren¡¯t supposed to die, you really weren¡¯t. But turns out Silver Wheel is tricky about how they do shit, and¡­ well¡­ it was poorly planned on my part. My bad. You won your alive-ness and I¡¯m a woman of my word, so¡­ you¡¯re back.¡± He tried to stand up. The machines jostled from the effort. ¡°Whoa, whoa, slow down there champ. You need some time. This operation was very experimental, it¡¯s for this new¡­ thing we¡¯re planning. I didn¡¯t intend to use you as a guinea pig, but¡­ life gives you lemons, yadda yadda, blah blah.¡± ¡°...how?¡± He asked, his voice raspy and new. "Oh, it was fucking nothing. I just found a version of you in an alternate universe, some sad fuck with no life or family or whatever, stole him away, replaced his brain with yours. He¡¯s a bit skinnier, probably got some diseases or whatever, but we can fix those no problem.¡± He paused again. ¡°...why?¡± ¡°I told you, because you won-¡± ¡°-Bullshit.¡± He glared into the darkness. ¡°I know Bruno was skimming money. And I was selling inside information to HighMind. That¡¯s why you picked us for this sick game. You wanted us dead, so¡­ why bring me back?¡± "Heheh, was I that obvious?¡± His throat was sore from all that talking, so he made due with a glare into the darkness. ¡°Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But plans change. And now I have an offer for you.¡± ¡°...what.¡± ¡°Watching you work in the Silver Wheel was¡­ inspired. You broke that game at a glance and you made it fun to boot. I need that. I haven¡¯t gotten nearly as much data as I¡¯d like from that place, and I want someone I can trust to go back there and win a couple more games. You can bet with company assets, gamble for whatever you want, and keep whatever you win. Fashion yourself into whatever superhuman freak you fancy. All I want is to study the whole thing.¡± He paused. ¡°...what if I die again?¡± She laughed. ¡°Buddy¡­¡± She leaned forward. And for the first time since he¡¯d woken up, he could see her face, illuminated by the dull pink lights of his pool. ¡°...you have a lot of backups out there.¡± Round 5: Team Poker Iva didn¡¯t know this song. It was a little before her time, and she wasn¡¯t much of an audiophile, so she didn¡¯t make a habit of trying to listen to older music, which most people her age called ¡°foundational¡± or ¡°classic¡±. But she was enjoying it nonetheless, bobbing her head in rhythm with the synthetic beats as she sipped on her beer. Jake didn¡¯t know the song either. But he noticed the way she was moving to it, and scooched a little bit closer. The stools were squeaky, though, so she stopped and faced the noise. Of course, given that she was blind, she couldn¡¯t exactly ¡°look¡± at him, but she turned in his direction. ¡°You, uh¡­ know this song?¡± He asked to break the ice for the fourth time that night. ¡°Nope. I just like it.¡± ¡°Sounds old.¡± ¡°But good, right?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°It¡¯s called ¡®Running Up That Hill¡¯. Sung by Kate Bush in 1985.¡± The bartender leaned forward and flashed dangerously sharp teeth, ¡°And if you like it then you¡¯ve got a better taste in music than you do in drinks.¡± Jake had a Long Island Iced Tea, which he¡¯d been nursing for the past ten minutes. Iva, who had been here first, was on her¡­ second beer, maybe? There was only one empty glass in front of her, but she could have drunk any number earlier. He had no way to know. But it was, indeed, merely her second drink. She had only beaten him here by a few minutes, unbeknownst to him. ¡°...so¡­ you like the old songs?¡± Jake asked the bartender. ¡°Heh. Matter of fact, I do. I got all the classics here. You ever hear of Hollywood Rose?¡± Both Jake and Iva shook their heads no. ¡°Kids these days,¡± he snorted, ¡°In that case, I got a real treat for you. Hold on.¡± The music suddenly stopped. And after a few moments of silence, was replaced with heavy guitar riffs, accompanied by their bartender playing the air guitar with the aid of a tequila bottle. A high-pitched wailing voice exploded out of the speakers, prompting both guests to flinch and the bartender to shout. ¡°Killing Time, baby!¡±, although his enthusiastic head banging was soon put to an abrupt stop when a silver-haired woman held a tray of used glasses in front of his face, which he blindly headbutted. Glass broke, expletives followed, and the song came to an abrupt end. Replaced with blissful silence, sans pained grumbling as their bartender remained crouched behind the bar. ¡°...pardon me,¡± she finally said, ¡°but our guests looked a bit uncomfortable. Please try to mind their preferences when you select the music.¡± She turned to the guests in question. ¡°I do hope I wasn¡¯t overstepping my bounds.¡± ¡°Nope¡­ not at all.¡± Jake laughed awkwardly. ¡°Did you just smash glass into his face?!¡± Iva asked. ¡°Ow ow ow! Yes!¡± ¡°Of course not. I simply misplaced my tray and, since our bartender friend was swinging his head around blindly, it was an unfortunate accident the two happened to collide.¡± ¡°Fuck you!¡± ¡°Mind your language. The guests currently in the parlor will be wrapping up shortly, sir and ma¡¯am. You won¡¯t be left waiting much longer.¡± ¡°Thanks¡­¡± Jake waved as she went back through the door. Iva stared blankly ahead. ¡°...this place is weird,¡± She finally said. ¡°Yeah¡­¡± They knew, more or less, where they were. Teresa had dutifully informed them about this place and its nature not soon after Jake arrived. They were both confused, but it was a managed confusion. They could basically accept the premise of their situation, for the time being, and the idea was whimsical enough to even excite Iva, but they were still preoccupied with questions on how it would work¡­ or what they would even want to gamble. Iva had toyed with the obvious notion of trying to win the ability to see, but if this place worked the way she thought, well, that would mean depriving someone else of their sight, and given that she was a lot better equipped to deal with blindness than a stranger probably would be, she decided to shoot for something less devastating¡­ like possibly a third language. Her English wasn¡¯t perfect in the waking world (although for some reason here she found it came out much more naturally) but it would be fantastic to just instantly know how to communicate with a whole new group of people. She¡¯d love to learn¡­ German. Or Russian. Or maybe even Korean. Jake was a simpler creature. He wanted money. There was a lot you could do with it, and there wasn¡¯t a whole lot he wouldn¡¯t risk to make some. But between their confusion, their drinks, their brief and meaningless small talk, and the sudden interlude with the bartender (who had finally emerged from behind the bar, grumbling but letting ¡°Running Up That Hill¡± return to the radio), this smoky place hadn¡¯t really given them the opportunity to meditate on the subject. And while it was far from a lively place, it was about to get just a little bit more so. ¡°W-where am I?¡± Ture, Jake, and Iva turned to a new face at the door. A third person had joined them, a chubby, older woman with dirty blonde hair and an unusually large mole on the left side of her neck. She glanced around briefly, but her narrow eyes soon focused on the three people at the bar, and she took a tentative step forward. ¡°Um¡­ w-who are you?¡± ¡°...the hell¡­?¡± Ture¡¯s face scrunched up in confusion, ¡°Teresa, why are there three people here?!¡± ¡°Because the Silver Wheel is changing, Ture.¡± She replied briefly before turning to the woman and offering a stiff smile. ¡°Welcome to our humble gambling parlor, ma¡¯am. Would you like a drink?¡± ¡°G-gambling¡­ p-p-parlor?¡± ¡°Indeed. Allow me to introduce you. Here at the Silver Wheel, we allow people to gamble whatever they wish, be it your talents, your health, your past, or your possessions: so long as you own it, you can wager it. Juan, our dealer, will tell you more. In the meantime, would you like a drink?¡± She nodded slowly, and stepped to the bar. There was a free stool for her, although it creaked unhealthily as she eased her weight into it. ¡°Some¡­ w-wine, I think.¡± ¡°Wow, what an exciting and unique drink. You must be interesting and fun.¡± Ture dryly rolled his eyes as he pulled out a glass. The woman shrank away, but Iva grinned. ¡°He¡¯s an asshole, ignore him.¡± ¡°O-okay, w-who are you?¡± ¡°I guess I¡¯m your opponent tonight.¡± She lifted her mug, but slowly, and carefully. ¡°Cheers.¡± ¡°Are you b-blind?¡± ¡°I go by ¡®Iva¡¯, actually.¡± ¡°And, uh, I¡¯m Jake.¡± ¡°A-Avigail. G-good to m-meet you I g-guess. A-although I¡¯d still like to know w-what the hell is going on.¡± ¡°You and me both.¡± Jake sighed. ¡°But apparently there¡¯s already a game happening. This is the waiting room.¡± A glass of striking red wine was placed in front of the woman. She considered it suspiciously, but then took a long, greedy gulp. Some ran down the side of her face, and Jake watched her chug it with a wordless fascination. When the glass was empty, she finally put it down, and wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. ¡°S-so when they say y-you can gamble-¡± ¡°-We don¡¯t know.¡± Iva interrupted. ¡°We were told exactly the same thing.¡± ¡°And the bartender hasn¡¯t been very useful.¡± ¡°Not my job. I just serve drinks,¡± he replied, ¡°That said, lady, you want another glass or should I just give you the bottle?¡± She shrugged. ¡°S-sure. A-as long as it¡¯s free.¡± ¡°Hell, I can¡¯t remember the last time I got paid.¡± Ture placed the bottle in front of her with the satisfying ¡®thunk¡¯ of heavy glass on solid wood. She took it, and drank from the long neck without hesitation this time. ¡°...nervous?¡± Jake asked the newcomer. Avigail didn¡¯t answer. She closed her eyes as she chugged the bottle, even more trickling to her chin and dropping red onto the bar itself. ¡°Of course, a little bit.¡± Iva answered the question instead. Jake decided to roll with it. ¡°Me too. I¡¯ll feel a lot better once we¡­ you know, get the game started. I guess. Know what the stakes are.¡± ¡°I was thinking of betting for another language. What do you guys speak?¡± ¡°...uh¡­ just English, sorry.¡± ¡°I-I know some latin I¡¯d be willing to b-bet¡­ I.. think.¡± ¡°I just want money, m¡¯dudes. American college student here, shouldn¡¯t be much of a surprise.¡± ¡°European university student!¡± Iva raised her hand excitedly, ¡°We don¡¯t have to pay that shit!¡± ¡°Pssh, wanna bet for your admission then? Studying abroad is, like, the dream.¡± ¡°And go to your filthy American schools?¡± Avigail thought for a few seconds, seriously considering it. ¡°I-I really can¡¯t think o-of anything I-I¡¯d want to bet for. Money too, I-I guess. I¡¯m too old for anything exciting.¡± ¡°I go bouldering a lot.¡± Jake pointed out. ¡°That¡¯d be, like, kinda fun. Bouldering grandma.¡± ¡°A-are you sure?¡± Avigail¡¯s laugh was twenty years younger than the rest of her, and even infected Ture, ¡°A boy your age might d-die if he had to deal with these old wrists.¡± ¡°What do you, uh¡­ I don¡¯t get it.¡± ¡°She¡¯s talking about jerking off, buddy,¡± Iva tried to slap his back enthusiastically. Her aim was good enough, but her timing was less-than-perfect, and she wound up smacking his head into his drink. Whatever his response might have been was interrupted by a full minute of gagging. She continued to hammer his back in the meantime. As if it were helpful. ¡°...okay¡­ uh¡­ yeah, okay I¡¯m good now.¡± ¡°Nice. Glad to see you won¡¯t lose those lungs I might try to gamble you for.¡± ¡°...is¡­ uh¡­ is that a joke?¡± ¡°Moooving along, so, Jake and I are college kids, although I¡¯m better at it and probably cuter.¡± ¡°Y-you are.¡± ¡°Were you serious about the lung thing?¡± ¡°What about you, Avigail? I¡¯ve picked up some subtle hints in this conversation that you¡¯re a bit older than us. And you stutter a lot.¡± Honestly she found it kind of annoying but she wasn¡¯t going to say that much. ¡°Oh, y-yes. I¡¯m a g-grandmother actually. Only recently. S-still feels strange to say it out loud... b-but I¡¯m happy I was able to turn my son into something s-someone was willing to t-take off my hands. R-raising a boy is like g-getting a h-house¡­ it¡¯s all a-about the resale value¡­¡± ¡°Word.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll drink to that.¡± They didn¡¯t get the chance to toast, because the door to the parlor finally opened. Everyone sans Iva glanced over to see a middle-aged woman storming out of the parlor, moving so briskly they assumed she might throw herself into the door before she had the chance to open it. But she stopped just shy of it, eyes clenched shut while she rested her forehead against the wooden exit. She was soon followed by a young latin man, who was wearing the same outfit as Ture. Another employee, it seemed. ¡°Are you okay?¡± It sounded like he really wanted to know. A sincerity that didn¡¯t match the professional detachment his outfit so strongly implied. ¡°That was impossible.¡± This woman, tall and dark and beautiful, had a sadness to her voice that went beyond tears or wailing. It was defeated, it was hopeless, it was a weary but newfound nihilism that could leave a soul dead even when the body still breathed. It seeped through the room far more violently than Avigail¡¯s earlier laugh. ¡°Did I do something wrong? Is this... a punishment? ¡°No, I swear it¡¯s just¡­ it¡¯s just supposed to be a game.¡± ¡°He said he¡¯d let me win, Juan. He promised. Isn¡¯t that¡­¡± ¡°...no, it¡¯s not.¡± Juan shook his head sadly. ¡°It¡¯s just a bluff. And¡­ you fell for it.¡± ¡°I¡­ but I¡­¡± Teresa was suddenly at her side. No one was quite sure how she had gotten there, but if she had been there the whole time no one would have been surprised either. It¡¯s only just now her presence was known, when she placed a reassuring hand on the woman¡¯s back. ¡°Please. Do not cry...¡± She then opened the door with her other hand and pushed the woman out. ¡°...the other guests have been waiting long enough.¡± She continued, brushing her hands clean while everyone, even Juan, looked on with mild shock shock. ¡°Wonderful news. It seems it¡¯s time for your game, ladies and gentlemen.¡± Ture was chuckling. Iva took a long drink, then placed her glass down. ¡°...so what the hell just happened?¡± ¡°I was escorting our earlier player out, pay it no mind.¡± Teresa bowed, before stepping up to take Iva by the hand, ushering her to stand. ¡°I apologize for the wait, but we¡¯re ready for you now. Please take a seat at the table. All of you.¡± That last part was directed towards Juan. He had gotten over his shock and had turned it into something akin to a begrudged determination, and stomped in ahead of everyone else. They could hear him saying something, just shy of shouting it, from the other side of the door. It gave them reason to pause, but Teresa was already guiding Iva to the door, and the other two, sharing a glance, followed suit. The door was opened. And they could clearly hear the heated exchange between two men. ¡°-here. I¡¯m still a guest.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care anymore. You had no reason to torment her like that. I¡¯m running out of¡­¡± Juan stopped as they stepped inside. The man he was speaking to merely sighed, and took a quick sip from an expensive-looking glass of expensive-looking water. ¡°Hey! Haha, sorry¡­ sorry about all this, we¡¯re just¡­ having an exciting time here tonight! Woo! Haha¡­ welcome, uh, to the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure.¡± A cool, dispassionate voice joined the joyful cheer of the well-dressed dealer. ¡°My name is Charlie, and I¡¯ll be your opponent this evening.¡± Jake and Avigail were throttled by the sight of the table. A scrawny, red-haired man took up all of one side, his drink in front of him, and an enormous panoply of chips at both his sides: a number that defied counting, let alone estimation, in a whole rainbow¡¯s worth of colors. If he weren¡¯t such a skinny-looking businessman sort, he would have the appearance of a dragon jealousy looming over his horde of stolen gold. Juan gestured them over as Iva sat down, immune as she was to that particular kind of intimidation. She sat on the other end of the table, to Charlie¡¯s right. Jake sat next to her, directly opposite of Charle.. And Avigail took her seat next to him, to Charlie¡¯s left. ¡°Hey, don¡¯t worry about it, guys. He¡¯s on a winning streak but it¡¯s due to end.¡± ¡°...I-I think this is a-a bad i-idea¡­¡± Avigail muttered, although Jake held his own tongue for a few moments longer. ¡°...let¡¯s¡­ see what the deal is first. And assume he won¡¯t just¡­ let us win.¡± He cast a glance at Iva, who was still bobbing her head to the music. ¡°Uh, Iva, so you know, our opponent has¡­ like, a shit ton of chips.¡± ¡°What¡¯s a ¡®shit ton¡¯, exactly?¡± She asked fearlessly. ¡°A w-whole l-lot.¡± ¡°You needn''t worry about the pile,¡± Charlie spoke in a professional and unemotional drawl. ¡°Almost all of these chips will have no bearing on our game today. All I will be using to bet is this pile in front of me.¡± He gestured to three small stacks of chips, which were a blinding, metallic golden color. There appeared to be about thirty total. ¡°I think it would be more productive if I told them how the Silver Wheel Gambling House works before we get into that, Charlie.¡± Juan¡¯s voice was impossibly chipper until that last word, which was caked in irritation and audibly sharp. ¡°And that¡¯s my job!¡± ¡°Does it really matter who tells them?¡± Charlie sighed, either oblivious or immune to the daggers in the dealer¡¯s tone. ¡°Yep, it does! Anyway. As I¡¯m sure Teresa told you, this is a mysterious, magical place where you can gamble anything -- not just money. As long as you own it, we can turn it into chips, and you can wager them against¡­ well¡­ I guess just Charlie this time. Once everyone agrees that they want to gamble, and we get the chips ready, I¡¯ll tell you the game we¡¯ll be playing.¡± ¡°Of course, just because this is a magical place doesn¡¯t mean we don¡¯t have laws. For one, all parties have to agree their wagers are fair before we begin. Secondly, every game is all-or-nothing: if you leave the table before the game is over, you give up all your chips to your opponent. And finally, if you¡¯re caught cheating, you automatically lose. Sound good?¡± Jake and Avigail looked at each other. Their curiosity was sated but their anxiety wasn¡¯t. Whoever this Charlie was, he had clearly won his last game, and he must have won quite a few before that as well, to have so many chips in his treasury. ¡°...so¡­ what will you be wagering, uh... Charlie?¡± Jake asked. ¡°As I said, I¡¯ll be wagering these gold chips.¡± He reported very matter-of-factly. ¡°Each chip is worth a .5% share of Walker Horizons, the company I work for. Since there are three of you, you¡¯d each get a stack of ten if you win, which would be a 5% share, each.¡± He took a sip of water, and folded his hands in front of him. It looked -- and sounded -- terrible rehearsed. As if he had done this many, many times already, and wasn¡¯t so much talking to them as he was talking at their end of the table. ¡°In which case, each one of you would be worth 51.3 billion USD.¡± There reaches a point where a number becomes so absurd, so unbelievable, that it simply stops being stunning. So when the value of the chips was revealed, Iva could only scoff, Jake let out an awkward, disbelieving laugh, while Avigail took a long, quiet drink from the bottle she¡¯d brought with her. That was a sum of money none of them could have ever imagined getting, and thus had never even considered what they¡¯d have done with half that much, let alone the full, promised sum. Even Jake, who had come into this hoping to earn a buck, found a number that large ludicous. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ a lot better than learning Latin,¡± Iva snorted, ¡°but we have to agree the wager is fair, right? There¡¯s nothing I have that¡¯s worth¡­ that.¡± ¡°Nonsense.¡± Charlie actually smiled, although it was frozen and wholly evil. ¡°Money like that doesn¡¯t mean much to me. That said, there are three very specific things I want from you all, and I will only play with you if you wager them.¡± ¡°What?¡± Avigail pressed. He pointed to Avigail. ¡°Your dreams.¡± He pointed to Jake. ¡°Your childhood.¡± He pointed to Iva. ¡°And¡­ your legs.¡± For Jake and Avigail, the abstract nature of their wager was genuinely confusing, and they needed to process what had been requested of them. Iva, on the other hand, had a far more straightforward bet, and was able to say what the other two had been trying to think. ¡°What? How would that even work?¡± ¡°I have no idea,¡± he shrugged, ¡°but I¡¯m interested to find out.¡± ¡°So we¡¯re your guinea pigs.¡± ¡°Call it what you want. It¡¯ll be worth over fifty billion if you win. You¡¯ll never want for anything.¡± ¡°But if we lose we¡¯ll be¡­ fucked up.¡± Jake cringed. ¡°A-and i-it looks l-like y-you do a l-lot of w-winning¡­¡± ¡°Then don¡¯t play. But then you¡¯ll have to live with the fact you lost your only chance to ever make that much money.¡± ¡°No, you won¡¯t, your memory is erased when you leave.¡± Juan interjected in with a grin. Charlie rolled his eyes. ¡°...all the same. Fifty billion will change your life beyond your wildest dreams. And like I said: this will be your only chance. Walk away at your own risk.¡± Avigail turned to Juan first. ¡°How will he t-take my¡­ dreams? If he wins?¡± ¡°The Silver Wheel is responsible for making sure the winner gets their due, and they always do. I¡¯m afraid I can¡¯t tell you more than that.¡± There was a lot to chew on, and a lot to consider. Each of the three players opposite Charlie was forced to give a monetary worth to things they had never tried to value before. Avigail wasn¡¯t the world¡¯s biggest dreamer: she was old, and she was tired, but she, like almost everyone, couldn¡¯t keep her mind on a tight enough leash to keep it from wandering. And all-too-often, her brain took her places she wished she could go, realities that would never be, and she could feel a catharsis and ease that only bold escapism could afford her. She couldn¡¯t imagine getting by without it¡­ but¡­ if she could get over fifty billion¡­ she wouldn¡¯t have to dream. She could go to all the places and do all the things her imagination had taken her over the years. And she could secure that same joy for everyone in her life, especially her new granddaughter. In that respect¡­ it almost felt like it would be selfish not to take this risk. Jake had always wanted money. But his childhood was more than just memories of better days: they were the moments that made up who he was, the man he had become. If he lost that, what would he turn into? Who would he lose forever? And was it right to give up the memories nothing could ever let you recapture? Childhood is once, and once only -- even fifty billion dollars wouldn¡¯t get it back again¡­ but¡­ fifty billion dollars. Billion. Everyone had a childhood. But the number of people who had billions at their disposal¡­ that was an elite group. And one he yearned to join more than anything else. Iva had to work a long time to accept her blindness. It didn¡¯t come easy and it didn¡¯t feel right for a long time, but she was eventually able to find pride, or something adjacent to it, in her ability to manage her blindness and live a full life with it, as well as celebrate all the ways it made her experience unique. She had found a community in her disability, and she didn¡¯t even like calling it that anymore. But she wasn¡¯t sure she was ready to fight that fight again. To be blind and to lose your legs¡­ her world would grow so much smaller. So impossibly tiny she could barely imagine it. She¡¯d be a burden to the people around her. She¡¯d be restricted in so many unthinkable ways. And she¡¯d have to deal with the fact that for the rest of her life she¡¯d be known as the girl who was double-fucked by life by people who couldn¡¯t see past her disabilities¡­. but¡­ think of all the change she could bring to the world with fifty billion. She could cure diseases, she could save forests, she could raise awareness of blindness and the disabled. Hell: she could buy new eyes if she wanted. Losing her legs would make the world small, but five billion would make her world so much bigger¡­ and the planet so much better. How could she refuse that? Avigail and Jake looked at each other, noticed the resolve, and nodded soberly. ¡°...I w-wager my dreams.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll bet my childhood.¡± Iva grinned. ¡°And my sexy legs.¡± As they spoke, chips were at their side, as if they had always been there. Avigail¡¯s were a deep, dreamy shade of purple. Jake¡¯s were a playful shade of baby-boy blue. And Iva¡¯s were a floral pink. Charlie nodded, pushing forward the thirty golden chips. And the object of their match. ¡°Then, if all parties are agreed,¡± Juan¡¯s face flickered with both forced optimism and irrepressible fear, ¡°...the game is team poker.¡± ¡°Poker, of course, is typically a game played by yourself,¡± Juan stated as he slammed a deck of cards on the table with shocking authority, ¡°but given that Charlie has an unusual number of opponents, we¡¯ll be playing a variation unique to the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°At the top of the round, you¡¯ll each ante your chips into the pot. Once the antes are in, I¡¯ll deal you each five cards, as in five-card poker. And like in normal poker, the goal for each of you is to create the best five-card hand -- Iva, Jake, and Avigail will be working together to do that, and they can swap any number of cards between themselves as long as they each only have five cards total. Obviously, Charlie will be trying to make the best five-card hand as well, although he¡¯ll be going it alone.¡± ¡°Here¡¯s where things get really different, though: unlike normal poker, the winner of the round won¡¯t merely go to has the best hand. Rather, each hand will be scored accordingly: Once you¡¯ve put together your hands and presented them, all the points will be added up. Iva, Jake, and Avigail will be trying to get as many points as possible. Charlie will be doing the same, although his hand is worth three times as many points. If he outscores you three, then he wins, otherwise, you guys will. Of course, even earning three times the points, this game would be outrageously unfair to our friend Charlie, which is why he¡¯ll have a few advantages to help even out the playing field.¡± ¡°First, in normal five-card draw, you can discard and replace up to three cards, or four if one of them is an Ace, during the draw phase. However, Charlie can throw away up to five cards and draw from scratch no matter what he''s holding. Alternatively, Iva, Jake, and Avigail will be stuck with the hands they¡¯re dealt.¡± ¡°Secondly, during the draw phrase, Charlie can take one card from one of your hands to replace one of his cards. He cannot see what it is before it¡¯s taken, obviously, but he can choose which card to discard in his own hand once he has it. And don¡¯t worry: the person whose card is taken will get a replacement card, so we¡¯re all playing with full hands.¡± ¡°Finally, he is the only one who can bet or raise. Charlie will always have to wager in integers of three, and you three must all match his full wager. So if he bets three, you all bet three each. This applies to the ante as well, which for this game defaults to three chips each.¡± ¡°In any case, once everyone is satisfied with their hands, we''ll compare hands, count points, the winner will take their due, and we¡¯ll continue until one side or the other has all the chips. Any questions?¡± Iva raised her hand unnecessarily. ¡°Will the cards have braille on them?¡± Juan laughed. ¡°Of course!¡± Avigail didn¡¯t have questions, but she did have concerns. Specifically with the second rule: that Charlie could take one card from any of their hands. One card between fifteen might not seem like a big deal, and it wouldn¡¯t be¡­ if it were truly random. But the process of switching cards between hands was not a subtle one, and in doing so, if Charlie had half a brain, all he would have to do is steal one of the switched cards and he could sabotage at least one of them fairly easily. After all, making his own hand better by stealing a card would be nearly impossible, but ensuring one of their hands was worthless... that was a significantly more viable strategy. Iva would make things all the more challenging. Since she was blind, she¡¯d either need to trust that they were giving and taking the optimal cards, or she¡¯d need to scan all their hands one at a time. And if her poker face wasn¡¯t perfect, Charlie could probably get a read on which of their cards were the most important just by watching her face move. There was no doubt the game was heavily in their favor, but considering everything they were risking, she didn¡¯t want to go in without a plan. ¡°I have a question.¡± Jake raised his hand unnecessarily, too. ¡°Can we use the bar to plan our strategy? So Charlie can¡¯t hear us, I mean.¡± ¡°A fantastic idea,¡± Juan beamed, ¡°I¡¯ll deal the first hand and then you three can go and plot. Let me know if you ever want to do it again, but don¡¯t do it too often! We¡¯ll have other guests we need to serve before long.¡± ¡°Yeah. ¡°P-perfect.¡± ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°And, if there¡¯s nothing else...¡± Juan grabbed the deck and started to shuffle, the cards moving like liquid as they passed between his skilled hands, ¡°...It¡¯s time for your ante!¡± Charlie threw three of those tantalizingly gold chips into the pot. They seemed to shimmer in the dull light of the room. Purple, blue, and pink chips, three each, were thrown in soon afterwards: twelve chips in total, in an unorganized pile. And then Juan started to deal.
Ture was smiling as he poured the group three beers. It was smug, and it was sadistic, but it was also silent, which all three of them appreciated. In the other room, Charlie and Juan were waiting, while ¡°Carry On My Wayward Son¡± played in the background, sung by Kansas. The three other players, flush with excitement and trepidation, were in a huddle despite the promise the room was soundproof. ¡°W-we need a p-plan to communicate,¡± Avigail started, ¡°We obviously can¡¯t tell each other our cards, and w-with Iva, w-we can¡¯t exactly just show them to each other either. W-we could even reveal i-important information j-just by switching cards.¡± ¡°Could we come in here every time to do the swap?¡± Iva asked. ¡°...I don¡¯t think so.¡± Jake frowned. ¡°It¡¯d take too long.¡± ¡°We could just let Iva feel our cards, but s-she has t-to have a good poker face,¡± Avigail stated plainly. ¡°I-if she gets visibly excited or reveals any k-kind of tick while looking at c-cards-¡± ¡°-Then Charlie will take it,¡± Iva said at the same time. ¡°That¡¯s fair. But I don¡¯t even know how to play poker. I can¡¯t get excited about a card if I don¡¯t know if it¡¯s good or not.¡± ¡°Uh¡­ not for nothin¡¯, Iva, but if you don¡¯t play poker do you even need to feel our cards? We could just tell you what to give us and what we¡¯re giving you¡­ like with a whisper or whatever.¡± Iva actually huffed. ¡°I¡¯m betting my legs on this, I¡¯m not going to trust you guys blindly, pun kind of intended. I have a reference card, I¡¯ll check your hands first, then I¡¯ll check the reference card so I can¡¯t give anything away.¡± ¡°B-but Jake¡¯s not w-wrong. W-we can still w-whisper to p-plan our hands, b-but we still need a way to m-make sure Charlie c-can¡¯t see w-what we swap.¡± ¡°...under the table?¡± ¡°Clearly you¡¯ve never been to a c-casino. T-they don¡¯t c-care for people h-hiding their cards for any r-reason. I don¡¯t think this place will be d-different.¡± ¡°...you sound like you know whatcha doin¡¯.¡± ¡°I-I wouldn¡¯t call myself a c-card shark¡­ b-but I am a fan of the game.¡± ¡°So what do we do, then?¡± The three of them thought, their united concentration sparking electricity between them as they felt the combined pressure of time and a need to win. ¡°Shuffle our hands!¡± Jake said first in a ¡°oh duh¡± kind of tone. ¡°Do we r-really want to b-bet he can¡¯t keep track of cards with his eyes?¡± He bit his lip. Iva raised her hand. ¡°Y-you really don¡¯t have to d-do that.¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t we just combine our hands into fifteen cards, organize them, then hand out three full five-card hands? We¡¯d have to organize the bad cards exactly like we organize the good ones, and it would tell him nothing.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not bad.¡± Jake grinned. ¡°But who¡¯d do the shuffling?¡± ¡°Y-you¡¯re sitting in the middle. C-can you do it?¡± ¡°Lotta pressure. But I can try.¡± ¡°J-just make sure y-you keep a s-straight face and g-give bad cards j-just as much thought as g-good ones. Sound good?¡± ¡°Sure.¡± ¡°Fine by me.¡± ¡°Then let¡¯s not keep them waiting.¡± They returned to the table, and sat in the same formation opposite Charlie and his indecipherable frown. Jake was in the middle, Avigail was to his left, and Iva was at his right. Avigail and Jake had kept their hands face-down on the table, but Iva had never played poker before and couldn¡¯t even grip the cards well. So she had a plastic stand that could hold her cards up, allowing her to brush her fingers smoothly from one side to the other to see what was in her hand. She also had a sixth card on the table: her reference sheet in braille, listing the value of hands. But without consulting it first, she reached over and grazed her fingers over her companion¡¯s cards, reading what they had available: Avigail had a three of hearts, a five of hearts, a Queen of spades, a six of spades, and nine of clubs. Jake had a nine of hearts, a two of clubs, a ten of spades, a seven of clubs, and a three of diamonds. And she herself, on the far right, had a two of diamonds, an Ace of spades, a nine of diamonds, an Ace of clubs, and a Queen of clubs. ¡°I wanna whisper.¡± Iva announced abruptly. ¡°Jake lean into my face.¡± Jake did as he was told, and made it clear she knew where his ear was so she could whisper into it. ¡°So what do we do?¡± ¡°Avvy¡¯s thinking. We got a lotta choices. I think.¡± Avigail joined the huddle. ¡°...I think we go with the f-full house rather than the straight. If he takes even one card from the straight, the hand will b-be useless, b-but taking o-one card from a f-full house will l-leave us with three of a k-kind or two p-pair. It''s worth more points too.¡± ¡°Got it.¡± ¡°If you say so.¡± ¡°P-put the nines and aces together. Twos and threes in one hand, and the two queens in the third. D-do it slowly. Take your time.¡± "Whatever you say, boss.¡± The three of them collapsed their hands, then put them into one large pile in front of Jake, which prompted an eyebrow raise from Juan, as well as a snort from Ture, who had stepped away from the bar to watch them play. Jake inexpertly but effectively shuffled the small deck, then started slowly sorting through them, doing his best to keep his face neutral. This left the other two with little else to do but wait. Still, this first draw filled Avigail with a sense of certainty she desperately needed from the moment she placed her hands upon her chips. When she had grasped them, she had felt this white and dim but noticeable static tugging at the corners of her head and heart. She knew this¡­ staticness was the source of her dreams, and she felt its absence painfully when she put her chips in the center of the table. She did not relish this experience, the threat of losing something so foundational to who she was that she could have never imagined it would ever be at risk... but if this was what their average hand looked like¡­ it seemed very unlikely that Charlie would have any hope of beating them. And that made stomaching the separation a bit easier, confident as she was that the three of them had the odds they needed to win. Still. Good hand or not, it was up to Charlie to bet or fold. And their opponent did not take that decision lightly, examining all three of them in equal measure as five new hands were placed in front of each of them, which they each picked up and examined carefully. Jake had given Avigail the full house, two Aces and three nines. He had given himself the two pair: the two threes, two twos, and one useless seven of clubs. And Iva, either due to randomness or inexperience, got the two Queens and the useless ten of spades, five of hearts, and six of spades. Iva was double-checking the rules, and had a bluffed smile as she scanned the hand rankings. Jake kept his face relaxed, holding his hand between loose fingers, his cards unevenly jutted out. Avigail made a point to keep her hand as flat and uniform as possible, but occasionally glanced at her comrades¡¯ hands, making sure she wasn¡¯t missing some better hand or combination.Stolen story; please report. Charlie¡¯s fingers strummed across the table. The tempo was consistent, but slow and asynchronous with the music streaming in from the other room, which was now Weezer¡¯s ¡°Island in the Sun¡±. His eyes ricocheted between his chips, his hand, and the three people opposite him. And after twenty seconds of intense thought, he suddenly stopped strumming his fingers and grabbed six chips, throwing them into the pot with noticeable aplomb. The sheer bravado on display gave Avigail, at least, some pause. ¡°Charlie bets six chips.¡± Juan announced for Iva¡¯s benefit. She whistled appropriately. ¡°Someone¡¯s awful confident, huh?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t really care for banter,¡± Charlie sighed. ¡°If you must, keep it between yourselves.¡± ¡°Someone¡¯s an asshole, huh?¡± She amended her statement, but it failed to provoke a reaction. Her smile, however, noticeably wavered, and everyone threw their chips in without another word. They were one round in and the pot was already noticeably full: everyone had put in nine chips already, meaning it was a respectable thirty-six chips full. ¡°Charlie, if you don¡¯t plan to raise, now¡¯s the time to take a card, if you¡¯d like.¡± ¡°H-here we go¡­¡± This time, Charlie didn¡¯t pause nearly as long. He reached out to Avigail¡¯s hand, grabbed her first card, the one to the far left, and pulled it back, throwing one of his other cards aside to keep his hand at an even five. The card was replaced, by Juan, with a four of spades, which he handed to Avigail almost apologetically. ¡°That¡¯s all.¡± It was one thing for Charlie to have completely ruined their strategy in a moment. That alone would have left Avigail and Jake baffled and struggling to keep composure. But for him to have so unceremoniously grabbed the nine of hearts, thus robbing them of their full house, that was what really knocked the wind out of their sails. Their expressions dropped, and they were left looking at their combined hands searching for something they might have missed that would soften the blow. ¡°...Jake, what did he take?¡± ¡°The nine of hearts.¡± "Fuck. But she¡¯s still got two pair, right?¡± ¡°...yeah.¡± It was a devastating blow: a full house was worth a whopping six points, while two pair was worth only two. Still, both she and Jake had two pair, and with Iva¡¯s pair, they had a solid five points. Not bad by any measure. ¡°Do you want to raise, Charlie?¡± Charlie shook his head in a brisk and callous way. It seemed it was impossible for him to do anything without it coming off as demeaning. ¡°Alright! In that case, Charlie, go ahead and reveal your hand.¡± ¡°Of course.¡± He matter-of-factly sighed, and dropped his five cards. The stolen nine of hearts. A nine of spades. A seven of spades. A seven of hearts. And an king of diamonds. Two pair. Normally worth only two points, but since his points were tripled¡­ six points. One point higher than their combined five. If he had taken a card from any other hand¡­ hell, if he had taken one of the aces¡­ they would have won. From a purely statistical standpoint, once the cards were drawn he only had a one in five chance of winning that hand. And yet, he had done it. He had done it with the confidence and assuredness of a man who had known he was going to win from the beginning. And that was what burnt a noxious hole of hatred and stress in Jake¡¯s stomach. ¡°Charlie has two pair, or six points, while our heroes have¡­¡± He audibly sighed. ¡°...five points. Three good hands, but not good enough, I¡¯m afraid. Charlie wins the first round. Please allow me to shuffle for the second round.¡± Jake pulled Iva in for an improvised team huddle. ¡°How did he do that?!¡± Jake whispered in an uncharacteristic panic. ¡°Did he cheat?! Did you see him cheating?!¡± ¡°I-I didn¡¯t see anything. It m-might have been luck.¡± ¡°Luck?¡± ¡°Keep an eye out and l-let¡¯s not call any bets. We need to be sure.¡± ¡°Alright¡­¡± ¡°How am I supposed to keep an eye out?!¡± But by now, Avigail had already returned to her hand. Jake blinked. ¡°...I dunno. Listen real hard I guess?¡± She didn¡¯t justify that with an answer, but after several seconds of dry glaring she returned to her seat. But Jake and Avigail would notice, somewhat to their surprise, that Charlie hadn¡¯t yet raked in his winnings. Rather, he had been sitting quietly, his eyes trained upon them with a sort of scientific patience. It was only when their attention wasn¡¯t divided by their whispers that he put his hand upon the pot and dragged it in, and revealed why he had been waiting to claim his due. He wanted to see how they¡¯d react to what happened next. Avigail shuddered as her brain felt entire chunks of itself get torn out. Not physical chunks, but the ethereal yet tangible essence of her consciousness. It wasn¡¯t painful in the physical sense, but it was petrifying to feel something so essential to what you are simply vanish in a way that shouldn¡¯t be possible. It left her dazed, her face glazed over as she tried vainly to comprehend exactly what it was that had actually been taken from her. Jake and Iva were far more straightforward. Jake¡¯s expression crossed with concern and focus as he realized an enormous chunk of his memory had suddenly vanished. A swath of his history had just been lifted from his mind, and there was nothing but a fuzzy haze to fill its place. He crossed his eyes as he tried to grasp at what had been lost, but no amount of concentration could will it back into existence. Iva wailed as she felt physical chunks of her legs just¡­ melt away. Everyone else could see her legs were still there, perfectly intact, but she couldn¡¯t feel them anymore. As with the others, it wasn¡¯t painful in the physical sense, but there was a psychological shock that couldn¡¯t be dismissed when you could feel muscles, tendons, and fat just phase off your body, even if your legs still seemed in one piece. She tried to stand up on instinct, but she stumbled immediately, her balance and her support undermined by what was lost. ¡°T-this was a mistake.¡± Iva began to sweat as she felt her legs shake in their effort to keep her standing. She had to lean on the table. ¡°Can we quit? Please. I don¡¯t want to play anymore.¡± ¡°As Juan explained, once you agree to the game, the only way to quit is to forfeit,¡± Charlie started with the same enthusiasm and energy of a complacent bureaucrat. ¡°If you want to keep your legs, your only option is to play.¡± ¡°...you son of a bitch.¡± Iva hissed, tensing up as if to pounce, but Jake put a hand on her shoulder. ¡°He¡¯s just trying to psych us out. Don¡¯t tilt on me man.¡± ¡°It¡¯s w-working.¡± Avigail muttered. ¡°I feel wrong, guys. I-I really don¡¯t like this.¡± ¡°Just breathe, okay? We can get back what we lost in our next hand¡­¡± That was easy to say. But it was hard to believe. The world doesn¡¯t so easily correct itself with a few uplifting words when it¡¯s been shaken so harshly, and Jake knew it. But it was all the group had right now. That, and a new hand being passed to them by Juan. A new hand, a new opportunity. A new opportunity they¡¯d all have to pay for with three chips each. ¡°Would any of you care for a refreshment?¡± Teresa asked as the face-down cards piled before them. Avigail answered by handing over the empty bottle of wine and muttering for another. Charlie tapped on the side of his empty glass. Iva and Jake shook their heads. Then, the cards were revealed. Avigail had a Queen of hearts, a King of Hearts, a four of diamonds, a four of clubs, and a nine of diamonds. Jake had a four of hearts, a seven of clubs, an eight of hearts, a Jack of diamonds, and a ten of clubs. And finally, Iva had a King of diamonds, a six of clubs, a two of diamonds, a nine of spades, and a King of clubs. At first glance, it was a far, far better hand than their last draw. And the three of them felt a small surge of hope, which was fortunately mild enough to barely register on Jake and Avigail¡¯s faces. Iva, on the other hand, remained unaware until Jake pulled her into the huddle. ¡°Another full house!¡± ¡°A-and a possible s-straight.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the one where they¡¯re all the same color, right?¡± ¡°T-that¡¯s a flush. A-although looking at our hands again¡­ we have that, too. B-but the s-straight and flush would be dangerous t-to use. If he even took o-one, we¡¯d h-have a useless hand.¡± ¡°But what choice do we have¡­?¡± Avigail had to think, because the more she looked at these cards, the less exciting they actually became. They had two three-of-a-kind, but only one pair. And worse, it was a pair of nines, and they would need at least one of those for the straight. But if they used the three fours to flesh out the three kings, they would gain a full house, but lose a three-of-a-kind. Iva, fortunately, was good at mental math, and while scanning her reference sheet with her fingers, chimed in. ¡°A full house and three-of-a-kind is just nine points. Five again if we get unlucky and he takes another king. But a straight and a full house, or a straight and two three-of-a-kinds would be worth ten.¡± She muttered more math under her breath. ¡°In either of those cases, the lowest score we could possibly get is six. We have to use the straight.¡± ¡°T-then we do the straight and full house combo. That way o-one hand will be useless and safe. So Jake-¡± ¡°-Got it.¡± He flashed her a confident smile, which reassured her in its lameness. The three spread out, and put their cards in a big pile in the middle. Charlie watched with a mild aloofness as the cards were tossed about like a salad, and reconstructed into three hands once again. Avigail got the useless hand, the four of clubs, nine of spades, Queen of hearts, Jack of diamonds, and two of diamonds. Jake gave himself the full house, with the two fours and three kings. And that meant Iva got the six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. Their drinks were placed in front of them. ¡°Just the way you are¡± started playing on the radio. Avigail bit her lip as the anticipation of the moment crawled up her spine: apprehension, she figured, was a safe emotion to express¡­ even with a good hand, a game with stakes like these would make anyone nervous. Jake held his cards unevenly with one hand, strumming with the other. And Iva bobbed her head left and right with the music, perhaps a bit too forced, and continued checking card rankings with her fingers. She didn¡¯t have much else to do with them. ¡°Any bets, Charlie?¡± The man twitched. Although knowing exactly what part of him did it seemed a bit beyond them. It happened across his whole body, and yet didn¡¯t seem to happen at all. As if he were a mirage that flickered for that brief, telltale moment as it was approached. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Are you folding?¡± Juan asked with an extremely unprofessional tone of hope. This, more than anything else thus far, seemed to actually irritate Charlie. ¡°...no.¡± ¡°H-heh, I-I guess that would have been too l-lucky¡­¡± Charlie ignored her as he reached out towards Jake. He took the fifth card in Jake¡¯s hand, the one on the far right, which was one of the kings. He replaced one of his own cards with the stolen one, and made no other changes to his hand. Jake¡¯s four-card hand was filled with a five of spades. Once again, their full house was down to two pair. But their straight¡­ their straight was untouched. Their combined hand was still worth six points. ¡°...are you folding now?¡± ¡°No. In fact¡­¡± He threw three more golden chips into the pot. They clattered, and Iva¡¯s ears perked up, recognizing that something had happened. But she wouldn¡¯t know exactly how big the pot had gotten until Juan narrated. ¡°He¡­ bets three. Do you call?¡± Jake swallowed hard. Iva started breathing hard. And Avigail took a long drink from her bottle of wine.
` ¡°H-he¡¯s cheating. He has to be c-cheating.¡± Ture wasn¡¯t at the bar, and it was clear he had left in a hurry to enjoy watching the game. Glasses were left half-washed, one of the taps of beer was still dripping amber onto the floor, a half-peeled lime was leaning against a small knife, and a few bottles of liquor weren¡¯t put away properly. In the end, they had folded. But in a show of pure ambivalence to their collective struggle, Charlie had tossed down his hand face-up, revealing his nine-to-king straight, a hand that would have been useless if he hadn¡¯t beaten the one-in-five odds, again, to draw the exact right card he needed. They had made the right call in folding, but it was hard to feel good about that: not when they had lost twice in a row in the most important game of their lives. ¡°But how?¡± Iva asked. She was drinking a beer that was mostly head while seated on one of the stools. Avigail had helped her sit down, while Jake had poured her drink. ¡°I-I don¡¯t fucking know.¡± ¡°There aren¡¯t any mirrors or anything in the bar.¡± Jake chewed his forefinger thoughtfully. ¡°And we saw Juan take out a fresh deck, so it couldn¡¯t be, like, marked, could it?¡± ¡°Juan seems really keen on us winning...¡± Iva muttered. ¡°Maybe, like¡­ I mean, we¡¯re in a magical dream casino, right? Maybe he¡¯s the devil.¡± Avigail stared blankly at the door to the void. Iva took a drink, and broke the silence after she swallowed. ¡°Heavy.¡± ¡°H-he¡¯s not the devil. Y-you don¡¯t think the devil works for Walker Horizons, do you?¡± The two others had to think for a little bit. ¡°...maybe?¡± ¡°That, or Amazon.¡± ¡°T-the devil doesn¡¯t exist he¡¯s not the devil he¡¯s just cheating!¡± ¡°But¡­ how?¡± ¡°Does it matter?! If we just tell Juan-¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid it does matter.¡± Teresa walked forward from the one corner neither Jake nor Avigail had been looking at. The two jumped, but Iva was more or less used to voices spontaneously appearing, so she didn¡¯t visibly react. ¡°It would be easy to claim your opponent is cheating, but if you cannot prove it, we cannot disqualify them. And I¡¯m afraid that random accusations will be ignored, even if you do happen to stumble into the correct method.¡± Avigail looked at the waitress with an acute scrutiny. ¡°...so you know he¡¯s cheating?¡± But Teresa said nothing, and her face remained as still and cold as stone. ¡°D-dammit. P-process of elimination people, w-what could he be doing?¡± ¡°We already said it can¡¯t be marked cards¡­ or a reflection¡­¡± ¡°...wait a minute. Wait.¡± Iva put down her mug. ¡°Ture, that asshole bartender, he was surprised when Avigail walked in. There¡¯s an abnormal number of people here, right Teresa?¡± ¡°The Silver Wheel has traditionally hosted two-people games, yes.¡± ¡°And Walker Horizons¡­¡± She continued, ¡°They¡¯re that company that deals with alternate realities and dimensional travel and shit. And Juan was yelling at Charlie for how long he had been here and shit before the game. Guys. Guys.¡± She had grown pale as she continued talking. And she had started to shake. From the tips of her fingers which still grasped her ale, to the bottom of her nearly half-missing legs. ¡°One of us is a mole.¡± The accusation fell onto their shoulders like a bolt from the heavens. It was blinding in the clarity, but searingly painful in the realization: one of them had been planted here by Charlie to help him win. It made sense: if anyone could transport people to this weird dream world it would be the company he worked for. And he clearly had the money at his disposal to pay for someone to do something so outrageous. And the only way he could have known exactly what card to take each time was if someone was signaling him which card to take. Avigail turned to Jake. Jake was still staring at Iva. Iva kept her head straight, milky white eyes unfocused yet seeping with emotion. ¡°...f-fine. O-one of us could be a cheat. B-but who?¡± ¡°Jake, obviously.¡± Iva answered immediately, an accusation that left Jake visibly wounded. ¡°He¡¯s the one sitting in the middle who can see all the cards the easiest. He¡¯s the one shuffling them and passing them around. He could signal super easily that way.¡± ¡°Me?!¡± Jake wailed and laughed at the same time. ¡°It wasn¡¯t my idea to be the card shuffler, Avigail picked me to do it! And, and, you were here first, right? You were here when I first arrived! You could have been waiting for us!¡± ¡°I¡¯m blind!¡± ¡°So what?!¡± He stepped forward. ¡°You feel up all our cards, you could, like, signal with your face each time you put your hand on one or something!¡± ¡°That wouldn¡¯t matter if you shuffled them right! I only check mine after you hand them back, and he hasn¡¯t taken from my hand yet!¡± ¡°And, and what about Avigail? Huh?¡± He turned to her. ¡°Both games you said something right before he chose a card. You... you¡¯ve been the one suggesting how we, like, communicate from the very beginning.¡± ¡°E-excuse me?!¡± ¡°She also showed up last. She was the one who surprised Ture,¡± Iva said. ¡°Maybe he knew we were coming and ordered her to show up.¡± ¡°D-do you think the t-traitor would gamble their fucking dreams?!¡± Avigail pointed out, ¡°Iva, you¡¯re the one only betting your legs, w-with enough money you could just-¡± She didn¡¯t get to finish her thought. The door was knocked, gentle enough to not be aggressive, but loud enough to cut through the chatter. ¡°Guys, you¡¯re taking a while in there,¡± Juan pointed out from behind the door, ¡°Try to wrap it up, alright?¡± They had fired words back and forth at each other like a volley of bullets, and now they sat in the silence and the smoke they had created. Not peaceful, but quiet. The scars they had created with their accusations could not be so easily ignored, or dismissed. Unlike smoke, they would have to carry what had been said, and what it might mean, for the foreseeable future. ¡°...l-look,¡± Avigail started, her tone tempered and cooperative, if not exactly friendly. ¡°L-like it or not, w-we have to p-play the next round. E-everyone, pay attention to what¡¯s going on and if you see anything suspicious-¡± ¡°-See?! That right?! So what am I supposed to do?!¡± Iva snapped. ¡°I can¡¯t see and I can¡¯t trust either of you! This is unfair! This whole thing is unfair and bullshit! I¡¯m going to lose my goddamn legs!¡± ¡°We¡¯re all going to lose s-something, u-unless we win. For now, all I can do is promise I¡¯m not the traitor and go f-from there. B-but just in case¡­ Jake, l-let me shuffle the cards this time.¡± ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°I hate this¡­¡± And with resignation and suspicion abounding, the other two helped Iva off her stool and guided her back to the parlor, where they took their old seats in front of their new hands. They had already paid their antes, and 12 chips sat in the middle. Charlie wasn¡¯t supposed to hear what they had said, and nothing had really changed about his aloof persona since they had gone off to talk, and yet it was completely different nonetheless. There were teeth behind his vapid assuredness now which gave his empty and evil smile some real bite. Anyone would hate him, considering. Which made the idea that one of them was willingly helping him seem almost too absurd to be true. Avigail checked her hand. She had been dealt a Queen of spades, a ten of clubs, a five of diamonds, a Jack of clubs, and a ten of spades. Jake had a two of clubs, an Ace of clubs, a four of clubs, a three of spades, and an eight of clubs. And Iva, who was checking everyone¡¯s hands very carefully this time, had a two of hearts, a King of clubs, a three of diamonds, a nine of clubs, and a Queen of clubs. They pulled themselves into another huddle. Charlie checked his phone. ¡°...a kinda s-shit hand, right?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°You think?¡± ¡°W-we have enough for a flush, a-a pair of twos and threes, and two queens¡­ n-not even a full house. It¡¯s bad. I-it¡¯s real bad.¡± ¡°So do we fold?¡± ¡°...no. Not yet. M-maybe his hand is worse. L-let¡¯s see, and gimmie your cards.¡± There was an undeniable hesitation this time around, but everyone had agreed to letting Avigail shuffle, and there wasn¡¯t much room for negotiating a better plan. So she gathered up the cards and started to deal them out. Five at a time. She handed Jake the two of hearts, the two of clubs, the three of spades, the three of diamonds, and the five of diamonds. A humble two-pair hand. Iva was handed the trash hand. Nine of cubs, eight of clubs, ten of spades, Queen of spades, and the four of clubs. She gave herself the remaining five cards, careful to subtly tilt them away when Jake turned his head so he couldn¡¯t see what she held: a ten of clubs, Jack of clubs, Queen of clubs, King of clubs, and Ace of clubs. She had given herself a royal flush. Charlie started to think carefully, tapping his finger against his chin as he stared at his cards. ¡°Feel Good Inc.¡± was starting to play on the radio, and Iva, despite herself, actually started bobbing along in earnest. ¡°Heh, I know this one¡­¡± ¡°Feeling lucky, Charlie?¡± ¡°I am.¡± He nodded, and threw six more chips into the pot. ¡°Six chips.¡±Juan blinked. ¡°So¡­ call or fold, gang?¡± There was a natural hesitation before anyone would make such a call, or speak on behalf of two other people. Avigail took advantage of that natural lull to hesitate just long enough to appear in thought, before slowly putting her hand on six chips and dropping them into the pile. ¡°...call.¡± Jake wanted to grab her and slam her face into the table for that. He wanted to scream at her for making that kind of call without consulting them first, after assuring them that their hand was bad. And he had to fight every natural urge in his body to keep his expression and body language as neutral as possible. And then, with the few seconds he had available to him, he had to decide exactly how much he trusted her. ...he trusted her more than he trusted Iva. And that was the best he was going to get at that moment. So with theatric hesitation, he dropped his six chips into the pot. ¡°I guess we¡¯re calling.¡± Iva said, her voice cracking from fear. And why wouldn¡¯t it? She had always had to wrestle with vulnerability. With dependence. She had found pride in her blindness but she could never escape the shameful reality of it either, that she still relied on others; it had always come with its own set of challenges, but they couldn¡¯t have ever prepared her for this. So much was at stake, and she couldn¡¯t do a damn thing. She already didn¡¯t know how to play, and now that there was a traitor, she had no way to keep an eye out for them, to search for the telltale moments or gestures that might betray their intentions. Feeling powerless was never a good feeling, but this was a degree past that. It was her entire life slipping away and she couldn¡¯t even make a cursory effort at salvaging it, a token gesture. Something to console herself so she could say she at least tried. But she had almost nothing. She was doing all she could, scanning the rules card as if it would reveal some hidden path to victory, and be disappointed anew when it remained as unchanging as ever. Six more chips were dropped in the middle. Everyone had followed Avigail¡¯s lead. Everyone had no choice but to trust her. Perhaps, then, it should be no surprise that Charlie would take a card from her hand: specifically, the fifth card in her hand, to the far right, the Ace of clubs, and once again only discard one card from his hand so he could keep it. It would be replaced with a king of diamonds, giving her hand at least a pair. Avigail wasn¡¯t surprised he had targeted her. How could she? His always knowing exactly which card to take was little more than an unbroken pattern at this point. No, what she was feeling wasn¡¯t surprise... it was looking down and seeing a hole in your chest. It was waking up and being paralyzed from the neck down. This was horror. It was despair. And it was something so palpable that she couldn¡¯t even pretend to hide it. Her poker face evaporated. And the only one in the room who couldn¡¯t tell exactly what had happened was Iva. ¡°...what did you do?¡± Jake demanded. ¡°Avigail, what did you do?!¡± ¡°What¡¯s going on¡­?!¡± Maybe it would have been better if Charlie was the devil. If he did feed off the discourse and grew excited as his enemies fell apart. But it all seemed so routine for him. He had egged them on just enough to fray their nerves, to sow their discontent, and now he seemed to take no pleasure or pain in reaping what he had created. It would have meant something if he had cared about what it was he was taking from them. It would have meant something if he was at least happy to have gotten the right card, showed that he had stakes in this game where they were risking such essential parts of who they were. But his face remained stoic and his posture was still. He made his apathy abundantly and unmistakably clear. He put nine chips in the pot. For them to call, they¡¯d have to go all-in. With no hesitation, they folded.
His hand had been a ten of hearts, an Ace of hearts, an eight of hearts, an Ace of spades, and the stolen Ace of clubs. Three of a kind, worth nine points. Since she had been given a King when he stole her card, she technically had a pair. That was worth a point. With the two-pair that Jake had, their combined hand would have been worth three points. If he had taken any other card, literally any other card in her hand, he would have only had a pair of aces, worth three points. And they would have won since he hadn¡¯t scored higher than them. Iva had to be carried to the bar by Teresa. She was crying. Avigail and Jake, however, were at each other¡¯s throats. ¡°You had a fucking royal flush and you didn¡¯t say anything?!¡± ¡°Why w-would I?! I wanted to keep it hidden from the traitor!¡± ¡°Well now you look like the traitor!¡± ¡°M-me!? Y-you didn¡¯t even see the Royal Flush in our hands! I-I could have just given us all t-trash hands a-and we could have lost that way if I was the t-traitor!¡± In truth, it was hard for Avigail to even think so coherently. ¡°Dreams¡± are so broad that they intersected frequently with imagination, which she needed to state the hypotheticals that helped prove her innocence. She had taxed her imagination to the limit just for that one example, and even then she had only been able to think it because she had thought of it the moment she realized her royal flush was compromised. ¡°Or you knew he¡¯d take your card anyway.¡± He snarled. ¡°So you just¡­ gave yourself that fucking royal flush so it would look like you¡¯re still on our side.¡± ¡°You were watching me the w-whole time, right?!¡± She slammed her foot down. ¡°Did you see any kind of signal?! Any k-kind of sign I could have used?!¡± He tried to recall. The cards in her hand had been level, far more than his own. She hadn¡¯t said anything before Charlie picked a card, not this time. She had shuffled their cards exactly the same way he had, overhand style. And while she had glanced to the side once or twice to make sure he wasn¡¯t looking at her hand, her eyes otherwise were level and straight towards Charlie. He had seen, because he had been watching. Carefully. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know.¡± But then his eyes turned to Iva, still crying at the stool. ¡°...but¡­¡± His voice turned to a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°...she keeps scanning the rules card on the table as we play.¡± Avigail couldn¡¯t visualize such a thing happening, but it sounded about right. She knew she had seen it, in the most literal sense. ¡°We¡¯ve been taking it for granted since we assumed she was blind, but¡­ what if she wasn¡¯t as blind as she was letting on?¡± ¡°W-what do you mean?¡± ¡°Contacts, man. To make her eyes look milky. But she can see our hands just fine, and she uses the card to signal what our most valuable hand is¡­¡± Iva noticed they were whispering. ¡°Guys?¡± She sniffed. ¡°Why are you whispering?¡± ¡°It could even go deeper, though¡­¡± He continued to mutter, now to himself more than Avigail. His breathing grew shallow. He was sweating. Jake had the idea and now he couldn¡¯t let it go. She wasn¡¯t blind. There was so much she could get away with if she wasn¡¯t blind. So much was possible. Like¡­ He had heard of cameras so small they could fit into contacts. What if she were wearing some of those? The contacts record a video. Charlie sees the recording on his phone. Iva distances herself from suspicion by not feeling the cards after they¡¯re shuffled and handed out, but she¡¯s still being his dutiful camera. It would be trivial to pull off for a company as large as Walker Horizons, and equally trivial to replace her legs once she lost. She could have used some kind of invisible ink on her fingers that marked one card as she felt them one at a time. She wouldn¡¯t know when to apply it if she were blind, at least, not in a way that they wouldn¡¯t notice. But if she could see and plan ahead... There were no two ways about it. If she wasn¡¯t blind, it would explain everything. He had to know if it was true. ¡°There¡¯s no problem. Heh. We¡¯re, uh, still just trying to figure stuff out,¡± he said in as calm and reassuring voice as he could muster, all while walking up to the bar. The knife used for peeling the lime was still there, sharp and covered in a thin film of citrus juice. While she sniffled and looked in his direction, he carefully picked up the knife, so as not to make any noise. Avigail only faintly recognized what he was doing. Iva¡¯s ears twitched: despite his best efforts, she knew someone had grabbed something. Her guard as up now. ¡°Do you have any ideas, Iva?¡± He asked, raising the knife as he took another step towards her. He was searching for something. Anything. Any kind of sign that she realized what he was doing. But she stared at him, past him, eyes unfocused and lost. She shivered, but she had been shivering since her first chunk of leg had been removed. He took another step forward. Iva leaned backwards. Her face was starting to contort with worry. ¡°Why are you walking towards me? What are you doing? Avigail, what is he doing?¡± Avigial didn¡¯t answer. She wanted to see what would happen as much as he did, even if she didn¡¯t have the courage to go through with it herself. But she wasn¡¯t about to help him by crafting a lie, either¡­ even if she could think straight, that would be assisting his efforts a bit too directly. ¡°I¡¯m just pacing.¡± He tried. The knife was high in the air now. Ready to swing down, as a pendulum. His face was warped with desperation but steeled with purpose. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t have any ideas¡± she wiped at her wet cheek with her sleeve, moving her hips as if trying to scootch away, but lacking the leg power to do it herself. A knife was swinging down at her face. ¡°I can¡¯t see anything, and¡­ and frankly you¡¯re kind of freaking me out right now.¡± She let out another heartbroken hiccup. The knife had stopped a mere centimeter from her face, paralyzed there for a few precarious seconds. She hadn¡¯t so much as twitched, although she did sniff, and noticed the smell of lime. ¡°...what¡¯s that¡­?¡± Jake, however, couldn¡¯t answer. And Avigail, lacking so much of her dreams and imagination, could not describe what it was she was seeing. Not completely. But she could recognize objectively that something had grabbed Jake from behind, a something that was halfway inhuman and entirely nightmarish. She dully recognized that whatever it was, it dragged Jake off into a corner of the room that was suddenly far darker than she had ever remembered or noticed, and before he could so much as scream, he was gone. The dark corner spat back out the knife. It fell onto the ground with a softened thud. Avigail threw up. ¡°What¡¯s going on?! Jake? Avigail?!¡± ¡°You do not need to worry, Iva.¡± Teresa stated as she wiped the blade clean with a swipe of a small hand towel. ¡°It appears that Jake let the pressure of the game get to him, and he forfeit. You and Avigail may continue as normal.¡± ¡°What?!¡± ¡°I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s not much more I can tell you.¡± ¡°Fuck off with all your vague-ass answers! Avigail? Where¡¯s Jake?! Is she telling the truth?!¡± ¡°...y-yes.¡± She was finally able to speak. She wiped a line of saliva and mucus from her lips. ¡°He¡¯s¡­ g-gone. I-it¡¯s only you and me now.¡± ¡°Was he the traitor?!¡± ¡°...I-I don¡¯t think so.¡± ¡°Then that means¡­¡± ¡°...t-that means¡­¡± If there really was a traitor¡­ either Avigail or Iva was stuck playing with them. That fact sat in their stomachs like a large, cold stone. ¡°...i-it doesn¡¯t change the fact we c-can¡¯t win by o-ourselves. W-we need to work together somehow.¡± ¡°And how, pray tell, are we supposed to do that?! There¡¯s nothing you can suggest that will make me trust you. We might really be better off just keeping our hands hidden and hoping for the best!¡± That wasn¡¯t true. And both Iva and Avigail knew it. But Iva was struck with inspiration in the silent moments that followed: they only had to survive one more turn. If Jake was really the traitor, then it would be clear when Charlie either hesitated to steal a card, or stole the wrong one. If that were the case, their problem was solved and they could start clawing their way back. But if he stole the right card without hesitation one more time, Iva won. Because all she¡¯d have to do is accuse Avigail of cheating. And that would be that. Iva felt useless, and in her effort to fight that, she had been keeping track of everything she could. The smell and feel of the cards. The rules and if they were making the most optimal hands. She had even been counting how long it took Charlie to be told he could take a card and when he actually took it. So far, he averaged about three seconds. Just enough time to visually locate the card he wanted and pluck it loose. She¡¯d be counting very, very carefully this time. Avigail was consumed with very different thoughts. Jake¡¯s stunt hadn¡¯t convinced her Iva wasn''t the traitor. Not entirely. Iva¡¯s failure to flinch, and her non-reaction to that thing taking Jake away, was convincing evidence of her blindness, but just because Iva had been telling the truth about that didn¡¯t mean she couldn¡¯t still backstab them. Of course, Avigail still needed her cards if she was going to make the best five-card hands possible. But¡­ ...Iva didn¡¯t need to know that. ¡°F-fine, then. Let¡¯s leave our h-hands alone and see how that works out.¡± ¡°...do you mean that?¡± ¡°Since we already anted we both have six chips left. That¡¯s three more hands including this one. A-and if we¡¯re g-going to f-figure out a method to w-work together to b-beat him, w-we need to be prepared t-to lose a-at least once more.¡± Iva was thinking the same thing. But Avigail didn¡¯t need to know that. ¡°...fine.¡± She said with feigned reluctance. ¡°Teresa, let¡¯s go back to the table.¡± When they returned to the parlor, they noticed that Jake¡¯s chair was gone, as were the chips that he had created with his wager. They were all on Charlie¡¯s side of the table now, pushed into the horde that surrounded him. A part of his collection, and removed from the game. Just one more color in a rainbow of victims. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about Jake, guys.¡± Juan sincerely frowned, ¡°But rules are rules. Speaking of, this game¡¯s gotta go on, but since you¡¯re down one member, now Charlie¡¯s hand is worth twice as many points. Alright?¡± Charlie didn¡¯t protest. Charlie didn¡¯t even emote. The other two at the table did. ¡°Okay.¡± ¡°Still bullshit, but not a whole lot I can do about it.¡± They each sat down -- Avigail to the left and Iva to the right -- and checked their cards again. Iva made a point to only feel her own cards, refusing to touch Avigail¡¯s, but Avigail made no secret at peering at Iva¡¯s holdings. Avigail was holding a King of clubs, an eight of diamonds, a four of spades, a nine of hearts, and an Ace of clubs. A pig hand. Iva faired little better. She had a King of diamonds, a King of spades, a ten of spades, a six of spades, and a three of diamonds. A pair. Together, they could get three of a kind. Three points. Which would beat Charlie if he only had a pair. Anything else, he would win, but it was pointless to look at his face to try to glean his hand: he was too uninvested in this game to express anything even if his poker face was absolutely garbage. Of course, that was only if they could combine hands and get their kings together: as things stood now, he could beat them with anything but a useless hand, and considering he could simply throw out all his cards for new ones at a whim, it was unlikely he didn¡¯t have at least a pair. But fortunately for Avigail, Iva was blind, and kept her cards on a stand because she couldn¡¯t hold them correctly. Which made it relatively easy for Avigail to simply steal the cards from Iva while her hands were somewhere else, quickly put their kings together, then put five cards back on her stand. Everyone had watched her do it, but no one could call her out on it, because as far as they knew, this was normal and premeditated. Only Iva knew otherwise, and Iva was the only one who couldn¡¯t have noticed. Avigail had given herself the pig: and she now held the ten of spades, the six of spades, the eight of diamonds, the four of spades, and the three of diamonds. Iva held the three Kings, the nine of hearts, and the ace of clubs. Not that she knew it. ¡°Viva La Vida¡± started playing on the radio. ¡°Any bets, Char-¡± Juan asked, but he didn¡¯t even get to finish his thought before Charlie reached out and grabbed the middle card in Iva¡¯s hand, the King of clubs, dropped it into his hand, and then discarded a card from his hand to make it an even five. ¡°...oookay then.¡± Juan frowned as he drew a replacement card. ¡°Iva, he took your third card, the one in the middle. I¡¯m replacing it now.¡± Iva, for the first time since the game had started in earnest, actually broke out in a smile. An honest to god smile of utter and complete disbelief and relief: she had two kings, and if he had taken the middle card, then he took the ten of spades. He missed the card he wanted! When he reached out so fast she had been worried, preparing herself mentally to call Avigail out for cheating, but feeling the five of diamonds in the middle spot of her hand, she felt a relief like she had never felt before. They were still losing. But they still had hope. They had a fighting chance. Right? ...right? ¡°I raise by-¡± ¡°W-we fold!¡± Avigail blurted out between clenched teeth. ¡°We. Fold.¡± ¡°Wait, why?!¡± Iva frowned, grabbing at her hand. ¡°I still have a¡­ a¡­¡± She felt her cards one at a time. Her two kings were there. So was her five, which had replaced her ten. But she also, now, suddenly¡­ had a nine of hearts. An Ace of clubs. ¡°...you switched my cards.¡± ¡°I-I had a third King and I-¡± ¡°-You switched my cards!¡± Iva tried to stand up, but her legs weren¡¯t equal to the task of supporting her indignation, let alone the rest of her body. She staggered, she stumbled, holding herself up with shaking arms. The tears were coming back, but they were mad and victorious as she bleated ¡°Juan! She¡¯s cheating! She¡¯s the traitor, she¡¯s working with Charlie! She¡¯s been doing it this whole damn game!¡± ¡°...what?!¡± Suddenly, Avigail was mad she didn¡¯t think of doing this first. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ quite the accusation.¡± Juan sadly noted. He was taking no pleasure from this game. He looked as drained as the players, although perhaps he had no right to be. ¡°How is she helping him cheat?¡± Charlie looked on with mild interest. As if he were excited to find out himself. ¡°I-I don¡¯t know!¡± she continued. Her voice was hoarse and she laughed like a cornered hyena. She was crying the whole time. Reminded of what she was going to lose by her near-failure to even stand. ¡°I¡¯m blind, I can¡¯t, I mean, I can¡¯t see what she¡¯s doing but I know she¡¯s doing it! This whole game was rigged!¡± ¡°...Iva, I¡¯m sorry, but unless you can tell me how I can¡¯t disqualify him.¡± ¡°How am I supposed to know?! How¡¯s that a fair rule when you, when you drag a blind girl here against her will and force her to play your fucking-¡± ¡°-No one forced you to play anything, Iva, please.¡± Juan begged. But his sympathetic voice could not cool the inferno that was eating her alive. An inferno of anger. Of fear. And regret. She tried to point to where she thought Avigail was seated, but she was off by a few degrees, and in the effort nearly fell to the ground again. ¡°Admit you were cheating you bitch! For the love of god please! Tell them you were the traitor! Tell them how you did it!¡± Avigail couldn¡¯t say anything. Even if she wanted to. She couldn¡¯t. ¡°Please!¡± Iva begged. Avigail couldn¡¯t say anything. But Charlie did. ¡°Iva, shut up.¡± His words cut through the noise of the room decidedly. And Iva, despite her hysteria, shut up. ¡°I¡¯ve got things to do and I don¡¯t have time for this,¡± he sighed impatiently, ¡°Your accusations of cheating are unfounded and unsubstantiated and becoming an enormous headache. But since I sympathize with your predicament, I¡¯m willing to speed things along with a final all-or-nothing gamble.¡± Avigail turned to face him. Iva continued to bleed the odd sob and hiccup into the murky hall. He held up his five-card hand in front of them, each card held out perfectly flat. No one stuck out above the others. ¡°If you grab the King I just stole out of my hand, I¡¯ll forfeit right now. Otherwise, you two lose. Frankly neither of you would have a chance to beat me if we played normally, so you¡¯d better appreciate this opportunity.¡± The two women¡¯s heads were swimming. Their minds were fogged and their eyes were murky. There was hate. There was longing. There was weariness. They swam through an intense cocktail of chemicals and emotions that neither of them had ever sampled in their lifetimes, and like any unfamiliar powerful drink, it destroyed their inhibition and their judgement: And after all, he was right, wasn¡¯t he? They literally had no hope of beating him normally, not when one of them was betraying the other: so why not give this a chance? A one in five chance was far, far better than a 0% chance¡­ right? Of course, if they had been paying attention, they¡¯d know that Charlie was not a man who played according to chance. The King he had stolen had already been discarded.
Iva woke up feeling tired. But then, she had been tutoring late into the evening for her online English teaching job, so that was far from abnormal. She got up. She stretched. She brushed her seeing-eye dog, Scruffles the Second, and decided that instead of the leftover kebab she was going to have for breakfast, she¡¯d save that for dinner and just grab an apple on the way to campus. She brushed her teeth, got dressed, then went out into the day, feeling and enjoying the warmth of the summer sun on her skin. She enjoyed it so much, in fact, she decided that instead of taking the bus, she¡¯d walk the whole way, eating her apple as she went. She was halfway through her walk and entirely through her apple when Scruffles the Second started pulling her, hard, off the sidewalk while barking like a dog possessed. She only barely had time to register what that might mean before a car slammed into her at fifty miles per hour. It would be the last walk she¡¯d ever have for the rest of her life.
Jake woke up feeling tired. But then, he had been hosting one of Perry¡¯s parties last night, and those tended to go on for a time and leave all participants thoroughly spent. So it was a good kind of tired, the kind of tired that meant waking up next to ten other men and women and not knowing for sure what body parts had been where (although in Jake¡¯s case he found any combination appealing enough). But it also came with the knowledge that he¡¯d have to clean up after one of Perry¡¯s parties, because all of his friends were selfish jerks, and he found both of those things annoying, to say the least. He was navigating a veritable marsh of fluids, underwear, cold pizza and beer cans, when he stumbled onto a bag of PCP that someone had brought and not opened. He gave it a sniff, and it seemed like the stuff was still good, so as a little reward to himself for taking on the burden of cleaning by his lonesome, he sampled the rest of the bag. It did not go down easy. Or smooth. And while his friends were selfish jerks, they were not the kind of friends who would leave one of their own twitching and bleeding on the ground, having hit his head on the corner of the table mid-collapse. They got him to a hospital (using a car, obviously, no one there could afford an ambulance) and they all found out together just how bad that PCP and fall had been: he had suffered brain damage. Comprehensive brain damage. It wasn¡¯t just that he had forgotten a huge chunk of his life -- everything before he was eighteen -- he seemed to forget everything he might have learned in that time. How to speak. How to eat. How to not shit his pants. His morals. Huge chunks of his personality. He was practically an overgrown infant, and his elderly mother and father had to take him into their home in order to take care of him, and teach him all the fundamentals again. One step at a time.
Avigail never woke up. Not properly, anyway. When her family found her, she had slipped into a waking coma over the night: an unforgiving ailment, the kind that people seldom recovered from. The family doctor said there wasn¡¯t much that could be done normally¡­ but there was new, radical surgery that might wake her up. If the family consented, the doctors could remove affected chunks of her brain and re-wire her to see if that woke her up. Since it was so experimental, they wouldn¡¯t charge anything, and in doing so, Avigail could become a medical marvel that helped other people in years to come. They begrudgingly consented. It was better than letting her rot in a bed, draining their bank accounts. The doctors had failed, however, to emphasize exactly how experimental and professionally unverified this surgery is. Or to disclose that the brain chunks they would remove would be preserved and sold to interested buyers. After the very first surgery, they had inadvertently robbed her of her ability to dream. It was an accident, true, but it was a fortuitous one: it meant she could no longer be anxious of what they were going to do next.
Charlie was having a very busy, very strange week. So strange and so busy, in fact, he had a hard time keeping track of where he was getting what, and who he had taken it from. From a professional standpoint it hardly mattered if he was able to keep up, that was Marie¡¯s prerogative, but he still would have been more comfortable if he could keep it all categorized in his head for his own sake, not just his paycheck. At some point in his week, during a trip around the world, a very desperate (and apparently a very unwell) police officer recognized him and forced him to go to a small Slovakian hospital so he could fix the man¡¯s dying mother, under the assumption that as a brilliant engineer he could fashion her some kind of life-saving device. And in trying to escape this deranged police officer and the hospital in question, Charlie accidentally grabbed the wrong bag: which was how he was caught at the airport with a suitcase that had two amputated legs in it. Needless to say, he was immediately thrown into a holding cell while everyone tried to figure out what exactly was going on. He found himself sharing a holding cell with a skittish woman who was being held on suspicions of drug trafficking. As it turned out, those suspicions were well-founded, because she couldn¡¯t hold them in her bowels any longer and she just dumped right on the floor, and Charlie became convinced things couldn¡¯t possibly get worse. As it turned out he lacked imagination, because that mentally ill officer found Charlie in his holding cell, enraged that he had had failed to ¡°save¡± his mother, and in revenge tried to frame Charlie for the drug crime. By trying to shove the bag up his ass. Unfortunately for both parties, it broke in the process, and gave Charlie the trip of a lifetime; eighteen years as a small American boy in the suburbs of Texas, a place he had never even seen before. When he woke up from his trip, dazed, confused, and terrified, he found himself in the hospital. The guard had been so furious when Charlie started tripping out that he started punching him in the head repeatedly, and only stopped when he assumed Charlie had died. The doctors were happy to report that he had not, in fact, died, but rather suffered what may have been irreversible brain damage were it not for a ¡°donor¡±, so to speak, who had given up chunks of her brain to replace his damaged parts in a radical, unsafe, million-to-one surgery that just so happened to work. They called him the luckiest man alive. Charlie, who wasn¡¯t 100% sure he was actually Charlie and not a teenager named Jake, wasn¡¯t quite sure he believed that. Considering it was still just Tuesday.
Soft noire jazz streamed through the Silver Wheel. Ture was back behind the bar, leaning back and bobbing his head with the chill beats that surrounded them. He wasn¡¯t smiling. He wasn¡¯t frowning. Which was more than could be said for Juan, who had a bottle of beer in front of him, cracked open with beads of condensation still clinging to the dark brown glass. He took a long yet regretful drink. ¡°...I hate that Charlie guy,¡± Juan finally said. ¡°No kiddin¡¯,¡± Ture replied. ¡°He¡¯s an asshole. He has no passion. And I know he was cheating. I just¡­ I don¡¯t know how. That¡¯s the thing, I always know how. Always. But not this time.¡± ¡°Well. World¡¯s full of surprises, right?¡± Ture shrugged. ¡°All sorts of new technology and shit. Maybe it¡¯s something like that.¡± ¡°I very much doubt it.¡± Teresa took a seat next to Juan, and a glass of white wine was placed in front of her instinctively by Ture. She had been cleaning up the vomit on the floor: a not-uncommon chore at the Silver Wheel, when one sees Mr. Eight clearly and completely. ¡°And Juan, I trust you won¡¯t let your personal feelings interfere with your job. More than it already has.¡± He didn¡¯t say anything. But he didn¡¯t look guilty, either. Not this time. ¡°That game was weighed dramatically against Charlie. It was not a game well-suited for the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°And yet he still won every hand.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not your concern if he cheats. Only to execute punishment if he¡¯s caught.¡± ¡°He¡¯s ruining this place, Teresa.¡± Juan stood up, just tipsy enough to harden his spine so he could look at her directly, when normally he might be guilted into silence. ¡°The Silver Wheel was supposed to be an opportunity. A place to change lives, and reflect on yourself. He¡¯s turning it¡­ into a slaughtering grounds. He¡¯s giving nothing and taking everything and¡­ if that¡¯s what the new Silver Wheel is, I don¡¯t want to be a part of it.¡± He took another swallow, then slammed down the glass. Ture nodded approvingly. ¡°I¡¯m going to think of a game that¡¯ll beat that asshole.¡± Juan erupted and stomped towards the parlor. ¡°Next time he comes here I swear he¡¯s going to lose!¡± He slammed the door shut like an angry child under Teresa¡¯s watchful glare. But when he finally left her sight, her eyes softened, and she turned to Ture. She took a sip of her drink. She let the mellow jazz smooth out the ruffled atmosphere, and her drink to soak through her system, before she opened her mouth again. ¡°...by the way, Ture.¡± She spoke, but kept her eyes on the counter. ¡°I quite enjoyed your selection of music this time around. Quite the inspired list.¡± ¡°Ya don¡¯t say.¡± He raised an eyebrow, flashing his canines. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect to hear that from you. But hey, thanks. I try.¡± ¡°Yes. I can tell you put a lot of thought into each one. ¡®Island in the Sun¡¯, released in 2001. ¡®Just the way you are¡¯, from 2010. ¡®Feel Good Inc¡¯, that was 2005. And ¡®Viva La Vida¡¯, which if I¡¯m not mistaken was released in 2008.¡± Ture¡¯s smile vanished. He leaned forward. And in turn, she raised her eyes and looked at him. Hers were an ice blue that could chill a glacier. ¡°...you sure know your music trivia, huh?¡± ¡°I know lots of things that might surprise you.¡± She continued, her painted lips hovering just barely above the wide rim of her wine glass. ¡°For example, I noticed that Avigail, Jake, and Iva had fifteen cards in total. I also noticed that during the first round, Charlie took the first card from the left. In the second round, he took the tenth card from the left. In the third round, he took the fifth. And in the fourth round, the eighth.¡± Ture was not capable of projecting sheer daggers of ice the way Teresa was able to. But he had a fiery obstinance that allowed him to weather anything, at least when the fire in his stomach had been properly stoked. It was a shameless persona that had kept him sane in his seemingly endless vigil as a bartender, and allowed him to fearlessly insult everyone no matter who they were or what they wanted to drink. And now it was allowing him to endure, and even thrive, Teresa¡¯s hateful, vicious glare. He had wanted to push her buttons for as long as he had known her. He was thrilled to have finally found one. ¡°Why did you do it, Ture?¡± She asked. ¡°Because he promised he could bring me back,¡± he answered through a toothy grin. ¡°That¡¯s impossible. If you take one step outside that door you-¡± ¡°It was impossible. Just like it was impossible for people to come here on their own. The old rules are broken. This is a new Silver Wheel. It¡¯s changing, just like you said. So if Charlie says I can escape this shitty purgatory, I¡¯m throwing my lot in with him.¡± He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single golden chip. Even in the dull light of the bar, it shone like a star. ¡°And when I do get out, I¡¯m going to be loaded.¡± She took a final sip of her wine, then left it on the bar, unfinished. She stood up, and walked to the parlor. ¡°Hey. You¡¯re not gonna tell Juan, are ya?¡± She stopped moving. ¡°...no. It¡¯s his job to notice cheating and deal with insubordination. If he hasn¡¯t seen what you¡¯re doing, it must only be because he trusts you. I¡¯ll let him learn the mistake of that on his own.¡± She paused for a moment longer. As if allowing a thought to pass through her harmlessly. But then she stepped into the parlor, and left Ture alone with nothing but his bottles, his music, his single golden chip... ...and his wide, victorious grin. Round 6: Roulette If Charlie tried to reflect back on the past two weeks, it was a blur. A blur of head injuries, impossible odds, explosions of inspiration, unfathomable coincidences, surprise surgeries, genetic mutation, at least three errant lightning strikes, near endless travel, thankless rescues, overzealous drug use, chases, romances (and one very uncomfortable orgy), unlikely reveals, quickly-forged friendships, natural disasters, a terrorist attack, lawsuits, award ceremonies, gala invitations, misplaced luggage, wrong numbers, poorly-addressed packages, long-lost relations, uncovered forgeries, and more trips to the police than he could reasonably count. He had lived a thousand lifetimes in fourteen days, and looking at himself now, he almost didn¡¯t recognize himself. On top of gambling for perfunctory or curious things (like dreams, childhoods, legs, REM patterns, eyelids, ZIP codes, heartbeats, etc) he had also gambled for things that actually mattered. For example, he now had an encyclopedic knowledge of exactly 300 subjects. He knew how to play every instrument and speak 431 of the world¡¯s 6,500 spoken languages fluently. His memory was flawless (which did not, in fact, make the weeks any less of a blur; they were simply blurry weeks). He was so good-looking that when it was impossible for him to physically change any further, society¡¯s concept of beauty was warped until it was basically his reflection. His health was perfect, his senses were honed to indescribably fine points, and he was obscenely wealthy. But more important than any of that, he was in Marie Walker¡¯s good graces. Because even as an apex of his species, that woman scared the hell out of him. ¡°It took a bit of searching but we were able to find a reality with a dead earth that¡¯s close-ish to our relative position in space, and a waaaay faster speed of light. So we¡¯re finally able to start strip mining it for our very first Walker-brand Dyson sphere. This motherfucker will make me the only energy producer in this reality worth giving a damn about, and there¡¯ll be enough left over for our -- drumroll please -- deep space program!¡± Before, he had never been privy to the actual depths of Walker Horizons. He was too low on the ladder even as the CO of Engineering. There were layers upon layers upon layers to uncover about Marie Walker and her ambitions, and every time he thought she had passed genius into the realm of insanity, she found a way to dig deeper. This was one of those moments, when he realized what her plan was. ¡°You¡¯re using an alternate reality as an intergalactic subway system,¡± he said. ¡°Ding ding ding! Bingo! Should put you in charge of marketing. Wormholes next to earth? Scary. Wormholes next to a dead earth in some other reality? The EU and China won¡¯t ride my ass about that. And with a faster speed of light we can set up the other end of this wormhole way faster. Twenty years from now, we¡¯ll be sending people to an alternate reality, throwing them to Andromeda via space tube, pulling them back to this reality, and they¡¯ll be screwing blue aliens before breakfast.¡± She was eating a chunk of cooked flesh only slightly less pink than her lipstick. He didn¡¯t bother asking what animal it was from, it could be anything at a place like this. The kind of establishment where you needed at least ten figures to even know it existed, and eleven to comfortably buy anything. It was also the kind of place that didn¡¯t have a menu, which offended his chronic need to be orderly and logical about all things. It had annoyed him so much, in fact, he hadn¡¯t bothered ordering anything. He was just watching her eat. ¡°But fuck me,¡± She said in a way that only half-suggested she didn''t mean it. He was Eros incarnate, after all. ¡°You know how long it takes to find those realities?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Ages. We¡¯ve got nine supercomputers running 24/7 and it took them three years to find this one, and even then it¡¯s only like a 70% match. There are too many variables. Too many realities to shuffle through. It¡¯s impossible. It¡¯s fucking impossible. A turtle could get a shoe pregnant before we find what we¡¯re looking for.¡± Here it comes. ¡°...that¡¯s why I need you to go back to the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°I suspected as much.¡± ¡°Wow, get that rod out of your ass. This is good news for you. Good news for me. It¡¯s good news. You get more money and more shit and I get more data about their fucking dimension magic. Right now the probability of finding a reality I can work with is about one in a googleplex times a bajillion. And that¡¯s just counting the other realities, not all the other weird¡­ shit out there. Stuff you wouldn¡¯t believe. And since I can¡¯t make fewer realities or faster computers, I need something that lets me mess with the odds.¡± ¡°I understand. When do you want me to go back in?¡± ¡°As soon as possible.¡± She spoke as she chewed. She didn¡¯t really care that she was sending myoglobin-soaked spittle onto his face. He didn¡¯t especially mind either. ¡°Take my jet tonight to our lab in New Zealand. They¡¯ll hook you up.¡± ¡°...I didn¡¯t know we had a lab in New Zealand.¡± ¡°Really? I¡¯m talking interdimensional dyson spheres and this is what surprises you?¡± He shrugged. She snorted. ¡°I¡¯ll pay you twice as much if you gamble some fucking social skills.¡± Then she swallowed. ¡°Or at least some acting.¡±
In truth, Charlie didn¡¯t mind going back to the Silver Wheel. In fact, he could almost say he welcomed it. Not because it provided him more opportunities to ¡°improve¡± himself. He was already a stranger living in a stranger¡¯s body. There was nothing to ¡°improve¡± at this point because by now the foundation had already vanished. All he could do was tack more features onto this Frankenstein''s monster that he had become. It was more because he needed something to do with himself. Technically there was nothing stopping him from retiring right now and living the rest of his life in opulent luxury, traveling the world, fucking whatever and whoever he wanted, and simply winning at everything and anything he attempted. But that sounded rather dull. And if being productive meant ruining more people¡¯s lives he didn¡¯t really mind. Indeed, he wasn¡¯t oblivious to the fact that he had destroyed people, many beyond repair, and he certainly didn¡¯t relish it with any kind of sadistic drive. He just hadn¡¯t won the extra fucks he¡¯d need to care. All success throughout all of history had been achieved through the exploitation and abuse of the unambitious, stupid, or just unlucky masses. He didn¡¯t make the rules, he was just following them. He had decided to take the helicopter to the airport because it was a nice night and the skyline of Dubai was the most beautiful kind of ugly on the planet. But in truth, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Non-stop travel for the past two weeks had taken its toll on him, and they weren¡¯t five minutes into the air before he closed his eyes and started nodding off. And he was mildly surprised to open his eyes and find himself back at the Silver Wheel. ¡°Oh. Hey ¡®boss¡¯.¡± Ture flashed him a grin. ¡°Hazy Shade of Winter¡±, by Simon and Garfunkel, was on the radio. ¡°Water tonight, or you in the mood for somethin¡¯ with a bit less fish pee in it?¡± ¡°Why am I here?¡± He asked without moving from the door. ¡°I hadn¡¯t taken the pill.¡± ¡°I remind our frequent guest Charlie that typically, the Silver Wheel is the one that invites people to our establishment.¡± Teresa said as she helped ease his coat from his shoulders. ¡°It would seem that is the case this time. Would you like a drink?¡± ¡°No.¡± Charlie grunted. This was a waste of his time. If he wasn¡¯t being monitored by Marie then he wouldn¡¯t produce any data, or get paid. ¡°In fact, I¡¯m quite sure I¡¯d just like to leave.¡± ¡°Pfft. Not something I¡¯d expect you to say, of all people.¡± Ture preemptively started making a drink for Charlie: Veuve Pelletier & Fils Brut Champagne, mixed with grape and thyme essence. ¡°Of course, all our guests are free to leave whenever they wish.¡± Teresa smiled that vacant, heatless smile. ¡°But before you do, I suggest you at least visit the parlor. Perhaps you¡¯ll find the game and the wager to your liking.¡± Charlie didn¡¯t trust this. He didn¡¯t have to be a social man to know Juan hated him, and near the end of his previous visit had begun producing increasingly unfair games in an effort to make him lose. But Charlie also stopped seeing the games at the Silver Wheel as games of chance and more as problems to solve. And he did have a hard time saying ¡°no¡± to a new problem. So he took the drink Ture had prepared and opened the door to the parlor. The table, which had been arranged for cards the last time he had been here, had once again made a grand transformation; into a roulette table. On the other side of the table, where the players usually sit, was Juan. ¡°Hey. Welcome back to the Silver Wheel.¡± Juan¡¯s smile was halfway between friendly and malicious. ¡°You up for a game, Charlie?¡± Charlie, indeed, had not been expecting this. ¡°What¡¯s the meaning of this, exactly?¡± He took a step forward. His curiosity had been piqued. ¡°Look, Charlie,¡± Juan chuckled as he leaned back into his seat, ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s exactly a secret you and I don¡¯t get along.¡± ¡°Obviously.¡± ¡°And I also didn¡¯t think it was too much of a stretch to assume you¡¯d be back before long. You love it here. You¡¯ve got systems. You¡¯ve got a callous ambivalence to human misery. Which is why I figured we could make our lives easier with a once-in-a-lifetime gamble.¡± Charlie actually took a seat. Juan¡¯s smile grew broader. ¡°Play a game with me. I¡¯ll gamble my friendship, my cooperation, whatever best suits your needs. You¡¯ll find your time here will be a lot easier when I¡¯m on your side, especially with how good you¡¯ve gotten at cheating. I mean, If you¡¯re going to keep winning here, wellllll, simple fact is, you¡¯re going to need my help.¡± ¡°And I take it you want me to never return if I lose.¡± Charlie raised an eyebrow. Bored. ¡°What? No.¡± Juan scoffed. ¡°The Silver Wheel is all about open doors, and I like to give people second chances. If you lose, you¡¯ll return everything that you took from everyone else, and hopefully learn a thing or two about empathy in the process.¡± The bored eyebrow dropped. Never returning was simply out of the question, he would have flat-out refused if those were the stakes: Marie relied on him for this task and he dreaded to think what she would do if he couldn¡¯t perform that vital function. But this was a far more reasonable gamble. He wasn¡¯t eager to return everything he had won (especially for all the trouble he had gone through to make it happen), but he could still win at the Silver Wheel without these gifts (thanks to his secret alliance with that stupid bartender), and then it would only be a matter of winning them all back¡­ which would hardly be a waste of time, since he was tasked with coming back here anyway. It wasn¡¯t risk free. But it was a risk worth taking for the potential rewards. ¡°Fine.¡± Charlie sighed. ¡°I¡¯ll wager everything I¡¯ve won so far.¡± And thirty rainbow chips appeared at his side, a shimmering, nearly holographic pile that seemed to encompass all the colors he had taken from others. It gave him a small headache to look at them directly. ¡°And I¡¯ll wager my friendship, trust, and loyalty.¡± Juan bobbed his head to the side, thirty pure silver chips stacking themselves at his end of the table. ¡°Of course, since I can¡¯t be a player and a dealer, I¡¯ll have our second-in-command, Teresa, take responsibility for the game,¡± Juan said, and indeed, Teresa was already standing at the head of the table, one hand hovering over the wheel, and the other holding up a beautiful chromatic ball. ¡°The game,¡± she said with her usual lack of emphasis, ¡°is roulette.¡± It is believed, by some, that roulette was first invented largely by accident by French scientist and theologian Blaise Pascal in his misguided attempt to create a perpetual motion machine. However, roulette as we understand it first came about in the 18th century by combining a gaming wheel with cavagnole, the French lottery. The game primarily existed within French parlors and gambling dens in the 18th century, but from the 19th onward would expand into the rest of Europe and, eventually, to America, where a unique but short-lived style of roulette was created with a third ¡°zero¡± space in the form of a bald eagle. It very quickly became one of the most popular games in casinos worldwide, and thus, was often the target of scrutiny and scams, as many less reputable casinos would tilt the wheel slightly to favor some results over others. Even as that trend began to fade, many people throughout history have tried to develop methods and techniques to beat this famously random game. Few have succeeded, and none for long. ¡°There are three types of roulette wheels. At the Silver Wheel, we use the French single-zero style,¡± Teresa explained. ¡°That means there are thirty-seven spaces on the wheel, one through thirty-six, and the zero space.¡± ¡°It feels weird not explaining the game my-¡± ¡°-Please do not interrupt my explanation unless you have a question. ¡°Oops. Sorry.¡± Teresa waited a second longer before continuing. ¡°Each round will start with you placing your bets. There is no upper limit, although you must always at least wager one chip. There are many ways to place a bet in roulette, and the payout changes depending on your odds of success.¡± ¡°Once you have placed your chips on the table and removed your fingers from them, you may not touch them again. As soon as everyone has concluded their bets, the dealer shall spin the wheel and the ball on the track. When the ball lands in a destination, I shall announce the winning space and distribute chips appropriately. Once I have, you may touch your chips again. The game will end when one of the players has 100 chips, or runs out entirely. The winner will be whoever has the most chips at that time.¡± ¡°However, roulette is not a competitive game by design, and at the Silver Wheel, we prefer to introduce elements of strategy whenever possible. Which is why there are three unique rules you must be aware of before the game may begin.¡± ¡°The first is that unlike normal roulette, players must bid for each space. If Charlie places a chip on the odd space, then Juan must place at least two chips there if he wants to claim the space, kicking Charlie¡¯s chip off and returning it to his hand. This process can be repeated as long as you so desire.¡± ¡°The second difference involves the three blank cards you see in front of you. Please make a note of them.¡± Indeed, looking down, Charlie noticed there were three blank playing cards in front of him. Next to them, a fresh pen. ¡°At the very start of the round, you may take one of your cards, write a number between zero and thirty-six on it, and place it face-down in the center of the table. If you do so, the number that you wrote will be the number the ball lands on when the wheel is spun. Once a card is so used, it will be removed from play.¡± ¡°If both players write different numbers on their cards and place them in the center of the table in the same round, there will only be a 50% chance the ball will land on the number you wrote, and a 50% chance it will land on the number your opponent wrote. That is the second main difference between this and normal roulette.¡± ¡°The third rule is simply this: in the unlikely event you should both ¡°win¡± by the same amount during the same round, it is considered a tie, and you shall both lose your winnings. However, if you used a card that round and your opponent did not, it is considered a tiebreaker and you shall win the game.¡± ¡°Are there any questions?¡± Charlie was unshakably certain this game was designed very specifically with him in mind. He was a man who prefered caution and calculation. Sure bets. Not only did roulette spit in the face of that by design, but the 100-chip victory condition forced risky play: A classic example of victory favoring the bold. He had some level of control with the cards, but they would have to be used carefully¡­ Charlie¡¯s early success at the Silver Wheel had been thanks to his understanding that no word was used carelessly in explaining the rules for each game. It was deliberate, and in that deliberation, there were clues to victory. And already, Charlie could see one such clue: the cards would only be discarded if they were ¡°so used¡± in a round. That meant that Juan would likely try to bluff by pretending to write something on his card, placing it forward, and then taking the card back when it was neither used nor discarded at the end of the round. Likely in the hopes that Charlie would waste a card trying to counter his bluff. His reason for wanting to do that was obvious: the cards were the sole factor of victory in this game, and wasting one would be astronomically catastrophic. All it would take to ¡°win¡± is to write a number on a card then put two chips onto that number: the payout would be 70 chips, which combined with the thirty you started with, would secure you the victory. That would force your opponent to either place their own card, or to out-auction that space. A gamble, or a war of attrition. The first was severely unappealing, and the second would require more resources, which couldn¡¯t be guaranteed without using a card in the first place. So everything about this game hinged on using them intelligently. Indeed, this was not a game of roulette at all¡­ ...it was a game of bluffs. But if Juan thought he could win by making this game about reading his opponent, he severely underestimated Charlie, who was already running the simulations in his head a dozen different ways. And while he hadn¡¯t quite thought of a way to ensure he was guaranteed to win -- he had the confidence to know that Juan didn¡¯t have such a sure-win strategy at his disposal, either. There was no trick Juan could conceive that Charlie could not think up as well. ¡°No questions here.¡± Juan snickered. ¡°Heck, I made the dang thing, I should hope I understand it!¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Charlie nodded. ¡°Let¡¯s play.¡± ¡°In that case, please make your bets.¡± Charlie mused. As he expected, Juan picked up a pen and a card and wrote something on it, sliding it forward to the center of the table. It could very well be a bluff¡­ or¡­ it could be an early power play. Forcing players to write and submit their cards at the start of the round was a source of endless frustration for Charlie because it meant he had to decide to bluff or call with literally no other data to work with. If Juan had written a real number, Charlie would be forced on the defensive, having to counter any potentially winning bets by outbidding them. If it was a bluff, then he could play his own card and make his own power play¡­ but then Juan would rely on the same strategy, and would have to outbid any potentially winning bets. But then in future rounds Charlie would be at a card disadvantage, which could very well cost him the game. He looked at Juan. The man was smiling. Having fun. A little too relaxed. Maybe it was forced? Was it always forced? Charlie didn¡¯t know. He never paid attention to him. He made a point of ignoring him as often as possible. How was he supposed to read him, how the hell do people do this sort of thing? He had to make a call. And he decided the reliability of the cards was more important than any early advantages playing defensively might cost him. Plus, the one nice thing about roulette was that there were always options: even if he couldn¡¯t outbid Juan at every space, he could use street and split bets to prevent Juan from potentially creating an overpowering difference between their chips. So he pretended to write something and slid a card to the center of the table. A bluff. But come to think of it¡­ who would place the first bet? After all, in a game like this even dropping the first chips would put you at an enormous disadvantage, as it would give you fewer chips to counter your opponent¡¯s move. Even putting one chip in the wrong spot would mean that technically Juan would have more chips at his disposal which he could use to theoretically overpower- -Juan laughed. And Charlie was in no state of mind to identify if it was combative or genuine. Mostly he was annoyed that it disrupted his chain of thought. ¡°Charlie, you¡¯re thinking too much.¡± Juan smiled. ¡°You¡¯re going to give yourself a migraine.¡± ¡°I enjoy thinking,¡± Charlie replied, merely suggesting ''so let me get back to it'' through the sheer venom in his glare. But Charlie brushed it aside with a shrug. ¡°I respect that. Really, I do. But think too much¡­¡± He pushed forward a stack of 10 chips onto the 1-12 betting zone with all the confidence of a man with nothing to lose ¡±...and you¡¯ll miss all the action.¡± Charlie was surprised. That¡­ was an extremely lame bet. At the absolute best, he would earn 20 chips, bringing his total to 50. It wasn¡¯t worth using a card for, which basically signaled right away he had been bluffing, and even if he had been stupid enough to use a card, the 1-12 betting space wasn¡¯t worth contesting. ¡°Don¡¯t be shy, you can bet too.¡± Juan snickered. ¡°Gotta play to win, y¡¯know.¡± ¡°I¡¯m aware. I¡¯m trying to think.¡± ¡°Heh, not exactly to my advantage to let you think, y¡¯know. Besides, this is the first real chance we¡¯ve had to ¡®shoot the breeze¡¯. Do people still say that?¡± ¡°Can you shut him up, Teresa?¡± ¡°It is not against the rules to speak.¡± ¡°Tell you what, I¡¯ll make you a gentleman¡¯s agreement: I¡¯ll shut up for the rest of the round if you answer a question. Just one.¡± Charlie rolled his eyes. ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°What makes you happy?¡± ¡°Winning.¡± ¡°No it doesn¡¯t.¡± ¡°I answered.¡± Charlie¡¯s lips twisted into a sneer. So Juan leaned back with a ¡®you got me¡¯ smugness and blissfully kept his word. Charlie should have said ¡°silence¡±. All the same. He had the luxury to think now. Juan might not be done betting but it was clear he had no intention of putting down more chips until Charlie did. It seemed there was nothing Juan could do that wouldn¡¯t be annoying, because Charlie had no information to work off with the chips that were currently on the table¡­ except that if Juan wasn¡¯t bluffing then maybe the number he wrote was between one and twelve? Juan was still smiling. Charlie involuntarily clenched his jaw. It occurred to him only now that if he had actually written a number on his card instead of bluffing, he probably would have won. With ten chips placed down first thing, Charlie could now out-bid Juan on any other space. Doing this was effectively the same as Juan admitting his card was blank. Two empty cards. Which meant they were literally only playing the odds. He hated that. Still, there was the chance that Juan was just an idiot and didn¡¯t think that far ahead. So no matter what he played, he¡¯d have to make sure he had at least one more chip on hand than Juan so he could out-bid any risky spots.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. So with the greatest of hesitation, he slid nine, no¡­ eigh- four chips onto the odds space. Just to have something on the table. He then looked to Juan and waited. Juan said nothing. Did nothing. He was waiting too. ¡°...if there are no further bets then we will commenc-¡± ¡°-wait.¡± Charlie held up his hand. ¡°I¡¯m not done.¡± ¡°Very well. Place your chips.¡± With a little less hesitation this time, he put five chips on the red space. His winnings would still be meager compared to Juan, but at least this way if neither of them won he¡¯d still have a one chip advantage. And from a statistical standpoint, with a simple spread like this, he would be more likely to come out ahead¡­ There was nothing more that could be done. This was his only available play. All he could do was leave it to chance and learn for the next round. ¡°I¡¯m done now.¡± She cast a glance to Juan, who, as per the terms of their agreement, could only nod. She returned the gesture in kind. ¡°Then we shall spin now.¡± With an ease and familiarity that rivaled Juan¡¯s, Teresa spun the wheel of their fortunes, allowing the colors to mix and blend for only a moment before she pushed the ball along the track. Charlie tried to be uninvested: he had only agreed to this game because he considered his own stakes so low. All the same, he caught himself leaning forward, biting his lower lip as the wheel, as well as the ball, started to slow and stabilize. It used to be that casinos would let you place bets up until the last second, knowing full well it was impossible for people to predict where the ball would land, even if they thought they could. But then in 2004, two Serbs and a Hungarian used laser scanners hidden in a phone to predict where the ball would fall with shocking accuracy, and they used this system to win more than 1.3 million euros over two nights. Charlie wondered if his newly-enhanced brain could pull the same trick¡­ although it hardly mattered for this game, he imagined. The whine of the ball grew softer. It clanked against the bars of the wheel, deciding at an agonizing pace which slot it would call home. With a final hop and click, the ball fell¡­ ...and it landed on red five. ¡°Everyone wins.¡± Teresa reported, producing the chips. Charlie received his nine chips back, and an extra nine for his two 1:1 bets. Juan, however, got a noticeably better payoff: his ten, followed by twenty more thanks to the 2:1 bet. His bold little gamble had given him half of what he needed to win. Charlie was only barely better off than when he started. And indeed, as Charlie had figured: both cards were returned to their owners, unflipped and unused. Juan had won a sizeable advantage through sheer good luck¡­ aided slightly by some bluffing. This was bad. More chips meant he could bet more and outbid spaces. Charlie was one game in and he was already pressed into a corner. And Juan was just laughing it off as if it were no big deal. ¡°Whew. Thrilling, right? When you just try to ride the wheel?¡± Charlie snarled. ¡°Oof. Hit a nerve or something? Y¡¯know, Chuck -- can I call you Chuck? -- I thin-¡± ¡°-You absolutely may not.¡± Juan looked concerned but not in a sarcastic way. ¡°....alright, sorry about that. But Charlie, for real, it seems to me like you¡¯ve built a lot of walls around yourself.¡± ¡°Oh god.¡± Charlie moaned. ¡°Hey, I¡¯m not saying it¡¯s bad. It¡¯s probably what helps you win these games and, you know, destroy lives. I just think that when you block out all the bad stuff, it can be really hard to remember to loosen up the gates a bit to let the good stuff in.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t destroy lives. I provided an opportunity and they all consented.¡± ¡°Under the pretense of a fair game. Then you cheated.¡± Charlie instinctively thought about denying the accusation. But something else came out of his mouth and he wasn¡¯t unhappy with what it was. ¡°Cheating is a made up word used by people who don¡¯t understand the real world. They say it¡¯s a thing so they can pretend they¡¯re good people when really they¡¯re just cowards and weaklings.¡± Juan whistled. ¡°I think that¡¯s the most I¡¯ve ever heard you say in one go. You sure I haven¡¯t touched a nerve?¡± ¡°I¡¯m just talking. That¡¯s what you want, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°I guess it is.¡± Juan leaned backwards. ¡°Mind if I push my luck a bit?¡± Charlie glanced to Teresa. She was waiting patiently to begin the next round. ¡°Yes, I do. Let¡¯s play.¡± Juan shut up and started to scribble on his next card, or at least pretended to. Charlie barely paid attention to that, however: being backed into a corner was obviously not the situation he wanted to be in, but if there was a silver lining, it did dramatically limit his options, which made it easier to plan his next move. And Charlie knew, no matter what Juan did, he had no choice but to actually use a card this round. If Juan used his card for real, Charlie would need to ensure there was at least a 50% chance he wouldn¡¯t win immediately. And if he didn¡¯t, then Charlie would have the advantage he needed to catch up, even if it did mean fewer cards for future rounds. Still, he wouldn¡¯t write a number arbitrarily: taking advantage of gambler¡¯s fallacy, he wrote ¡°7¡± on his card before he submitted it face-down onto the table, next to Juan¡¯s. An odd number below twelve on the red space: basically a repeat of the 5 that won last game. He wasn¡¯t sure if Juan was the type to fall into that kind of trap, but it was better than just choosing randomly. So he had his number. Now Charlie needed a way to capitalize on it without signaling to Juan that he had actually used his card, so he wouldn¡¯t feel tempted to use his winnings to out-auction his opponent at every space. So¡­ he had to bluff, basically. That meant a few chips would have to be thrown onto the sacrificial pyre, such as it were, so he took five chips and put them on the 25-36 betting space. Juan laughed, and put ten chips on the 1-12 betting space again. Charlie felt his heart stop for a few moments. ¡°Charlie, I¡¯m sorry, but I¡¯ve watched you play dozens of games. I know how you think. I can read you like an open book,¡± Juan said. ¡°Here. I¡¯ll prove it. Money where my mouth is.¡± Juan took a small stack of ten chips, and placed two chips each on the one, three, five, seven, and nine spaces. He covered all the odd red spaces in the first twelve sections of the board. Charlie was not a good bluffer. And it was showing in the way his face twisted with a contemptible rage. ¡°You hate odds. You hate chances. You think too much, and a man with a system is as easy to read as¡­ well¡­ I guess an open book, like I said. You thought I¡¯d fall for the gambler¡¯s fallacy, didn¡¯t you?¡± Charlie didn''t¡¯ know what was worse: the fact he had been so easily read, the fact that Juan was so certain of his own victory he was monologuing like a villain explaining his plan before sending the heroes to their deaths, or the fact that all this probably meant that Juan had indeed not used his card this turn, which meant even if he survived he would be at a card disadvantage in future rounds. The third one. That was definitely the worst. He had to turn this around. Not to keep the stuff he¡¯d won or to make friends with this cocky shit. But to prove he was better. The question was how. Charlie broke down the facts: at the moment, Juan knew for certain that Charlie had used a card, and that the number on it was either one, three, five, seven, or nine. With that knowledge alone, Juan could win the game. Fortunately, so could Charlie: because in Juan¡¯s cocky maneuver of placing ten chips at the 1-12 betting pool, he had given Charlie an impossible edge: Charlie could out-bid him for any spot now. He didn¡¯t need to hide which spot he had written down. He took three chips and put them on the seven space, outbidding Juan. Juan whistled, and outbid him with four chips. Charlie puth five Juan put six. Charlie put seven. ¡°You really want this spot, huh?¡± Juan said as he put eight chips on the spot. ¡°Don¡¯t play stupid. It¡¯s not endearing.¡± Charlie placed nine chips. ¡°Is there a difference in your mind between being stupid and friendly?¡± Juan put ten chips. Charlie said nothing. Eleven chips. The number of chips on the spot continued to climb. Juan didn¡¯t speak again until he had placed his eighteenth chip on it. ¡°Mind if I ask you another question?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Charlie snapped as he placed nineteen. ¡°What if I asked you the same question but you answer it honestly this time.¡± Twenty chips. Charlie said nothing. Twenty-one chips. ¡°What makes you happy?¡± ¡°Silence.¡± ¡°That probably makes you less unhappy but I don¡¯t think it actually makes you smile.¡± ¡°Why do you care?¡± Twenty-five chips on the spot. Juan was running out. ¡°Well, if we¡¯re going to be friends, I mean¡­¡± ¡°We won¡¯t be friends even when I win.¡± Charlie snarled as he put twenty-seven chips on the spot. ¡°You¡¯ll be my lackey. At best. And you¡¯ll shut up the whole time you¡¯re doing it.¡± ¡°Yeesh. Alright, sorry I asked.¡± Juan placed twenty-eight chips on the spot. Charlie put twenty-nine chips down. Juan, once again, whistled. ¡°Those bad boys sure stack, huh?¡± Juan placed his last chip on it. Wagering it all. And Charlie, as anticipated, put thirty-one on it immediately afterwards. The spot was indisputably his. He had won. ¡°Heh. Not bad.¡± Juan chuckled as Charlie leaned back. ¡°That¡¯d be a hell of a payout if it works out for you. That¡¯d be¡­ what¡­¡± ¡°One thousand and eighty-five chips.¡± Teresa informed them. ¡°Wow. Well, I guess it¡¯d be a shame to not get anything for my trouble.¡± Juan smirked, putting two chips in the corner for an 8:1 payout when the ball landed on seven. ¡°That¡¯s the last bet out of me. Ready to get this ball rolling, Charlie?¡± Charlie didn¡¯t know how he was feeling, but it was a mix of unquenchable anger and victorious validation. Juan¡¯s showboating had cost him this game. And he would relish in his inevitable victory when he- Ture stepped forward irritably. ¡°Fuck, I hate being the waiter,¡± he grunted as he stood next to Teresa. ¡°Okay, so, water for Juan, because he¡¯s a giant pussy and that tends to chafe when it¡¯s dry, and Charlie, since you didn¡¯t fucking touch the last drink I made for you, try something new and exciting.¡± He put a small bowl in front of Charlie, filled with an off-white pale drink with a milky sediment at the bottom. He recognized it immediately as makgeolli -- a Korean alcohol, and a form of rice wine. Charlie had never once indicated he liked rice wine, or even Korean food, or was even especially thirsty right now. Why was Ture randomly giving him this drink? ...Charlie looked at the board. Then at Juan, at how relaxed he was with the current state of the game. His eyes trickled over to the cards on the end of the table. ...Juan had written something on his card, hadn¡¯t he? Christ, he had. He must have. If he had been able to predict everything else about Charlie¡¯s plan¡­then why wouldn¡¯t he have been able to predict he¡¯d use a card? But that meant that by putting those first ten chips down¡­ ...he was toying with Charlie, wasn¡¯t he¡­? The confusion warped into fury. A white-hot rage that left Charlie barely able to think. This son-of-a-bitch was playing with him. The only reason he hadn¡¯t lost was because Juan had read the situation and decided to make a fool out of him instead of winning outright. Charlie could stomach losing, but being mocked in the process? Being looked down on like a child?! He couldn¡¯t tolerate that. Not one bit. But he had to put his plans for revenge on hold. The makgeolli was a sign. Ture was trying to help, he knew it. But what could he learn from some random alcohol¡­? ¡°Well you gonna stare at it like a retard or drink it?¡± Ture sneered. ¡°Use your mouth, dumbass. Your fucking mouth.¡± Could it be the origin of the wine? It¡¯s the oldest alcohol in Korea, having been brewed in the Three Kingdoms Era, which spanned from the 1st century BC to the 7th century AD¡­ too many numbers in that origin for any of them to stick out. The number of letters in the name? Nine¡­ Juan already had chips there. And the drink did roughly translate to ¡°recklessly strained¡±, which pretty perfectly described the situation Charlie was in right now. He took a sip. The makgeolli has a mild acidity and sweetness to it, and thanks to its low alcohol content, around 8% alcohol by volume on average, it was considered a good social drink. But¡­ that 8%... and Ture urging him to drink it¡­ ...it was either eight or nine. If it was a nine, Charlie had only a 50% chance to win. Point-blank. It meant that Juan had every intention of winning and there was no way to do anything but hope the ball landed on the seven. He could be outbid for any space right now, so even if he put down his three chips on the nine, Juan would just put four and that would be the end of that. Spin the wheel. Cross your fingers. If it was eight, then Juan really was playing with Charlie, because it remained unclaimed even though he could put four chips on it and steal it for good. No matter which number it was, it disgusted him. He was either leaving everything to chance or Juan was toying with him. He hated this game with everything he had. And he hated that Juan was making him play it. And looking very self-satisfied about it as well. He had to choose. But there was really no choice to make. If he put three chips on the eight, toying or not, Juan would have to out-bid him to prevent instantly losing. Which meant Charlie only had one way to stay in the game and ensure he didn¡¯t lose even if the wheel did not land on the seven. Splitting. If he split between an eight and a nine, that would be a 17:1 payout. That was worth 51 chips: enough to keep him in the game, but not enough to win instantly. Juan would let that happen if he was toying with him. So it was less a gamble on which number to pick, and more on if Juan was really here to win. As much as he hated to think so, he really only had one choice. So he placed three chips on the split between eight and nine. And he was out of chips to play. All Juan had to do was out-bid him. If he put four chips onto that spot, or even one chip on the eight, then it would be back to a 50% win chance for either of them. And the game would be over after the next spin. But he didn¡¯t. He just raised an eyebrow at this seemingly random wager, then shot him a smile. ¡°So. You ready?¡± Charlie felt a knot in his stomach he could only call loathing. But he nodded. ¡°Spin the wheel, Teresa.¡± One flick, and the wheel started to turn. Another, and the ball circled the other way. Clicking in an even, slowing tempo as fate deliberated on where the ball should land. Charlie tried to feel too mad to be apprehensive about how the wheel turned, but he couldn¡¯t help himself. His throat grew dry and his eyes itched every time he tried to tear them away from the wheel. More than just his victory hinged on this spin, but his dignity itself. He wanted to win hard so he could shove his win into Juan¡¯s smug little face. The wheel slowed. The ball bounced and jostled. It stopped, and clicked into place. At the red eight. ¡°Eight. The chips will be distributed now.¡± His heart fell to the floor. Charlie lost all thirty-one chips he had placed on seven, and the five he had placed on the 24-36 space. But the three he had placed on the split paid out: fifty-one chips exactly. Making his grand total 54. As before, Juan made out far better. He lost the ten chips he had placed across the one, three, five, seven, and nine spaces, but the ten chips he put on the 1-12 betting space got him another twenty chips, making up for that loss. And the corner-seven bet touched the eight space as well, which won him sixteen more chips. In total, he had 76 chips: still enough to keep playing, and more than enough to keep his advantage alive into the next round. The chips were distributed. And as Juan¡¯s chips were counted out, Charlie couldn¡¯t hold himself back any longer. ¡°You¡¯re toying with me.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it that.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care what you would call it. Why didn¡¯t you win?¡± Juan alternated between considering a laugh and a sigh. In the end, he didn¡¯t settle on either, and could only offer a thoughtful nod. ¡°Charlie. No matter how this game turns out, you¡¯re going to be back here. My goal isn¡¯t to win. Or, I should say, ¡®winning¡¯ for me is more than just winning this game. Just winning this game would be way too easy for me and it wouldn¡¯t ultimately accomplish much. I¡¯d like to get those people¡¯s stuff back, sure, but I guess I wouldn¡¯t consider that much of a victory if you¡¯d just do it all over again.¡± ¡°What I¡¯m doing,¡± he finally smiled, and it was so thoughtful and honest and genuine that Charlie felt sick, ¡°is trying to teach you a lesson. If you¡¯re going to come back here, it would be fantastic if you understood what it feels like on the other end of an unwinnable game. If you learned a bit of empathy, stopped making such needlessly cruel bets, and was willing to lose every once in a while, I think we could actually be good friends!¡± Charlie did not feel better. ¡°Heck, I¡¯ve always wanted a regular.¡± Charlie felt disgusted. ¡°...if you thought you could teach me anything by trying to humiliate me, then you¡¯ve got another thing coming.¡± ¡°Well I¡¯m not really trying to-¡± ¡°-shut up. Let¡¯s play.¡± Juan hummed, and uncapped his pen, scratching down on his second card. ¡°Alright. Then just to show there are no hard feelings¡­¡± He slid the card onto the table. Face-up. There was a big, fat zero written on it. ¡°...here you go.¡± And Juan smiled. And Charlie was struck with the horrible realization that every single word that had come out of Juan¡¯s ugly mouth had been designed to either nauseate or enrage him. It occurred to Charlie, as he glared at the face-up card on the table, that just maybe Juan¡¯s real goal wasn¡¯t to ¡°teach him a lesson¡±... it was to make him hate his would-be dealer so much he never wanted to come back. After all, if he won, they would be ¡°friends¡±, and Juan seemed like the talkative kind of ¡°friend¡±. Charlie decided he genuinely didn¡¯t want to win. And yet he couldn¡¯t stand to lose. This was the worst he¡¯d ever felt in his entire life. He tried to shake it off. The feelings clung to him. No matter what mental gymnastics he pulled, distracting himself, reasoning with himself, sorting out his emotions with pure logic¡­ nothing was able to shake them loose. He was paralyzed. He couldn¡¯t even decide if he was going to put down a card or not, because he didn¡¯t know if he wanted to endure this humiliation for a victory he didn¡¯t want, or end this farce with a quick and shameful forfeit. How could he plan his next steps when every direction he looked was awful?! ¡°It would appear Charlie has no intention of using a card,¡± Teresa stated. ¡°The betting phase may begin.¡± He snapped out of it. ¡°I was thinking.¡± He growled, more angry about being denied something than the actual use of the card. ¡°Let me think.¡± She was entirely unphased by his sharp tone, as any good, professional woman is wont to. It improved his mood slightly. Enough to put his mind towards the problem at hand. As much as he didn¡¯t want to win, the idea of giving up had firmly dislodged itself from his head. The indignation he was suffering now would only make his inevitable victory all the sweeter. But first, he had to decide what to do. The zero space in roulette was a unique entity. Unlike other spaces, which could be ¡°covered¡± by every different kind of bet in the game, the only way to bet on a zero space was topline, or to put your chips directly on it: no corner, splitting, street, or other bets reached it. By picking zero, and making it public knowledge, Juan had effectively forced Charlie to either use one of his own cards, or willingly participate in a bidding war for the zero space. A bidding war he couldn¡¯t possibly win. Charlie considered his options. Then, he opened his pen, glided it over the face of his card, then slid it forward face-down. ¡°...now, the betting phase can begin.¡± ¡°Tensions rising, huh?¡± Juan placed a chip on the zero space. Charlie paused for just a moment, then put two chips on the zero space. ¡°Juan. May I ask you a question?¡± The dealer-turned-player quite nearly did a double-take. ¡°Well, blow me down. Sure, man. I¡¯m an open book too, you know.¡± ¡°What makes you happy?¡± ¡°Oh! Well! A lot of things, really. Getting a chance to talk to people is a sure way to put a grin on my face. Not something I get to do often, though, when I¡¯m dealing. I like happy endings, so, I shamelessly root for some people to win more than others. And I guess¡­ I¡¯m always in a pretty good mood unless Teresa tells me I shouldn¡¯t be!¡± The dealer actually shuffled her feet. ¡°Hm. I see.¡± ¡°You finally gonna tell me what makes you happy?¡± Juan pressed, putting three chips on the zero space. ¡°No. I don¡¯t think I will.¡± Four chips down, and Charlie held the zero space. They continued the back and forth of their chips in silence, save the radio, which Charlie only now noticed was playing ¡°The Devil Went Down to Georgia¡±, as sung by Charlie Daniels. They always put down only one more chip than the other, even if they could both reasonably guess this would go on until one of them ran out. Indeed, Charlie could just slide all 53 chips onto the space, save them both time. But each chip raised seemed like a test between the two of them. And Charlie would be loathe to miss any opportunity to see with his own eyes how far Juan would actually be willing to push the stakes. They were thirty-one chips in. ¡°I have another question, Juan. A less personal one.¡± ¡°I¡¯m all ears.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t remember my time here this time, will I?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Probably not.¡± ¡°I see.¡± They were thirty-six chips in now. ¡°So¡­ my turn now, right? To ask a question?¡± ¡°If you must.¡± ¡°Once you¡¯re done with Marie and the Silver Wheel, what will you do? What are your plans?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have any.¡± ¡°Not a one?¡± ¡°No.¡± Forty-two chips in. ¡°Well, how about we fix that right now?¡± Charlie didn¡¯t reply. He just stared, pushing forty-four chips into the spot. ¡°I¡¯m not kidding!¡± Juan grinned like a child, ¡°It¡¯s something you need to think about. A lot of people were, uh, put out to get you where you are. You should at least make sure their losses weren¡¯t for nothing. Make the most of what you get!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to think about it.¡± ¡°...because you¡¯re scared?¡± ¡°Because I¡­¡± But he couldn¡¯t think of a way to finish the sentence. So he just slid forty-eight chips into the zero spot. ¡°You can say you¡¯re scared. This is a judgement-free zone.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not scared.¡± ¡°Well, okay, maybe not¡­ ¡®scared¡¯.¡± Juan mused as he put fifty-one chips on the zero space. The bidding war would be ending soon. ¡°Maybe you¡¯re just anxious.¡± ¡°Maybe.¡± Charlie sighed as he slid fifty two-chips onto the space. It was all he could put forward. He only had one chip left to his name. ¡°Anyone would be, considering.¡± ¡°I think it would be great if you stopped playing armchair psychologist,¡± Charlie grunted. Juan still hadn¡¯t placed the fifty-three chips he¡¯d need to claim the zero spot. ¡°And started playing this game.¡± ¡°What¡¯s your hurry?¡± Juan leaned back, a finger stirring the seventy-six chips at his disposal. ¡°Either I¡¯m going to be your pal or you¡¯re going to be back here for a long time getting your lost stuff back. No matter what we¡¯re going to spend a lot more time together, as I said. I figure if we got to know each other, even when I win, we could relax some of this tension-¡± ¡°-I don¡¯t want to get to know you. Be more like Teresa. She stands quietly and does her job. No one knows you. No one likes you. And no one who¡¯s ever been here remembers who you are. Smile and laugh and use all the stupid colloquialisms that you want. You¡¯re decoration. You¡¯re a tool. And you¡¯d be better off just acting like it.¡± Charlie hadn¡¯t said any of those things with the specific intention to hurt Juan. He had said them because they were true and he wanted to shut the man up. The fact that it looked as if he had been genuinely wounded, though, was not lost or unappreciated by Charlie. ¡°...I¡­ don¡¯t think-¡± ¡°-listen to what I said. I don¡¯t care what you think. Place your chips then let¡¯s wrap this up.¡± Juan was at a loss for words or any purpose in saying them. He slid ten chips onto the 1-12 betting spot, then ten more onto the 25-36 spot. He was on the board. And he had decided against contesting Charlie for the zero spot, despite the fact he could easily do so. ¡°Any more bets?¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°None for me, thanks.¡± Juan listlessly replied. ¡°Then I shall spin the wheel. One moment.¡± With the same expert hand, she gripped the side of the wheel and gave it a perfectly measured pull, causing the wheel to spin at a comfortable clip. With the other, she lowered the ball into the track, and spun it the other way. The two men stared at the ball that would decide the outcome of their game, but eventually their faces turned slightly and their eyes met. Charlie was as emotional as a cinder block. Juan¡¯s leaked sadness and confidence. He was shockingly readable for a man like Charlie, who could almost be called socially illiterate. ¡°I suppose this is game, then.¡± Juan half-smiled. ¡°It is.¡± Charlie nodded. ¡°I mean, you¡¯ll have one more chip, but, you won¡¯t be able to win with that¡­ I can just put one chip on every space and you¡¯ll be disqualified.¡± ¡°That¡¯s bold to say,¡± Charlie noted with a raised eyebrow. ¡°I have all the chips on zero. If my math is right that means I¡¯ll be getting one-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty chips when the wheel lands there.¡± ¡°That¡¯s true.¡± The ball was starting to slow. Each click of the wheel, its speed dropped just that little bit more. ¡°...but¡­¡± Juan continued, ¡°I mean, it¡¯s more like an ¡®if¡¯. Teresa said the cards only count if you put them face-down. Mine¡¯s face-up. So you¡¯ve only got a one in thirty six chance of winning. Statistically, I mean.¡± Charlie was not a good bluffer. Nor was he prone to theatrics. So while he realized he could toy with Juan if he had feigned surprise, he didn¡¯t bother. Instead, he let his completely stoic face, combined with the slowing wheel, drag the smile straight off Juan¡¯s face. ¡°I understand your strategy.¡± Charlie filled the silence that naturally accompanied foreboding. ¡°Get me riled up and emotional and try to get me to finish myself off by getting into a bidding war over a useless spot. Leave me with one chip so I¡¯ll feel that ¡®hopelessness¡¯ you talked about earlier. But if there¡¯s one thing you should never have underestimated, Juan, it¡¯s my tenacious memory.¡± The wheel slowed enough for the ball to lose the momentum it needed to ride the track. It bounced once, twice, then landed firmly in the zero space. Charlie, to illustrate his point, reached forward and flipped his card over: another zero. Juan looked equally impressed and chilled. ¡°You should have finished me off when you could. The game is mine.¡± ¡°Indeed. Charlie is the winner,¡± Teresa announced passively, ¡°You¡¯ll forgive me if I skip passing out the winnings.¡± ¡°Well. This has been a fantastic waste of time.¡± Charlie sighed as he got to his feet. Despite how¡­ riled he had gotten earlier, he was disappointed to find that his victory had not brought him any kind of satisfaction. He had won, sure, but he won all the time, and this was a victory he still didn¡¯t really want. He couldn¡¯t shake the profound irritation that he had only won because Juan had effectively let him. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t say that!¡± Juan¡¯s mood, on the other hand, seemed to have improved dramatically, and he stood up right after Charlie. ¡°This is the start of something great. Heh, you might be right that I¡¯m just a¡­ tool, but that doesn¡¯t mean I can¡¯t be a good friend too. Useful and all. Maybe not to help you cheat but I can see about making sure you play the right kind of games against the right kind of people.¡± Charlie didn¡¯t say anything. He was already heading for the door. Juan was following him while Teresa started clearing the chips. ¡°House of the Rising Sun¡± was playing, but the cover version by The House on the Cliff, which matched the original¡¯s soul but sounded a fair bit more modern, and was infused with considerably more rock sensibilities. ¡°In any case, we¡¯d better start to plan,¡± Juan continued as they went to the door. ¡°Mhm.¡± ¡°Did you want to go back to cards? I was thinking the next game would be Texas Hold Em¡¯-¡± ¡°-Shut up.¡± ¡°Oh. Right. Sorry. I¡¯ll just¡­ follow my gut.¡± Ture was back behind the bar. He was grinning cruelly. ¡°Man, Juan. You said you¡¯d be his pal, not his fucking dog.¡± Juan shrugged guiltily. But he was smiling. Bright as the sun. ¡°Guilty as charged, I guess. But I¡¯m kind of happy I lost. Disliking someone is a lot of work and really sucks. It feels better to like the people around you, y¡¯know?¡± ¡°Hm. Yes. About that.¡± Charlie stood by the door out, which he had already swung open. The black void invited him back to his world, to the helicopter he had fallen asleep in, and his upcoming journey to New Zealand to continue his work. ¡°I know I¡¯ve come off as rather off-putting. I¡¯m sorry about that. I¡¯m not very good with people, and I¡¯m even worse at this whole ¡®friendship¡¯ thing.¡± Juan was listening with rapt attention, but Ture raised an eyebrow, and stopped smiling. Charlie was a bad bluffer, and his delivery was as wooden and stiff as the bar Ture was leaning on. It was more than enough to set off some warning lights in his head, but Juan had wagered his trust and Charlie had won it decisively. ¡°I¡¯m not going to get better at it quickly, so I¡¯m going to ask for your patience. And I want to say I look forward to working with you in the future...¡± He reached out his hand to shake, ¡°As partners.¡± Juan reached forward with an impossibly large smile and clasped his hand. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s okay. I get it. I¡¯m just happy to hear you¡¯re trying to im-¡± Charlie twisted his body and pushed Juan out the door of the Silver Wheel. He leaned his head out and watched him fall. Juan¡¯s red-cheeked stupid face still had a goofy smile for a few moments as he remained suspended in the void, but that smile would quickly vanish, as would the sparkle his eyes, as he realized what had just happened. Gravity, or whatever it was in the void, was already pulling him down, down, into the eternal blackness. He gasped, reaching out for the door, for Charlie, but Charlie only watched as he grew smaller, and smaller, and eventually vanished into the darkness entirely. ¡°Juan?!¡± Ture shouted, and was at the door a moment later. ¡°Charlie what the hell did you do?! Juan?! Juan!!¡± Of course, the void did not offer a reply. Neither did Charlie. He was, finally, happy. He stepped out into the void after Juan, falling into the darkness back into his own world as a heavy, wailing voice called after him from the open door of the Silver Wheel. And it''s been the ruins of many a poor boy And God, I know, I¡¯m one And God, I know... I¡¯m one Round 7: Roulette (Again) ¡°Ain¡¯t Nobody¡±, sung by the one and only Chaka Khan, throbbed on the radio. Teresa had a glass of Pinot Grigio held up to her chin, just shy of her lips. She was staring at the door outside, leaning against the wall. Her eyes were half-lit. Ture, despite himself, realized he was timing the seconds between her blinks. Her record was sitting at five minutes. If, at least, his timekeeping could be trusted: like any good casino, the Silver Wheel had no clocks anywhere on the premises. But she¡¯d been there for a while. He didn¡¯t need a clock to know that. It was making him¡­ anxious. ¡°...do you¡­ uh¡­ blame me?¡± She didn¡¯t react to him. She didn¡¯t react to anything. If it weren¡¯t for the occasional, subtle way she adjusted her shoulder to stay comfortable, and the not-quite nonexistent ripple of her breath against the flat surface of the wine, Ture might have assumed she had died on her feet. Oh. Wait. There. She blinked. Just before she could beat her old record, too. ¡°Do you blame me?¡± ¡°I heard you the first time,¡± she finally answered. Speaking into her drink. ¡°Then it would be helpful if you answered.¡± She tilted her head back, and took her first drink of the wine since he had poured it for her. He watched her throat flex and tense as it glided down to her stomach. She finished it all in one swallow. ¡°No. I don¡¯t,¡± she said. ¡°Win or lose, he would have shook Charlie¡¯s hand. It was his nature that killed him, not your cheating.¡± ¡°Pretty much.¡± She twirled the glass in her hand. ¡°I need to set up for the next game,¡± she announced abruptly while dropping the empty glass to the ground. ¡°Please do not disturb me.¡± ¡°Wait, that¡¯s it?¡± He called after her, ¡°We¡¯re just moving on? Is that all you have to say?!¡± But she was already closing the door behind her. And for the first time ever since he¡¯d arrived here, Ture heard it lock behind her. He didn¡¯t know it could do that.
Charlie woke up feeling good. Great, even. He couldn¡¯t remember the last time he woke up feeling so good, and that was just a 15 minute power-nap. He practically hopped off the helicopter when it arrived at the airport, and he was in such a good mood, he actually took advantage of the full accommodations on Marie¡¯s plane, partaking in a full three-course meal while enjoying a copious amount of oral sex, then falling asleep in post-orgasmal bliss. The good mood lasted well after the plane landed as well, although he was content to spend the helicopter ride to the lab catching up on work and reading up on this hitherto unknown New Zealand lab, which was where the ¡°Silver Wheel pills¡± had first been developed. Their codename, apparently, was ¡°The Royale Treatment¡±. A little on the nose, as far as Charlie was concerned. The lab, he would also learn, was hidden away in a complex in a privately-owned section of the Spenser mountain range, necessitating the helicopter ride. This was because unlike the rest of Walker Horizons and Bigger Skies, which were about exploring alternate universes, this laboratory was focused on finding and studying the ¡®otherworlds¡¯, of which the Silver Wheel was only one. The level of secrecy the facility employed was nothing short of astronomical: upon being hired, researchers would spend every minute of every day on-site until their contract expired or they quit, at which point their memories would be wiped and they would be returned to the world with an extremely generous paycheck and a vague explanation of the work they had done for their CV¡¯s and resumes. The only people who actually remembered everything that lab had discovered were the director of the facility, one Doctor Gene Oberman, and Marie Walker herself. It felt rather like a spy movie. Charlie didn¡¯t have a theme song (maybe he could gamble for one) but he found himself humming a baseless tune as he eyeballed the steep, green inclines of the mountains, trying to look for any signs of civilization. Other than the odd hiker or trail, in any case. But he was not entirely unsurprised to find the helicopter slow, and then stop, on a naturally flat edge of one of the mountains, far, far away from anything that even looked remotely manmade. He stepped out. It was cool and wet. The pilot was going over some small details regarding their arrival with his guide. Signing papers or something. He didn¡¯t pay them much mind as he scanned the horizon, and the ground. Hunting again for any sign of this facility. Now that they weren¡¯t moving, it was considerably easier. There were a lot of small holes in the earth that were trying to look natural but were placed too deliberately, and were likely allowing fresh air to flush into the underground. Speaking of, there was a river in the crevasse between this mountain and its neighbor, and the flow of the water was barely but noticeably stronger when it reached a certain point: that must be where they flushed their waste. Good on them to clean it first, though, so there were no telltale signs of contamination. And of course, he could hear the faint buzz of electricity under his feet. All these observations were only possible thanks to his winnings at the Silver Wheel, but all the same he felt proud that he was keen enough to pick up on them. ¡°Ya ready, sir?¡± his obnoxiously Australian guide asked. ¡°Hm. Yes.¡± ¡°Alright then. Just a tick.¡± The helicopter pilot was taking off. He knew of the location but it seemed they wouldn¡¯t let him see where the door actually was, or how to open it. So the pair left behind watched it fly off, and when it was securely hidden behind another mountain the guide took one final look around before she tapped a button on the side of her watch: twice in a row, followed by a two second pause, then three times again. They waited a few minutes with nothing to do but listen to the sound of the wind and the birds. Charlie appreciated how his guide never attempted to make small talk, or even to explain what was going on. She spoke when spoken to, or when necessary. The perfect underling and the perfect woman. At ten minutes, a section of the ground lowered, and then parted, giving way to a small ladder. They had finally arrived. ¡°Sorry ahead a time, but most of this facility¡¯s gonna be closed to ya. We¡¯ll just be going straight to the observation hall.¡± The guide reported as she lead him through the comfortably wide halls of the facility. They had taken great care to make the place as homey as possible to help cope with the strain of living so far away from the sun for a full year. It was downright luxurious, even, from what little Charlie was able to glimpse: lots of plants growing along the walls, state-of-the-art entertainment and exercise options, and a lot of dogs. He nearly tripped over three just getting to his destination. He hated dogs. ¡°You¡¯ve been under the probes before, yeah?¡± ¡°Yes. The last time I went to the Silver Wheel.¡± ¡°Right, well, those probes are straight piss compared to what the dags here cooked up. We¡¯ve been flat-out making them the bloody best probes in this reality or any other so with luck ya won¡¯t be needing to go back after this go.¡± ¡°Hm. I just might anyway.¡± ¡°What you do in your own time is your business, I just meant in any kind of formal capacity. Least, not in this facility.¡± ¡°I see.¡± ¡°Alright, ¡®ere we are.¡± The last time he had done this, it had been as straightforward an affair as these things could possibly be: they attached some sensors and probes to his body then put him to sleep. Since the Silver Wheel more or less duplicated what you wore when you fell asleep, they effectively had two sets of probes that measured not only everything they could about Charlie and his environment, but also any discrepancies between the two sets of data that the two sets of probes picked up. This room, however, was far more¡­ intricate. They strapped probes to him, yes, but they also strapped him to a table, weaved wires through his body, put contact-sized cameras over his eyes (with accompanying microphone), and had several cameras recording him from every imaginable angle on every possible spectrum of light and energy. They could watch reality itself bend around him. Or at least, most of the bands that composed it. ¡°Comfortable?¡± A wiry voice asked from the speakers. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Sorry about that. Won¡¯t matter in just a second.¡± One of the two researchers in the room with him dropped a pill into his open mouth. He swallowed it dry. Before he could even think about trying to resist the sleep-inducing effect of The Royale Treatment, he was already at the Silver Wheel. ¡°Save My Soul¡± by Blue Sacramento was on the radio, although it was turned down lower than usual. And suddenly he remembered why he was in such a good mood. And why Ture welcomed him by immediately throwing a bottle at his face. It was effortless to catch. ¡°Got a lot of nerve coming back here.¡± He spat. ¡°It¡¯s my job,¡± he replied, putting the bottle on the bar, unharmed. ¡°Besides. You should be happy to see me. Considering our deal.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t fucking know if I want any part of a deal with you anymore.¡± Ture bore his teeth, but it was more like a cornered rat than a vicious tiger. ¡°If that¡¯s your idea of¡­ fucking¡­ helping people ¡®leave¡¯.¡± ¡°I wasn''t trying to help him leave. I was trying to get rid of him. He was annoying, and Teresa is a much more agreeable dealer.¡± Ture was so awestruck and frustrated by Charlie¡¯s obstinance that he was left thoroughly silenced. Perfect. ¡°You can get indignant if you want. It won¡¯t change what happened, but it might force me to re-evaluate our deal going forward. I need to know you¡¯re still interested in leaving, and if you are, I need you to tell me what game we¡¯ll be playing tonight.¡± Ture had to chew through both his tongue and his outrage, and then take a big fat swallow of his extremely shaken ego, before he could muscle out his reply. The effort alone made his jaw go white. ¡°...yes, I¡¯m still interested.¡± ¡°Good. And?¡± ¡°And I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he repeated. ¡°Teresa locked the door to the parlor behind her. I haven¡¯t been able to see what she¡¯s been doing. Setting up a game, or finding a new dealer¡­ I have no idea.¡± ¡°Well I trust you can improvise.¡± ¡°...maybe.¡± He continued, ¡°Juan liked me so he didn¡¯t...notice. Guess you could call it turning a blind eye. But the bitch has. And if she catches me cheating again I could get in trouble.¡± Charlie just rolled his eyes and left Ture at the bar. He was more trouble than he was worth right now. Instead, he knocked on the parlor door. ¡°Teresa. I¡¯m here to play.¡± No response for the first few seconds. But then¡­ ¡°Of course, Charlie. Just one moment.¡± The door clicked. ¡°Please come in.¡± He waited for the door to open for him: but it wasn¡¯t happening. It seemed the service of this place had gone down a bit since his last visit. So he stepped in by his own power, and was surprised to find the door immediately close behind him. The parlor itself was looking decidedly¡­ barren. The table where games were typically held was gone, and in its place, two wooden chairs turned to face one another. The room¡¯s single light, which had been spotty and hazy in the best of times, swayed ominously, causing the shadows of those chairs to shift and meld, almost like streaks of watercolor that hadn¡¯t dried quite yet. Teresa was standing in the middle of the room. She bowed her head politely. ¡°Welcome to the Silver Wheel, Charlie. Please take a seat.¡± He did not move. Something felt wrong about this. He took a step backwards, and bumped into Teresa, who now had her hands on his shoulders. ¡°Please. Take a seat.¡± Teresa had never been friendly. Her demeanor, oftentimes, could be aptly described as the kind of cold that would leave arctic bears racing for warmth. That was what Charlie had liked most about her: she never invited more conversation from guests and her curt professionalism cut most shenanigans short in the space of a breath. Today, however, she did not feel cold at all. And that was worrying. He resisted her efforts to guide him to a chair. He escaped, and put his back to the door. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± he asked. His voice was steady but he did not feel steady. ¡°We¡¯re here to play a game, of course. As you wished.¡± ¡°...I take it you want to be my opponent this time? Whatever it is you want to play, I refuse. I¡¯m working now which means I need to play against other people.¡± ¡°I apologize for failing to properly convey the situation to you, Charlie.¡± She bowed once again. While her head was down, he put his hand on the door handle. It was locked. ¡°I am not requesting a game with you. I am demanding one.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t do that, I¡¯m a guest here and-¡± ¡°-¡¯Guests¡¯ are invited and welcomed. You are neither. Therefore, I shall call you what you are: an intruder. Now¡­ please¡­ sit.¡± It seemed he didn¡¯t have a choice. He took a few steps forward and sat on one of the chairs. Teresa sat on the opposite one, facing him with her feet flat on the floor, and her hands flat on her lap. She looked like a porcelain doll. Maybe she had always been one, it was just impossible to notice considering how easily she slipped into the background, lurking in the areas of the Wheel where light seldom touched. ¡°The stakes of this game are very simple. If you win, you shall be our guest once more, and you may play to your heart''s content. Lose, and you die. I hope you find the terms agreeable as they are non-negotiable.¡± Whatever crawling, slowly inflating anxiety that may have swelled up in his chest vanished in an instant. The horror was in the mystery, and now that he knew what the stakes were, the weight of that gloom simply vanished. Besides, death wasn¡¯t scary. He had done it once already and things turned out fine. There was no doubt he could do it again: with even less trouble this time, given he was currently safely strapped to a table at a laboratory. The fact he could play for his freedom was also a source of confidence. If he could beat Juan at his own game, a game designed specifically to beat him, then he doubted there was anything she could concoct that could outwit or defeat him. She did not seem like the creative type to begin with. Just one of the many things he had once appreciated about her. Still. He nodded somberly. As if her words mattered to him. ¡°If I have no choice. So what will we be playing?¡± ¡°The same game you played with Juan, of course.¡± She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a pristine, ivory-handled Ruger Blackhawk, a six-chamber revolver designed in 1955 to capitalize on the popularity of westerns. ¡°Roulette.¡± ¡°Russian Roulette¡±, as it¡¯s often called, was first mentioned in a short story written in 1937 by a man named Georges Surdez for Collier¡¯s magazine. It¡¯s unknown if he invented the game himself or if it was based on some historical incident and he merely named it, but whatever the case, it¡¯s been a staple of fiction ever since, and has even been played in real life by a few notable individuals, such as Malcolm X, Henry Graham Greene, and allegedly John Hinckley Jr. ¡°But at the Silver Wheel, we don¡¯t play games of pure chance.¡± She repeated the words said so often before. But they were tinged with enmity this time. ¡°Which is why we play a slightly different variation.¡± She popped the chamber open with a single flick, then opened her other hand. There were two bullets in her palm -- .30 Carbines. ¡°At the start of the round, you may load either one or two bullets into the chamber. Then, you close the chamber and spin it.¡± She slid both bullets into the chamber, next to each other in the cylinder. She snapped it shut with the same brisk flick, then gave it a quick spin. ¡°Unlike normal Russian Roulette, you do not need to point the chamber at your head. You may point it to any part of the body. However, the more vulnerable the body part, the more points it will be worth.¡± She rested the gun against her knee. ¡°Limbs are one point.¡± She raised it up, to her pelvis. ¡°Lower body is two.¡± She raised it up again, to her chest. ¡°Upper body is three.¡± She lowered it again, and pushed the barrel into her stomach. ¡°Stomach is four.¡± She then rested the barrel against the side of her head. The steel of the gun was nearly the same color as her dead blue eyes. ¡°Head is five. If you pull the trigger and nothing happens¡­¡± Her finger flexed. The trigger tightened. It resisted just enough so that she was only a hair¡¯s width from actually firing the gun. ¡°...points are awarded to the endangered party. But if it goes off¡­¡± She lowered the gun. It laxed in hand, pointing lazily to her lap. ¡°No points are awarded. If you put a second bullet in the chamber, you may pull it again before giving the gun to the other player. The game continues until one of us reaches twenty points. Or dies.¡± ¡°Hmm.¡± Charlie hummed. ¡°...is that it? It seems very simple. Compared to your other games.¡± ¡°Those were Juan¡¯s creations. Are you ready to play?¡± He snorted. If there was one good thing about Juan¡¯s games, it was that all the rules provided plenty of refuge for him to work his clever tricks. There was no way to cheat at this game even if he wanted to. He¡¯d just have to load the chamber and pull the trigger. ¡°I don¡¯t have much choice, do I?¡± ¡°You do not. We shall decide who goes first with a flip of a coin. Heads or tails?¡± ¡°Tails.¡± With the gun on her lap, she retrieved a coin from her pocket and balanced it on her finger. ¡°Arsonist¡¯s Lullaby¡±, by Hozier, started playing on the radio as she flipped it. And as her eyes were locked onto the coin, he considered grabbing the gun from her lap. It would be fairly easy as far as he was concerned, but he wasn¡¯t quite sure what he would accomplish by doing that. Anything he could think to do with the gun, he could do when she handed it to him during his turn. Besides, it would hardly help¡­ he knew what this game was really about. Every game in this place had a trick. Even something as simple as Russian Roulette. ¡°Tails. It seems you get to go first. Congratulations.¡± She held the gun out to him. He stared at it, then his eyes darted up to hers. ¡°You think you¡¯re pretty clever, don¡¯t you?¡± She didn¡¯t say anything to that. But there was hate in her stare. Melting the ice in her cold blue eyes. ¡°You think I forgot about Mr. Eight? The moment I even lay a finger on that gun, he¡¯s going to kill me for you. The only way to win this game is to not play, or hope you kill yourself first.¡± She lowered the gun slightly. ¡°A reasonable concern. But you have my assurance that Mr. Eight will not interfere with our game. I have explained the situation to him and he consents to the terms.¡± She was his enemy. But all the same, he trusted her. Maybe it was the beguiling perfume of the room that made her words seem especially believable, or maybe it was the fact that she seemed like the kind of person who valued honesty over practicality or tact. But whatever it was, he was relieved to find himself unmolested as he laid hands upon the revolver. There were already two bullets in the chamber. That seemed reasonable. The more he shot, the sooner he¡¯d get this game out of the way, live or die. He gave the chamber another spin, for good measure, then pressed the chamber against the side of his head. He rested a finger against the trigger. And then he paused. He paused a bit longer. And then he realized he wasn¡¯t just pausing. His palms were white and cold. His eyes were squeezed shut. There was a boulder in his throat, and his heart was beating quickly. He felt his armpits sweating. His fingers were trembling. His breathing was short. And radiating from the barrel of the gun was a white-hot chill that extended through his skull like a spider¡¯s web. Something that itched and throbbed, as if his brain was so busy bracing for a bullet that may or may not come it couldn¡¯t do anything else. He was paralyzed. He was scared. He knew he had nothing to fear, empirically. But no brain was made purely of logic. The instinctual, animal side of his mind was screaming and thrashing and gnawing and doing everything it could to lift his finger from the trigger and point the barrel somewhere else. It was an uprising, and one he couldn¡¯t ignore no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to pull the trigger. He breathed deeply as the gun was lowered to his chest, and deeper still when he shifted the gun to his shoulder. It was fewer points. But he needed to warm up. Get accustomed to the click of an empty chamber¡­ or get the shock of pain he¡¯d need to shake his brain loose of all this rigid, preemptive adrenaline. He squeezed his eyes shut, then the trigger. Click. He exhaled. Eased his finger from the trigger for a moment, giving that small peg of metal some space to breathe. Then, utilizing his lightly-used courage and adrenaline-fueled brashness, he pulled it again.
Marie¡¯s phone went off once. It only ever went off once. Her assistant swiped it open to see who it was. ¡°Ma¡¯am, it¡¯s Dr. Oberman.¡± Marie smiled at the news. It was always exciting when Gene called. That either meant he discovered something he couldn¡¯t wait to tell her about in his weekly reports, or something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Either was fine for her. Broke up the monotony. Something she needed now more than ever, considering she was currently being driven through the District of Columbia for her seventh senate hearing in the past two years. There were only so many times she could tell those old, technologically-illiterate idiots that she was not going to destroy the fabric of space-time and that God wasn¡¯t real anyway so there¡¯s no harm in her playing it. If anything, she should be commended for filling the vacancy. ¡°Pick up, pick up!¡± She crossed her legs and leaned forward like a housewife eager for the latest neighborhood gossip about who¡¯s fucking her husband. ¡°This ought to be ju-icy.¡± She put the phone to her ear. ¡°Marie. Marie we¡¯ve got a situation.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I pay you for darling. Situations. Would be boring if we didn¡¯t have any.¡± ¡°Not the fun kind of situation, I¡¯m afraid.¡± ¡°That¡¯s all perspective. But fine, enough flirting. What¡¯s up.¡±Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Gene always breathed really, really heavily, like he just finished sprinting an entire marathon. It was loud and unsubtle and intrusive in the worst of ways and Marie loved it. She was a firm believer (well, ¡°hoper¡± -- she firmly hoped) that genius was always married with eccentricity and his over-the-top breathing was one of the main reasons she hired him. It turned out to be a smart decision for a number of reasons, and now his breathing was just icing on the cake. ¡°There¡¯s an armed gunman in the room with Charlie.¡± She needed a moment to adjust to the news. She started gnawing one of her fake, pink fingernails. She was piecing together what was happening, two steps ahead of Gene¡¯s own explanation, which did little but elaborate on the facts she had already figured out. ¡°We keep two personnel in the room with Charlie at all times to monitor vitals and do other essential tasks. Almost immediately after we put him under¡­ one of them pulled out a revolver. Must have stolen it from the guards. He¡¯s ranting about how immoral we¡¯re being, spitting on god and that manner of nonsense¡­ he just shot Charlie in the shoulder.¡± She bit down hard on the fingernail. She pulled to feel the tension of her skin as it tried to keep the nail in place. She was grinning. ¡°Listen to me, sweetie. Gene. Have your people tried talking to him?¡± ¡°Not yet. We just sealed the door.¡± ¡°Good. Make sure no one says a word to this man. No matter what he threatens, remain absolutely silent. Observe the room carefully with all the instruments. It¡¯ll sort itself out by the end. Pinky swear.¡± ¡°What if he kills Charlie?¡± ¡°We can get another.¡± ¡°...yes, I suppose we can. Whatever you say.¡± ¡°Mmmm. Say that again.¡± ¡°...whatever you say.¡± ¡°Ngh, mama likes. Alright, gotta go. Keep me posted. Love you darling.¡± She blew a kiss into the receiver and hung up on him as he tried to process that. Then, she pocketed the phone. She wanted to be at his disposal if he should ever call again. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s gonna be a good day,¡± she sighed as she slouched back in her seat, ¡°Play something snappy, Carla. Gimmie some hot latin beats. Something I can move my feet to, that''ll stick in my head during proceedings.¡± ¡°Um¡­ Mambo Number Five?¡± ¡°Ladies and gentlemen.¡± She grinned, pulling so hard on her nail she ripped it straight off the finger. Skin hung loose from the bottom and blood dripped onto her lap until she started to chew it. ¡°Always gotta start with that, Carla. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Mambo Number Five.¡±
There was a version of Charlie, who, sitting in prison for a white-collar crime, was accidentally shot in the shoulder by a patrolling guard messing with his handgun. There was another version of Charlie, who, while fixing the shed in his backyard, tripped and landed hard on a nail, which rammed straight through his shoulder. Another where robbers attacked his bank and shot him in the shoulder. A vengeful ex-lover bursting in on him with his latest paramour. Some idiot threw a knife in his kitchen and it wedged into his shoulder. There were hunting accidents, firing range mishaps, unlikely ricochets, muggings, assassination attempts, car crashes, explosions, animal attacks, exercise mishaps, battles, antique misfires, gang threats, home invaders, erupting pipes, unfortunate falls with worse landings, safety rigging failures, poorly-conceived stunts, diseases, messy arrests, suicide attempts, mishandled evidence, surgeries, infections, parasites, faulty equipment, mistaken identities, and billions upon billions of other ways that it happened. But it was always the same-sized hole in the same place on his body at the exact same time for every single Charlie that ever was. And he could feel it. ¡°What¡­¡± he groaned between clenched teeth, tears and bullet-sized sweat dripping down his face as he grabbed the hole in his shoulder. The gun was on the ground. ¡°...what the fuck was that?¡± Teresa stared blankly at his wound before slowly lowering herself and picking the gun off the ground. She popped it open, and emptied the chamber. ¡°Tell me something, Charlie.¡± She spoke as if he wasn¡¯t shivering in pain just two feet away from her. ¡°What do you think you are, right now? If your body is in your dimension, what are you playing with?¡± ¡°...I¡­ I don¡¯t fucking know.¡± He was trying to think, but it was hard. He had no idea how much bullets hurt. Without the adrenaline to numb the pain, he could feel every severed nerve burning the entire left side of his body. He drooled as he he spoke. ¡°A¡­ a projection of my consciousness. That¡¯s¡­ what Marie told me.¡± ¡°Hmm. Not completely. It would be more accurate to call it your soul, but even that is not quite correct.¡± She re-loaded the chamber with a single bullet -- a .480 Ruger this time -- and snapped the gun shut. ¡°Are you aware of the theory of Forms?¡± His mind was static. He spat on the ground, then released a random, pained moan, but didn¡¯t reply. ¡°It was a theory conjored by Plato that reality is merely an imperfect reflection of a perfect world. This perfect world contains the perfect versions of all things, and other things in all other worlds are mere imperfect ¡®shadows¡¯. To simplify things immensely -- the ¡®you¡¯ that is currently strapped to a table is but one of your shadows. While the ¡®you¡¯ at the Silver Wheel is the quintessential, perfect Charlie, who is merely borrowing his consciousness.¡± She spun the barrel. It clicked, clicked, clicked, before it slowed and stopped. The same way he believed her when she said the gun was safe, he believed all the insane things she was saying now. There was an irrefutable certainty to it. It was like trying to argue fire with the sun. ¡°To damage your quintessential self is no small thing. Doing so redefines what the perfect ¡®you¡¯ is, which causes a ripple effect across all your shadows. That is why Mr. Eight is so diligent at protecting people in this establishment from hurting themselves or others¡­ to spare them such a terrible, terrible fate.¡± She pushed the barrel against the side of her head. She remained as still and porcelain as she had always been. Did she have nerves of steel, or even nerves at all? He had no idea. ¡°But he¡¯s not here to protect you now.¡± She pulled. Click. ¡°Five-one. My favor. Your turn.¡± She tried to hand him the gun. But the moment it was presented to him, he stumbled back with a gasp, as if the gun was the most terrible thing he¡¯d seen in his entire life, an eldritch shape his mind couldn¡¯t comprehend. He fell to the ground and pushed himself away from the weapon while still being unable to look away from it. His eyes were trembling in their sockets, and he was crying. ¡°K-keep that¡­ that thing away from me!¡± ¡°You will never win if you do not play.¡± She stood up, and started to walk towards him, the gun held out to him the whole time. He continued to drag himself away. Shaking his head. ¡°This is insane, this is¡­ this is fucked up! This is fucking insane! I don¡¯t deserve this! I¡¯ve done nothing to deserve this!¡± ¡°It seems you¡¯re confused again, Charlie.¡± She tilted her head. He swore he could hear the gears in her neck move. ¡°No one said you deserved this.¡± His back hit the wall, where the darkness reigned. He could run no further. With the sole light in the room behind her, it was her silhouette that leaned over him, barely illuminated enough to see his own reflection in her dispassionate blue eyes. The gun was pushed against his chest. ¡°It¡¯s just the way it is,¡± she whispered. ¡°Through the Valley¡±, sung by Shawn James, was playing. But he could barely hear it this far from the door, with his heart beating so loudly in his chest. One hand clawed against the floor, while the lame one cupped the gun. His shoulder, his arm, his body, was still wracked in agony. But it was next to nothing compared to the maelstrom in his mind. He couldn¡¯t think. He couldn¡¯t think. The one means he had used to assure victory in the past was being stolen from him by fear. He had to think. He had to think! He exhaled sharply. His fingers slipping on his sweat and nonstop trembling, he popped open the chamber to see where the bullet was. He closed it again, then ¡®spun¡¯ the chamber. One. Two. Three. Four notches. It was small and it was measured. But it could possibly constitute a spin. And he pointed the gun at Teresa. He wasn¡¯t surprised to find her expression unchanged. ¡°Think hard before you pull the trigger, Charlie. That was not a proper spin of the chamber. To pull the trigger would be to cheat. Which means you¡¯d lose.¡± ¡°Only... if you¡¯re around to call me out on it.¡± ¡°That is correct.¡± She leaned forward. Resting her forehead against the barrel of the gun. ¡°But are you certain it will kill me?¡± His breath caught in his throat as her half-lit, glassy eyes dared him. There has never been a doll that would die if shot in the head. As long as glue and tape and imagination existed, she would always live on, even if you emptied an entire magazine into her glass face. Charlie did not know if she was actually a doll or if that was merely his own imagination going into overdrive due to stress. But he didn¡¯t doubt for a second that no matter what she was, she wasn¡¯t human. He was having a hard time aiming, even with the gun resting directly on her forehead. She was so close but he couldn¡¯t feel or even hear her breath. Or even see the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Had she even blinked once since he had walked into the room? ¡°...fuck you.¡± He moaned, lowering the gun and spinning the barrel, for real this time. He watched it spin while his brain did the same, trying to find some... out. The rules were too simple to exploit. He could try shooting the door or the glass, but leaving the room would count as a forfeit. And he doubted Ture could do anything¡­ ...wait¡­ His breathing and his heartbeat grew quicker. ¡°Hey.¡± The hand with the gun went slack. ¡°Do me a favor, eh? Let Ture bring me a goddamn drink. I could really use one right now.¡± ¡°Drinks are for guests. You are not a guest.¡± ¡°Oh, fuck off with that.¡± He laughed anxiously. ¡°Fuck off with that. Please. Look at me. What harm could a drink do? Please.¡± She didn¡¯t answer right away. He leaned forward. He had to capitalize on this brief respite: he needed this drink. ¡°It¡¯s what Juan would have done.¡± She twitched. He touched a nerve he once doubted she even had. He was certain she would have tensed if her body wasn¡¯t already as stiff as a corpse. She stood up, her silhouette looming motionless over him, and he heard the door to the bar ¡®click¡¯, unlocking itself though whatever strange force she used to compel it. Moments later, Ture poked his head in, a bottle of vodka in his hand. Popov. ¡°Goddamn.¡± Ture loudly whispered. All other commentary, however, was kept to himself. He lobbed the bottle to Teresa, who caught it without even a quick backward glance. She then dropped it on Charlie¡¯s chest. The door clicked shut behind Ture. ¡°Thank you.¡± Charlie parodied genuine thanks as he ripped the cap off the bottle with his teeth and took an enormous swallow of the stuff, dragging himself to his feet as well. Ugh. It was awful. Like hand sanitizer diluted with lake water. But he¡¯d take what he could get. He took another chug. But this one he didn¡¯t swallow. He spat it. A spray of heavy, saliva-laced alcohol directly into Teresa¡¯s face. Teresa finally fucking blinked. She scrunched her eyes shut as the vodka splashed on her face, protecting her eyes and whatever other openings she could. Her hands raised, too late to stop the alcohol, but just in time to wipe off her face. And while she was still scrubbing, he raised the gun¡¯s barrel at her and pulled the trigger. Bang. The .480 Ruger has a diameter of 12.1 mm and a length of 41.9 mm. On average, it moves at a speed of 410 meters per second, and delivers 1,783 joules of energy on contact: it was so powerful, it was often used to hunt bears and ensure the kill was quick and painless. In fact, at this close range against a fairly frail target, the bullet would be moving with such speed and power that it would go straight through the body, producing an exit wound larger than a baseball. In short: it was not the kind of bullet you fucked with, or walked away from. Teresa was not the exception to this rule. She was on the ground. Charlie shivered as he dropped the gun, a thrill and a terror and a chill he couldn¡¯t explain running through his body. He did not feel good. He did not feel good at all. Not just because he¡¯d been shot in the shoulder, or because he had just murdered Teresa: quite the opposite. If he knew she was dead he¡¯d have been over the moon. But the cold, steel claws of anxiety continued to rake slowly against his heart, because he did not see a single drop of blood or a single shard of bone anywhere in a room that should have been drenched in it. ¡°...you¡­ fucking bitch.¡± He mouthed, staggering forward to her motionless body. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ still alive, aren¡¯t you?¡± Now that he was closer, he could see her face: there was, indeed, a hole right between her eyes, which were milky and unfocused as she lay in a tangle of limbs. But there was no blood. No meat. No loose skin or ripped flesh or even a single misplaced hair. It was just¡­ darkness. He kicked her. ¡°Get up!¡± He sobbed as he continued to slam his foot into her side. He was stupid enough to actually start hoping she was really dead. It was impossible and she needed to wake up to prove him right. How long would she keep toying with him like this? He kicked her again and again, and then he threw the open bottle of vodka onto her chest, which spilled onto the floor. ¡°I said get up!¡± Another kick to the side. Her body was shockingly heavy for her size. It felt like kicking a sack of potatoes. ¡°Look at me!¡± She didn¡¯t move. He stopped kicking. His breath itself shivered as he took a step away from her. Was it¡­ was she¡­ actually dead? He looked at the door, checking if maybe it had opened. It was still closed. Music still streamed into the room. He still swam in the smell of perfume and gunpowder and spilled alcohol and sweat. His breath was still short and pained. ...slowly, he turned back to her corpse. She still hadn¡¯t moved. But her eyes were turned to him, and were in perfect focus. ¡°Pity,¡± she said as she slowly stood up, adjusting her limbs like a marionette untangling itself. ¡°The gun went off, so no points for me.¡± ¡°Y-you can¡¯t prove I cheated!¡± Charlie pointed out preemptively as he jumped away from her, hyperventilating as she finally straightened herself out. The hole in her head had gotten bigger, but even as she stood up, he found no trace of anything lurking behind her face. It wasn¡¯t merely empty, it was just like the void outside, consuming and obtuse. Just looking at it made his head hurt. ¡°You couldn¡¯t see! You couldn¡¯t see if I fixed the chamber!¡± She snapped her neck into place. Then bowed her head. ¡°So it seems.¡± She picked up the gun, and emptied the chamber. ¡°Used to the Darkness¡±, by Des Rocs, was playing on the radio. ¡°My turn.¡± She flicked open the chamber and pulled out two more bullets: .44 magnum rounds. On top of everything else it seemed the caliber of the bullets in play were random as well. Charlie couldn¡¯t imagine a single good reason for that other than to fuck with him, or maybe to force him to only aim for his head when the bullet was weak enough that he could theoretically survive. Whatever the case, she slid the bullets into the chamber so that there was one empty space between them, and snapped it shut. This was bullshit. This was bullshit! If she could survive getting shot in the head, then this was hardly a risk for her. He was the only one in danger here, he was the only one actually gambling! If she couldn¡¯t die and all other avenues were dead ends, then¡­ that meant the only way he could possibly get out of this situation¡­ was to actually play. He had to actually win. She pressed the gun against her forehead and pulled. Click. ¡°Ten points for me.¡± She then pointed the gun to his leg and pulled the trigger. Bang He could blame his getting shot a second time on the unusual placement of the bullets: if you miss with your first shot and both bullets are next to each other, then there¡¯s only a one-quarter chance you¡¯ll get a bullet with the next pull of the trigger, since there¡¯s only one possible chamber that could be empty before you reach the two loaded chambers. If you put a space between the bullets, however, there are two empty chambers before a loaded one: which doubles the odds of getting shot on the second pull, assuming you don¡¯t re-spin the chamber. He could blame that, but he was too busy screaming on the ground, clutching the cavernous, bloody hole where his knee had once been. He threw up a little in his mouth. ¡°And you¡¯re still stuck at one.¡± He couldn¡¯t breathe from the pain. His fingers were squeezing the inside of his leg and brushing against his shattered bone, but he could barely register how gross he should have found that. And with two holes in him, he had lost a lot of blood. He was cold. His muscles were an aching purgatory between the twitchy throb of adrenaline and an unbearable weariness. More than anything, he just wanted to go home. ¡°Marie¡­¡± He half-moaned, half-screamed, half-dead. ¡°Marie, I know you¡¯re watching¡­ do something¡­ get me out of here¡­ Marie¡­!¡± There was no response. Of course there was no response. The microphones were one-way. And time spent in the Silver Wheel was often in flux. Either faster or slower as the situation warranted. So there would be some delay anyway. But he couldn¡¯t help it. ¡°Marie¡­ come on¡­ please¡­!¡± Nothing happened. Teresa was kneeling in front of him, the gun presented flat in her outstretched hands. He hated being this close to her, hated seeing the enormous hole in her head so dark no light could escape from it. If the pain didn¡¯t make him want to vomit, the sight of her definitely did. He unsteadily grabbed the gun and held it awkwardly in his bloodied hand. ¡°You can only hope to win now if you pull the trigger twice. I¡¯ve taken the liberty of putting two bullets in there for you.¡± He popped the chamber open. There were, indeed, two bullets. And as an apparent sign of mercy, they were adjacent to one another. He gently pushed the chamber closed again. His blood stained the beautiful steel of the barrel. ¡°...is it¡­¡± his voice was hoarse and weak from screaming, ¡°...too late to apologize for killing Juan?¡± ¡°Of course not. But I wouldn¡¯t care.¡± ¡°...in that case¡­ I wish I had thrown you off with him.¡± He spun the chamber. As much as he hated to admit it, she was right: if he was going to have any chance of surviving, he¡¯d need to take both shots this turn. He didn¡¯t want to, though. He wanted to close his eyes and take a nap. He wanted to be back on the plane. He wanted to be anywhere but here. The gun was so damn heavy he could barely point it at his own head. That¡¯s what he wanted to blame the shaking on. But he was scared. He was still so scared. He was in pain but he still wanted to live so badly, that¡¯s what multiplied the pain and fear to unbearable levels. It was so much easier when he didn¡¯t care. When he thought he was invincible. When he thought he had time. But he still had a strand of silk to climb out of this hell and get his life back, and to grab it he had to pull. The. Trigger. Click. He exhaled for the first time in his entire life. ¡°You now have six points. Are you pulling again?¡± ¡°...yes.¡± He didn¡¯t need to aim at his head. The one extra point he¡¯d get if he did would do him no good. If the caliber of the bullet was small enough -- oh god he didn¡¯t know the caliber -- it wouldn¡¯t be¡­ immediately fatal to shoot his own stomach, tying up the score. It would hurt like hell, but he was already in so much pain he could hardly imagine it would matter. Maybe it¡¯d even make losing a bit more appealing. He lowered the gun and pushed it into his stomach. He expected some give from his soft body, and he remembered very suddenly that he had a six pack. Just one of the many things he had won earlier. He barely had the chance to use it. He flinched and prepared for the worst. He pulled. Click. ¡°Ten points. It seems we¡¯re tied.¡± He threw the gun limply at her. She caught it mid-air with a graceful swipe of her hand, but was otherwise motionless. She remained kneeling over him, in a nearly mockingly maternal manner. She slapped the side of the barrel to check the bullets chambered within. ¡°How are you feeling, Charlie?¡± ¡°Fuck you.¡± He was flat on the ground now. He didn¡¯t have the energy to even try to sit up. Teresa, and the sole light of the room that illuminated her, were only in his peripheral vision that way. He could still watch as she pulled out each bullet, examining it carefully in the dim light, before sliding it back in. Next to each other as before. As she did, she gave it a spin. Some of his blood was on her fingers now. She licked it off. ¡°Do you wonder where you¡¯ll go when you die, Charlie?¡± He didn¡¯t answer. She pressed the barrel of the gun against the side of her head. ¡°Some people go to dark places when they die. The kind of place that Mr. Eight comes from.¡± She pulled the trigger. Click. She had fifteen points now. If she pulled the trigger again and there was no gunshot, he would die. If there was, he had a chance, however small, of making it back home. ¡°Others,¡± she continued, ¡°Go to light places. That is where I come from.¡± She popped open the barrel of the gun again. He slowly forced himself to sit back up. To see what exactly she was doing. ¡°And there are others who wind up places like here. People like Juan and Ture, who have to do a bit more work before they can move on. Juan had been doing a good job. I was¡­¡± She paused for a moment to reflect. Her face furrowed into something like¡­ sadness. But then she rotated the chamber with the same deliberate pace that Charlie had done earlier, ensuring that her next shot would contain a live bullet. ¡°...I was looking forward to taking him home someday.¡± ¡°Y-you can¡¯t just¡­ you can¡¯t just place a bullet there! It¡¯s cheating!¡± He gasped, trying to drag himself away again. He didn¡¯t get far: she straddled his hips and sat down on his stomach, pinning him to the ground. She placed the gun to his forehead. ¡°But when I pull this trigger, you will not go to a dark place, or a light place, or any place at all. You¡¯ll simply¡­ stop.¡± ¡°Y-you just admitted it!¡± His eyes were wide. He sobbed as he tried to buck free from under her. His struggle was weak and pale. A shadow. ¡°You¡¯re going to cheat! I-I win! I win! I get to live! I¡­ I get to¡­¡± ¡°Yes.¡± She agreed. Bang. ¡°...you win.¡±
Do you know how hard it is to masturbate in the Senate''s bathrooms? It¡¯s damn hard. On the surface they were just normal bathrooms, at least the public ones. A chamber of porcelain chairs and cheap metal walls and floors that reeked of pine-scented floor soap. The kind of soap that made the floor wet and reflective but could never actually clean the small gaps between the dull gray tiles. But there was a subtle subtext to the place that, for however unobtrusive it might be, was impossible to ignore. It smelled old, and not in the charming kind of way, but the moldy and sad and dated kind of way. You could smell the leftover perfume and deodorant that were over-applied to some lobbyists¡¯ sweating armpits fifteen minutes ago. And the senate building itself was just¡­ choking on its own self-importance. There was not a single place in the whole US of A more disassociated with reality than the senate, and that disassociation even bled into the bathrooms. So naturally, Marie had made it a point to try to do it every time she was here. It was never enthusiastic or enjoyable, but she was defiant and bored and frankly it would make for a fun chapter of her autobiography, when she got around to writing it. She was in the middle of that when her phone rang. She picked up with one hand. ¡°What¡¯s the latest, doc?¡± ¡°...Marie, this is¡­ this is amazing. I¡¯m sending you some pictures, give it¡­ just look.¡± She checked her phone¡¯s screen and scanned the photos. Her other hand stopped. ¡°...don¡¯t play with me, Gene. Jesus Fuckface Christ, the hell is this? Give me all the details.¡± ¡°...well¡­ we did as you said. We sealed the door and we just watched. The gunman was furious. His demands got louder. He got madder. Soon he shot Charlie in the leg. After that he shot Charlie in the face, and he died. Almost immediately afterwards, the gunman -- he was Doctor Ibern Cartman, by the way -- appeared lucid again, and shot himself in the head.¡± ¡°Told ya.¡± ¡°But as you asked, we kept a close eye on the instruments, and the data we received¡­ it was unlike anything we had ever seen before. As you can see, Charlie isn¡¯t just dead: every version of him we¡¯ve been able to find and track is dead, too. Killed the exact same way, with a hole in his shoulder, a hole in his leg, and finally, in his face.¡± ¡°...I see¡­¡± ¡°...but that¡¯s not all. We were able to extract the video from his time at the Wheel. And¡­ I¡¯ll just let you see it. I¡¯ll send you the file now.¡± She put him on hold, and pulled up the video. She watched the whole thing without saying a word, barely breathing, until the very end: where Teresa, still straddling Charlie, leaned over his face and wiped some blood away from his eye, so she could be clearly seen by the cameras in his contacts. ¡°I wish to inform everyone watching that there will be some new rules at the Silver Wheel Gambling House,¡± she reported stoically. The heat had left her now, and she was as mechanical as ever before. ¡°Those who have our invitation shall be treated cordially, as guests, as they always have. Those who wish to visit our establishment without an invitation shall still be happily received: however, they shall play different games, with different rules, and significantly higher stakes.¡± She smiled. ¡°I look forward to serving you.¡± And the video cut out. Marie Walker held the phone in her hand a few minutes longer before she took Gene Oberman off hold. Just thinking. ¡°Gene, darling, I want to shift around some priorities. I want Bigger Skies completely dedicated to Project Royale. With a small team dedicated to finding my alternates, of course. Scrap everything else, reallocate talent, find something for everyone to do.¡± ¡°Scrap them? We¡¯ve already invested millions into-¡± ¡°-I said, scrap them¡± ¡°Even Project 20:7? You can¡¯t mean that too, I-¡± ¡°I¡¯m not going to repeat myself again, Dr. Oberman.¡± Her tone took a sudden, violent turn into harshness¡­ just enough to cut down what was left of his protesting. ¡°...on top of that, I think it¡¯s time we finally start sharing The Royale Treatment with the world. Send a bottle of forty pills to Helmut Beisner¡­ and another to Nikolay Kondrashin. Send them a copy of the video as well.¡± ¡°...what are you thinking?¡± ¡°Oh, sweetie, you and I are going to have a very long talk about what I¡¯m thinking. But for now, just do what I say, alright?¡± ¡°Yes. Very good.¡± ¡°Ah. Music to my goddamn ears. The recess will be over soon so I have to go, but I¡¯ll be over first thing to discuss the details in-person. Wear something pretty.¡± She could hear him roll his eyes from here. ¡°Cya soon.¡± She hung up, and slipped the phone back into her pocket, then ripped out another one of her fingernails, smiling ear to ear. This, it seemed, was going to be a very, very good day.
¡°You, uh¡­ sure did a number on him.¡± ¡°Mhm.¡± Teresa was massaging some of the blood out of her uniform with a wet rag. It was taking a considerable amount of time, but when you didn¡¯t have a proper washing machine, and she categorically refused to strip, it was the best she could do. It would no doubt be worse when they had to clean the carpet. And the wall. And the ceiling. And the chairs. And all the other places Charlie had been inconsiderate enough to bleed all over. She¡¯d make Ture do it. The bartender tapped the corpse with the tip of his leather shoe. ¡°I appreciate you not helping him cheat, by the way.¡± Teresa¡¯s words were grudging and bitter, but Ture smiled sadly, as if she had said it earnestly. ¡°Well, I thought about playing the Brown Soldier Klick classic ¡®Don¡¯t Get Shot¡¯, but I figured he probably picked up on that already.¡± He laughed at his own joke. Teresa didn¡¯t. ¡°Anyway.¡± Teresa stopped dabbing her sleeve and started to scrub at her collar, ¡°I¡¯m going to need you to clean up this mess. I¡¯m going to be away for a short time.¡± ¡°Wait, wait, back the fuck up.¡± He crossed his arms. ¡°For one, I ain¡¯t cleaning up your goddamn murder. Finish the job yourself. Second of all, you can¡¯t leave. You said that yourself.¡± ¡°That is incorrect.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I said you couldn¡¯t leave. I, however, need to fix my face and then find a new dealer. And I do not want to scare our new co-worker with a bleeding corpse in the middle of the parlor.¡± ¡°...tell you what, I¡¯ll throw his corpse into the void, but I won¡¯t scrub the floor.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll do all of it, Ture.¡± ¡°The carpet is red already. I¡¯ll do the walls and I¡¯ll pick up the bullets but I¡¯m not scrubbing the floor.¡± ¡°Ture.¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t fucking cleaning the floor.¡± They locked eyes and hot glares for a few daring moments. And Teresa finally broke with a demure sigh. ¡°...fine. I¡¯ll clean the floor.¡± Ture grinned smugly. ¡°Alright. Have fun on your little trip¡­ ¡®boss¡¯.¡± She didn¡¯t respond; merely walking out of the parlor into the bar, where she put on her seldom-used coat. She opened the door to the void, but before she stepped out, she double-checked herself -- there were still a lot of little stains all over her. And she knew her pants had at least one big splash of blood on them from straddling Charlie. It would be easier, at this rate, to simply get a new outfit from the higher-ups. She looked at her right hand, and saw all the tiny specks of blood that still clung to her porcelain skin. Like freckles. She smiled. And she stepped out into the void, walking down the darkness with the ease of walking down the stairs, before she vanished into the inky blackness completely. There was a very small number of candidates who qualified to work at the Silver Wheel. That was typically the case. But this time, she had no use for a gentle soul who was in need for a chance at redemption. This time, she needed more: she needed a warrior. She needed a wolf. She knew exactly who she wanted for the job.
¡°W-where am I?¡± Panic was the first reaction, always. Thus far, very few people ever sat down to the table and opened their eyes calmly. Which was reasonable. It was all very reasonable to want to shout and scream and rush for the exit. And yet, up until recently, no one had. The panic came, and the panic passed, aided by the mellow atmosphere and scented smoke that wafted around them. It was designed to subdue the most violent of reactions. But nothing could subdue the confusion. ¡°Feeling Good¡±, the cover sung by Muse, was playing on the radio. ¡°Welcome to the new and improved Silver Wheel Gambling House.¡± A white-haired, porcelain-skinned waitress bowed to the confused young man, who couldn¡¯t have been a day over nineteen. ¡°Would you like something to drink, sir?¡± Typically, Teresa was the first thing they registered, other than the general atmosphere of a classy, upscale establishment. She had a pretty, youthful face underlined by an obvious yet unobtrusive layer of makeup, paling her skin and plumping her lips to a brilliant shade of red. Her clothes were sharp and professional, form-fitting, and looked shockingly new, as if each thread had just conjured into existence and hadn¡¯t had the chance to be stained by even a single speck of adventurous dust. She had vivid blue eyes, and she moved like someone who had a long-estranged, but slowly improving, relationship with the spotlight. The next thing guests would notice, by and by, was their surroundings, as they scanned the room for details. It looked like a casino, but with most all the lights stripped away and only one table. The smell of alcohol, lingering cigarette smoke, gunpowder and blood stained the heavy air. The few lights that were on were dull and yellow, hanging low from the ceiling, illuminating a few key features of the room: A seat, just for them. Their opponent, in this case a thirty year-old woman in a construction uniform. And the dealer, a young Indian woman with violent brown eyes that clashed with the impish smile on her thin pale lips. ¡°What¡¯s¡­ what¡¯s the Silver Wheel?¡± the young man asked. And the dealer laughed. ¡°I¡¯ll tell you from experience, kid... It¡¯s the time of your life.¡± She leaned forward. ¡°Lemmie introduce you properly. I¡¯m your dealer, Ratna, and this here is a one-of-a-kind gambling parlor: where your dreams, or your nightmares, come to life with the roll of a dice.¡± And she bared her teeth like a hungry wolf. ¡°...so¡­ you wanna play?¡± It¡¯s a new dawn It¡¯s a new day It¡¯s a new life for me¡­ ...and I¡¯m feelin¡¯ good.