Another night drew to a close at the card tables. Another night where Lady
Luck ruled the fates, weaving her own threads into the fabric of destiny.
The Casino lights shone even into the deep hours of the night, the stars
hanging in the sky overhead. The slots still blinked and chirped, the bingo
room still drew numbers. Only a scant soul here or there was awake at this
hour, gambling their lives away into the dull beyond. Most of the Rulerist
troops on leave were already asleep or partying to their hearts content
elsewhere. Not Staff Seargent Nathun Willims. A mild addiction to the Vegas
tradition burned in his veins, and he could think of nothing finer than
entrusting his salary to the fates and drowning his insecurities in a tide
of cheap mai-tai’s.
“Screw ‘em. They can go fight and die... n’me.” The bald headed soldier
said aloud, no one to hear him. His blue uniform was in disrepair, his tie
hung loosely about his neck and his shirt untucked and hanging out over his
belt. A pair of pistols were holstered at his waist, a reservation for those
of the ‘desk-job-soldiership’. Tired eyed and somewhat aloof, he played with
the chips in his hands, perusing the tables. “Hmm... fuck tha slots.” The
blinking lights and rolling sounds of a slot arcade echoed in his war
ravaged ears, the noisome sound driving him mad. His boots clunked against
the indoor carpeting, patterns of red, purple, and green cushioning his
step. Off in the distance, a single dealer, a hekshanian, stood smoking a
cigarette. His table was empty, and the maze of stations around him were
abandoned “Blackjack, eh? Sounds good.” Willims slowly crossed the room and
flopped into a purple velvet seatcushion. The yellow furred dealer took one
last puff before diffusing the stick in the ash tray beneath his table. The
dealer straightened his golden colored vest and collar, rolling his sleeves
to his elbow. He picked up the deck of cards laying upon the table.
“Good evening, sir. The war going well, I hope?” It all seemed like idle
conversation, but Willims decided to engage in the chatter. He was two
shades to the wind too far to even remember much about hekshanians, much
less the nametag the dealer wore. It read, ‘Mosisho’.
“I’ma desk o’ciffer, I dun see so much war. I do see the folks who come
back from it, though.” He shook his head depressedly, then leaned over on
the table, propping his chin up with the palm of his hand. He smiled
politely. “What’re we playing?” he asked, with an air of drunken domination.
“Why this is the blackjack table, sir. What else we gonna play?” the dealer
asked, his short brown hair reflecting in the intense light of the
fluorescent bulbs overhead. He offered a toothy smile, one that hid an
agenda. “Put down your bet, sir. This table’s known for being deadly.” He
chuckled awkwardly. I like this guy, thought Willims. Knows how to have a
good time.
“Thirty uni. Deal up.” Willims commanded. Without delay, the dealer flipped
cards in dizzying arcs and tossed Willims one card which landed neatly
before him, and himself one card, with two upright cards right thereafter.
“Dealer’s got seven, sir. Looks like you have a decent hand going, sir. It
might be your lucky night.” The dealer nodded his head at the upright Queen
of Spades under Willims fingers. Peeling his card up, Willims noted an even
twenty.
“Stay.” The dealer looked at his own cards. He smiled again and flipped his
cards over with a gentle wrist flick.
“Dealer’s got 17, sir. You win.” He slid Willims his thirty uni pot and
drew the next hand. “So, you think the war’s going well, sir?” The dealer
asked. The officer looked up at him and gently replied.
“As good as a war can go.” The dealer nodded his head gently in
satisfaction. “I’m glad to hear that, sir. Dealer has a nine, you have a
six.”
“Hit me.” Willims said, tapping his fingers on the green felt tabletop. He
looked at his new card, which left him with a total of nine. He tapped his
fingers again. The total was now ten at three cards. “Hit me.” the dealer
slid another card his way. An Ace of Spades, twenty one. Willims smiled
widely.
“That is the idea, sir.” The dealer said, with that smile that hid an
agenda.
“Excuse me?” Willims said, looking up with confusion.
“The hit, sir.” He grinned even wider. “That’d be you.”
“Huh?” Willims stifled, before three bullets caught him in the chest, as
his body shook in pain. He fell back and crumpled upon the floor, his velvet
cushioned chair beside him. A smoking handgun, elongated by a silencer, was
held in the dealer’s left hand. He walked around the card table, his long
fingers sliding across the wooden finish of the card table’s edge. He stood
over Willims.
“I wasn’t kidding when I said the table was deadly.” He held the gun out
again, depressing the trigger and firing two shots into Willims forehead. A
pool of blood began to form beneath him. The dealer looked at Willims’
cards, which still sat undisturbed on the table. “Twenty-one. Not bad.”
Reaching into his vest pocket, the dealer removed a small insignia, one of
the Pagan Army. He placed it on the table before turning to leave, no one in
sight to halt him. “Not bad at all.”
