I'm basically quoting u/coinforce here. I discovered this gem, because of him and am already 14% plus since I bought. Thanks mate.
Alright nerds, gather round and listen closely. I've graduated to pennystocks chasing these juicy tendies while serving as an autistic prophet delivering good news to the retards and gambling degenerates in that sub.
"Alright u/Sweet-Zookepergame hurry the fuck up and give us the ticker you pumper"
This ain't a pump.
When I see the next golden ticket, I know when to enter with conviction and realize profits while some of you nerds decide to bag hold XSPA and downvote comments to make yourselves feel better.

Score Media and Gaming Inc. (TSE: SCR) (OTCMKTS: TSCRF)

What the fuck is this?
Score Media and Gaming Inc. empowers millions of sports fans through its digital media and sports betting products. Its media app 'theScore' is one of the most popular in North America, delivering fans highly-personalized live scores, news, stats, and betting information from their favorite teams, leagues, and players. The Company's sports betting app 'theScore Bet' delivers an immersive and holistic mobile sports betting experience and is currently available to place wagers in New Jersey, Color.
Key words for you nerds who can't read and have ADHD: SPORTS BETTING
It's already common knowledge sports betting is already big in the North American market - and will continue to generate tons of revenue as states continue to legalize sports betting. Canada is following suit. Legislations will be passed Q1 2021 and we're soon going to see an influx of CANADIAN online betting. Basically all of Canada uses this app exclusively for sports.

• 10M+ downloads on their sports media app with 4.7 stars on Google play store
• #1 sports app in Canada (#2 behind ESPN in the US) with 10% of Ontario's entire population that uses it
• theScore successfully began the multi-state expansion of its mobile sportsbook, theScore Bet, launching in both Colorado and Indiana in September
• theScore Bet secured market access to operate an online casino in New Jersey via a multi-year agreement with Twin River Worldwide Holdings Inc.
• Recently closed its bought deal offering yesterday, issuing 28.6mm shares at $1.40/sharefor gross proceeds of $40mm.
• Total views of theScore esports’ video content across all platforms reached a new all-time quarterly record of 292 million in Q4 F2020, year-over-year growth of 243%.
• Strong fucking balance sheet = increased flexibility for upfront investments in new markets (e.g., market access fees, infrastructure, etc.)
• theScore is competitively advantaged in Canada, vs. foreign operators, as a homegrown player with a strong brand, which we believe will afford it preferential treatment by regulators with early market access, thus paving the way for early market share gains
• theScore esports just recently has been named the exclusive English language broadcast partner for the League of Legends’ Demacia Championship, a marquee annual event featuring 24 of China’s top esports teams.

🚀 Let's take a look at DKNG and PENN this year 🚀
🚀 Share prices for these companies have gone up 300% already this year alone, and with more legalization coming through 2021, theScore is just beginning to scratch the surface and will follow suit.
🚀 TIMING: As vaccines begin to be distributed and the economy recovers, states are desperate for revenue and will be looking to ease regulations on sports betting. The more Sport games start promoting and reopening, the more these stocks will gain (especially with March Madness, NBA/NHL playoffs, etc.)
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🚀 Listen - I'm literally handing you a platter of gold here. If you understand this market, the trends and where actual revenues can be generated - then you understand the play here. Canada is UNTAPPED. This thing will pick up steam soon and will graduate from TSX/OTC and can be easily listed on the NASDAQ. Once that happens, Robinhood will have access and the sky is the limit. I'm not here pumping a fucking non-revenue generating, fuelled by hype only, and a company within an industry that I don't fucking understand.
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TLDR: BUY AND GET IN NOW.
Clearly, I'm on Interstellar's Endurance spaceship with TARS and CASE about to enter a wormhole that'll slingshot me into another galaxy... while most of you nerds are fighting to get on wooden sail boats. At the same time, I'm from the future telling Murphy Cooper (you nerds) how to find the tendies.
MURPHY'S LAW: WHATEVER CAN HAPPEN, WILL HAPPEN.
EDIT: FORGOT THESE 🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀🚀
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Palantir and EV Stocks are a surefire ticket to Yolo, Tendietown but there are some other WSB ignored stocks making moves right now.
Recently Bally's Corp (Owner of establishes casinos such as twin River Casino Hotel, Hard Rock Biloxi, Tiverton Casino Hotel, Dover Downs, and Mile High USA) inked a deal 10 year deal with Sinclair Broadcasting and separately purchased online sports betting operatotech stack Bet.works for $100million.
In this 10 year deal all of Sinclair's Regional Sports Networks will receive the Bally's Brand. Sinclair receives warrants to purchase up to 30% of Bally's stock. This deal will enable live sports betting in real time through a reputable operator while the game is being broadcast as well as during commercial breaks.
Imagine you're in your wife's boyfriend's basement, watching the college you didn't get accepted to playing the college you dropped out of. During a commercial break you see the lines plus potentially a prop bet and with the bally's app on your phone you're able to place the bet and have a reason to stay awake for the 2nd half of the game.
This could be a bigger opportunity than even draft kings as it won't be limited to daily fantasy sports but allow for direct sports betting.
Since the news the stock has rallied 60% but has pulled back recently potentially presenting a buying opportunity.
This news is only a few days old but analysts who have updated guidance are looking at $55-$65 price targets once the market digests what this deal can mean.
As state budget's try to survive the upcoming pandemic related hangovers, expect more and more sports betting legislation to pass and this Ballys+Sinclair partnership has a nearly unmatchable reach in terms of audience reach.
Positions
Shares + $45 12/18 Calls
https://finance.yahoo.com/video/sinclair-broadcast-ceo-partnership-ballys-154619580.html

…The raging river, pulled them down.
Now they’ll always, be together,
In that Happy Hunting Ground…
- Running Bear by Sonny James
“Snakeyes! New roller, please, next up.” The game runner raked in the dice and chips and ignored the despair in the countenance of the most recent “high roller”. Ted shook his head and other people crowded him away from the dice pit. He was almost out of funds and it was still early. He’d budgeted his, “loss level” carefully to maximize his time at the reservation casino. It was an older one, filled with stereotypical paintings and statues intended to honor the local First Nations Tribes while fulfilling the expectations of rude tourists. He looked around forlornly for a new game to play. He didn’t care for the slots or the drawn-out and ever-shifting card games… ah, Blackjack! There was an opening at the table.
He rushed over before anyone else could snag it and bustled onto the chair. “Okay to deal me in on the next hand?” He interrupted the dealer, who ignored him until he was done dealing out the rest of the players and raking in the chips. He still did not speak but once Ted placed the minimum bet, he flipped a card down in front of him and the game began. Ted immediately started winning the straightforward game. He picked up most of his losses from his unfortunate run at craps and was finally enjoying himself. The couple at the far end of the table had apparently had enough and didn’t care for the new player. Ted liked to talk to new people and thought he was good at it. Before long, the other players had left and it was down to him, the dealer, and an older man, who wore a black cowboy style hat and chain-smoked thin cigarillos.
Ted, grinning heartily at his latest win, glanced over at the man, who had just fired up his next cancer-stick, “You know casinos, and a few bars are the last public places where anyone smokes. I remember when there were smoking sections at most places and my parents told me that there used to be no restrictions. I’ll bet you get plenty of pressure to stop from your family and friends. It’s a pretty bad habit for your long-term health…” Ted usually rambled on past any non-verbal cues that people might give him to stop talking, yet his diatribe came to a screeching halt at the look with which the stern-faced elder favored him.
The older man drew in a long pull on the firestick and then exhaled the stinking cloud into Ted’s face. He coughed a little and gagged at the odor of the raw blend of tobacco and chemicals. The old one removed the cigarillo from his mouth and tapped ashes onto the edge of the table and down onto the floor at his toes, “Sonny, nobody cares. Nobody wants your opinion, and you are not special, no matter what your mommy told you. I’ll do as I please and if you don’t like it, go bother people at another table.”
Ted gaped in shock. In his mind, the man’s words verged on an “assault”. He looked helplessly at the dealer, who just ducked his head and tried not to laugh. Indignant, he rose, took his pile of chips and fled into the depths of the gaming house in search of a friendlier table. He didn’t find one that he liked, so he finally gave up and sat at the bar. The bartender seemed to ignore him in favor of tidying up her workspace. He cleared his throat and received only a glance. He mumbled as much to himself as to her, “I just want a drink while I wait for a table to open.” He wondered at her stony silence, maybe she resents me for being…
His vocal ruminations were interrupted by a feminine voice, “What do you want?”
Ted looked up to see the bartender, mocking smile in place below shining, mesmerizing eyes. Ted simply gaped and eventually worked his jaw uselessly. The bartender shrugged and walked back to the other end of the bar. She spoke with a large man who was clearly part of the security team. He glared at Ted while she spoke. Ted wanted to avoid a confrontation. He’d been conditioned that he should seek authorities if such a situation loomed. Yet casino security was the only available authority here locally. There were Tribal Police on the Reservation, but he wasn’t sure they would want to listen to him. He finally shrugged and decided to go back over to the hotel for the rest of the night. This trip had been very unsatisfying… like all those he’d taken since he moved away from his parents’ home a few years previously.
There was an indoor walkway to the hotel, but Ted decided to go by the outdoor route to get some fresh air and enjoy the natural beauty that the builders had incorporated into the facility. As he walked dejectedly down the sidewalk, local flora pressing in from each side, he heard, from the nearby forest, a screeching wail. It startled him and he had to stop a moment to catch his breath and wait for his heart rate to slow to something more manageable. He realized that it must have been an owl or some other night bird. His father had told him that there were always weird noises “out in the sticks”.
As he plunged his hands into his pockets and determined to go to his room for rest, he caught the faint smell of burning tobacco on the breeze. It wafted over his shoulder from behind and caused him to emit a feeble cough. He looked back in annoyance. In the shadows behind him, he saw a figure. It was dark and stood still in a way that made him uncomfortable. An orange glowing circle of embers hovered around the face and rendered just enough light to illuminate the blue-grey curls of smoke as they exited the tiny conflagration and rose above the brim of a black hat. The ember flared for a moment and then flashed to the ground and was snuffed by a shadowed… foot? It wasn’t exactly clear to Ted; the figure’s lower extremities were... blurred. An even brighter flare, from a lighter or match stabbed into Ted’s eyes as the Smoker lit his next cigarillo.
Ted glared irritation but felt uncomfortable at the unnatural stillness to which the figure returned once the new fire was lit. He coughed once more, this time deliberately in a passive-aggressive attempt to communicate his displeasure and resumed his walk. He strained to listen behind him to determine whether the figure followed. He truly wished to get away from the stink and the threat of cancer or other respiratory illnesses. He slowed to listen, then gave up and looked over his shoulder again. There was no figure in the dark back near the exit to the casino. He turned to resume his walk, but a smoky black form now loomed before him! Its eyes glowed and smoked like large twin cigars as it gaped a maw that emitted pure black smoke and glowed with blue flames within the deep tunnel of the throat. Ted’s consciousness fled his body and found itself in a burning nightmare landscape that extended for as far as he could perceive in all directions.
**** * ****
Darnell, known to his public as “Murder Bush” a deliberate mistranslation of “merde bouche” a.k.a. “Deadly Rapper” for having been a suspect in a shooting back in his youth, stepped up to the dice pit as the geeky dude left. He had plenty of chips and cash to back them. His entourage was there to support him and kiss his backside as often as he wished. He rolled through six passes before he crapped out. He hadn’t over-bet, so he’d won a small amount. He picked up his latest winning chips and handed them to the hostess who had kept him well plied with drinks and snacks. He was sure that for the right price, she would take care of his other needs. He played a few card tables and finished with Roulette.
Each time he won a few chips, he passed them on to the young woman or to one of his flunkies. In the end, they had all received at least some reward for the praises they’d heaped upon him; not for any real accomplishments, but rather to curry favor with the man whom they considered to be wealthy and important: a celebrity. The girl stayed at his side and except for when he asked her questions, she said nothing. He liked that: bitch know her place, he reveled in internal satisfaction. He liked her looks too. She was medium height and a little, “thick”. She was clearly interested but hadn’t gotten in his way when he flirted with other women. He truly liked this one. The more he considered her, the more he wanted to get down to business.
Eventually, he posed the question to her, “How much for the next few hours?” His brazen suggestion that she would take money for sexual favors was the final test. If she grew angry, then she didn’t appreciate his genius…
“Whatever you think is fair. How about we see if I can satisfy you? If I can, then you may want to be generous… as you have been so far.” She hefted the chips so that the pieces clinked in her palm. “If not, I don’t deserve a reward.”
She had passed with flying colors. Might even take this one back to civilization with me, he purred in his mind. He’d always thought of himself as a Big Cat… maybe a leopard or jaguar, definitely something dangerous and sleek. His need grew more intense by the moment. He desperately wanted this woman. “Come on, let’s go to my room.” He husked in a voice grown thick with desire.
They reached his suite, his groupies having been dismissed to their own nefarious pursuits, even his bodyguard. The big man had shrugged, “Your call boss-man.” and then stumped across the hallway to his own room. Now he was finally alone with… her. He stripped off his shirt and flipped his shoes into a corner. She stood by the window and watched. The drinks he’d consumed finally caught up with him before he’d shucked his pants and drawers, “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He was excited, which made urinating a challenge, but it had to be done, so that he could maximize his pleasure. When he stepped from the restroom, au natural, he saw that his latest conquest had done the same and now stood, bare to the world and staring out the window, all the curtains on it pushed to one side, so that the night loomed and the light of a single small desk lamp lit the room. He stalked over to her, ready to take her right there at the window in full view of anyone who looked up from the outside. He secretly hoped for an audience. He enjoyed having others watch him take what he wanted.
She turned to face him, her head lowered… no, it had sunken into her body, only her hair remained above her shoulders! A… mouth, gaping and slavering opened on her stomach, a mouth too large for her body and rimmed with rows of teeth like sharpened spikes. She stepped forward to embrace him and the screaming began… sounds that he was accustomed to eliciting from others rather than emitting from his own person.
**** * ****
“Rhino” was unhappy. He didn’t like to leave Darnell unattended. Perhaps now that his boss was in the room, he could go stand guard outside the door. He took care of some personal ablutions as he wolfed down a couple of energy bars and then walked out into the hallway. He started to settle in front of Darnell’s door, when he heard a muffled scream and faint… slobbering-gobbling noises come from the other side. He quickly tried the door, initially too panicked to think of the extra key card with which Darnell had entrusted him. He fumbled for it and soon had the door open. The interior was completely dark. The light from the hallway spilled inward but didn’t seem to reach as far into the room as it should.
He drew his pistol from the holster on his waistband and began to stalk forward, “Boss, you okay? You hurt?” The room was as silent as a tomb, he shivered a little as that thought crossed his mind. Over by the closed drapes, he smelled something awful: fresh blood and spilled entrails… recent death. His feet squelched on wet carpet. He turned around quickly. There had been no noise, but he’d felt a… presence. There she stood, arms spread wide, mouth on her gut spread wider. Rhino wasn’t one to scream or yell, even in extremis, so no others would come to this room to investigate.
**** * ****
Shelly was glad when the rowdy group left the roulette wheel that sat behind her favorite row of slots. The former “one-armed bandits”, that were now, “multiple button digital bandits” lined every available wall space, and in some spaces stood in rows that drew regulars like a dung-heap draws flies. She’d grabbed her favorite machine early in the evening and sat sliding in dollar bills and working up her points. It was called “Buffalo Dance” and featured images of American Bison and feather-bedecked hunters. The theme on the screen matched and she hoped to one day see the “White Buffalo” image adorn the entire set of images… the grand prize view. Despite the fun graphics, it was her favorite because it was near a restroom and a free soda and snack bar. She found herself ahead and on a roll. She absently lipped her dangling cigarette back into her mouth for a long draw. The smoke obscured the screen for a moment, and then she noted a shadow that lengthened across the reflective surface. Someone stood close behind her. Someone who exuded a chilly air. She paused and looked around, “Can I help you?”
There was no answer, though the shadow shifted slightly as if its caster had heard her.
Now she grew annoyed, this is just the sort of thing to break my winning streak! she raged internally. She braced her hands against the machine and worked her buttocks to make the stool on which she perched spin, so she could confront her harasser. She gaped, and nearly lost her cigarette, there was no one standing near enough to cast the shadow. No one even faced her. She chalked it up to excitement, maybe someone stepped too close when passing to go to the restroom, she thought, still a little annoyed and... chilled.
She turned back to her game and continued working the buttons, pumping in bills, and winning, a little at a time, the points now built well above her investment. This weekend is gonna pay for the last two months of losing and breaking even, she thought triumphantly. The shadow loomed across the screen once more, this time even larger, as though the figure that cast it stood closer. The shape was amorphous but hinted at anthropomorphic. She shivered as an icy breeze flowed around her, as though the air conditioning had sent out a short, cold burst, a minor malfunction…
She turned around with more alacrity and determination than the last time, mouth agape, cigarette once more dangling… precipitously and endangering the cleavage she displayed, already baked and wrinkled from years of sunbathing. The frigid air passed, and no one stood anywhere near her, though a customer approached, headed for either snacks or relief. “Excuse me sir, did you just see someone, maybe a large man, standing behind me?”
The man paused and looked at her in confusion. He had clearly been absorbed in his own thoughts, “Er, what? Uh, No. I wasn’t really paying attention, but… no.” He bustled on toward the free fountain drinks machine.
Shelly shrugged, can’t give up now, the pot is even bigger. She checked her points; she was nearing her all-time high. The winnings would pay her space rental fee at the RV park for the entire month. She pressed and played the buttons more fervently than ever, determined to break the bank on straight points or to reach that magical spin that would offer an instant reward of $10,000.00. She set her new points record and reveled for a moment. She reached for the now small stack of dollar bills the rest having been devoured by the machine. She fed in the entire remaining amount, then once more gazed at the screen. It was entirely blackened by a looming shadow.
The temperature of the air around her plummeted and she shuddered with the sudden biting cold. The cigarette was long extinguished, and she’d let the cold fag fall into the ash tray built onto the side of the machine opposite the drink holder. She was so cold, and she wanted to cry out for help, but the darkness closed in around her as the shadow enveloped her and cut off her breathing. Her fingers, paused above the “spin” button, struck and as her consciousness faded, she saw the flashing blue light and heard the blare of the winner’s siren. White Buffalo images filled all nine spaces. I won! The grand prize!
**** * ****
Terry filled his large cup and stood sipping and daydreaming. He’d lost everything he’d budgeted to lose. Yet he knew that one more try would put him back in black for this trip. He mused about what he would do with the prize money. He’d set his limit at $300.00 and had quickly lost it all on slots. Maybe he could risk just a few more dollars… skip a lunch or two until his next paycheck if it didn’t work. He was startled by the jackpot winner’s flashing light and siren that went off just behind him. That bitch! He yelled internally. Figures some old used up skank would win the big prize. He looked over at the nearby machine with anger and envy vying for control of his senses. She was gone!
He stepped over to the machine and looked around in confusion. Maybe she’d gone to the restroom? No, she’d have passed right by me. He shook his head and stepped up to look at the screen. He could still feel the recent presence of a player, the trace of warmth from a human body that might linger in a space for just a moment after the human had vacated the space. He looked around the casino floor, she was nowhere in sight. She’d been wearing a low-cut silver-spangled top that was cut way too low for her sagging, sun-ravaged bosom. She should be easy to spy, she looked like a deflated disco ball that had fallen from the ceiling to play slots. The only thing that came his way was a train of employees, led by a waitress in a skimpy outfit with purple sparkles and carrying a tray with a glass and a dark bottle. She was followed by other employees, who’d formed a sort of conga line: they sang a congratulatory chorus as they approached.
Terry gaped for a moment when he realized that they thought he was the big winner. He’d have to deny it of course. Surely the woman would be back at any moment to claim her prize. The floor cameras would have recorded who had sat at the machine, but it was too late. The group of enthused employees encircled him, and the attractive young waitress poured him a glass of champagne and snuggled up to him. The manager approached and seized his hand for a vigorous shake, “Well done sir! I see that not only have you hit the jackpot, but you’ve raised an additional $3,000.00 in points. A fabulous prize and well played I’m sure.”
Terry was flabbergasted. He’d never won anything like this… I still haven’t, not really, he reminded himself. He rarely broke even on his gambling forays, whether to the casino, or the corner store for lottery tickets and video slots. He allowed himself to be swept into the reverie and led from the machine to the bar. The employees peeled away as they approached, and he soon found himself with only the bottle and a receipt that he could cash out before he left the premises. A sullen-looking woman stood behind the bar, wiping glasses and a large, mean-looking security staffer menaced the far end. He already had his bottle, so he wasn’t sure why the staff members had deposited him with these two killjoys. He shrugged, picked up the champagne and started to walk away from the bar.
“You can’t take that with you. Either drink it here or give it to me and I’ll put it in the trash.” The bartender stated in monotone.
The security officer stood up straight from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, apparently propping up the building. He folded his massive arms in a threatening manner. Silly, thought Terry, folded arms should be a hindrance, but I get the feeling he’s dangerous regardless. He figured that he’d had enough anyway and set the nearly empty bottle on the bar, “You can keep it ma’am. I can afford another at the hotel.” Terry started to walk away from the bar, but a huge ham-like hand seized his shoulder.
Sausage-sized fingers applied painful pressure, “You apologize to the lady.” The wet heat from a mouth placed uncomfortably close to his ear and beath smelling of river bottom, sent a shiver of disgust through his body. The voice was low and deep as the river that ran past the back side of the property.
Terry decided on the better part of valor and head facing forward to avoid the obscene orifice, “Sorry ma’am, I meant no offense.”
The fingers let go and a harsh laugh sounded from behind the bar. “He don’t even know why he’s apologizing, fool. He ain’t worth the trouble, let him go.”
Terry felt a slight shove and he was sent on his way to the cash-out window. There he met with the lead cashier, an older woman in drab clothing, “I’m sorry sir, we give out only these pre-paid cards, we cannot provide cash over $1,000.00. However, you can treat them like a debit or credit card.” the cashier informed him. It seemed he had no choice, so he accepted. Thirteen grand is thirteen grand, he assured himself. He was elated, though he continued to glance around nervously, waiting for the woman in the sparkly fish-scale top to accost him and name him thief. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. The floor was full of players, some laughing, some intense, some dejected or mesmerized by the games of chance in which they’d lost themselves.
He thought about what to do with the rest of his evening. He didn’t have a hotel room; he’d planned to sleep in his station wagon as he always did before the long haul home. Perhaps he should get a room? Maybe they would take him without a reservation… he giggled a little at the unintended pun: a reservation at the Reservation… he shook his head to clear his overreaction to the silly internal joke. He decided that maybe someone on staff could help him. He approached the major domo at the front entrance that led to the interior walkway and the hotel beyond, “Excuse me sir, do you know whether the hotel will accept a resident without a prior reservation?”
The man, single dark braid wrapped in a leather holder and draped over one shoulder, looked at him gravely, “Yes, I know.” He said nothing more and did not smile as though he’d intended to be humorous.
Terry tried again, “Will you tell me please?”
The man flicked his chin in the direction of the hotel, “See the clerk at the desk.”
“Jerk, you’d think I hadn’t pissed away enough cash in this place over the past few years,” Terry muttered as he stumped toward the hotel, ensuring that he was well beyond earshot before he spoke. His head had begun to buzz a little from the champagne. Took a while for it to affect me, he mused. The hallway appeared to narrow, and his peripheral vision grew grey. He felt dizzy and as he entered the main lobby, the large room began to spin. His last view was of the sky-blue ceiling decorated with a few puffy clouds as it faded into darkness like the sun had set.
He awakened to the sounds of voices chattering happily. He looked around, his vision blurred slightly and his head feeling heavy and sore. He soon found that he could not move his arms or legs… they were bound… he was strapped to a table. He saw numerous bodies moving about in the mostly dark space in which he found himself. “Please.” He croaked, throat dry and feeling scraped. “Please, help me, let me loose. Loose me…” his perceptions cleared slowly, and he saw that the bodies that moved around him, now chanting rhythmically rather than babble-chattering, were emaciated. The owners showed as much bone through their skin as would a dead thing, long decayed. He noted spikes above a few heads… no, antlers… The rest wore… masks? Of various beasts… no, the skulls of those creatures, still filled with glistening fangs. Their dance grew ever more frantic, more energetic than they should be capable of performing. Then one of them reached out with a stick, on the end of which was a small claw, taken and preserved from some dead animal. It used the claw to gouge out a scoop of flesh from Terry’s side. He screamed in torment and horror. His screams soon matched the rhythm of the chanting and they went on for a long time before they at last faded when he’d lost too much blood to remain conscious.
**** * **** END PAGE 1 of 2

…The raging river, pulled them down.
Now they’ll always, be together,
In that Happy Hunting Ground…
- Running Bear by Sonny James
“Snakeyes! New roller, please, next up.” The game runner raked in the dice and chips and ignored the despair in the countenance of the most recent “high roller”. Ted shook his head and other people crowded him away from the dice pit. He was almost out of funds and it was still early. He’d budgeted his, “loss level” carefully to maximize his time at the reservation casino. It was an older one, filled with stereotypical paintings and statues intended to honor the local First Nations Tribes while fulfilling the expectations of rude tourists. He looked around forlornly for a new game to play. He didn’t care for the slots or the drawn-out and ever-shifting card games… ah, Blackjack! There was an opening at the table.
He rushed over before anyone else could snag it and bustled onto the chair. “Okay to deal me in on the next hand?” He interrupted the dealer, who ignored him until he was done dealing out the rest of the players and raking in the chips. He still did not speak but once Ted placed the minimum bet, he flipped a card down in front of him and the game began. Ted immediately started winning the straightforward game. He picked up most of his losses from his unfortunate run at craps and was finally enjoying himself. The couple at the far end of the table had apparently had enough and didn’t care for the new player. Ted liked to talk to new people and thought he was good at it. Before long, the other players had left and it was down to him, the dealer, and an older man, who wore a black cowboy style hat and chain-smoked thin cigarillos.
Ted, grinning heartily at his latest win, glanced over at the man, who had just fired up his next cancer-stick, “You know casinos, and a few bars are the last public places where anyone smokes. I remember when there were smoking sections at most places and my parents told me that there used to be no restrictions. I’ll bet you get plenty of pressure to stop from your family and friends. It’s a pretty bad habit for your long-term health…” Ted usually rambled on past any non-verbal cues that people might give him to stop talking, yet his diatribe came to a screeching halt at the look with which the stern-faced elder favored him.
The older man drew in a long pull on the firestick and then exhaled the stinking cloud into Ted’s face. He coughed a little and gagged at the odor of the raw blend of tobacco and chemicals. The old one removed the cigarillo from his mouth and tapped ashes onto the edge of the table and down onto the floor at his toes, “Sonny, nobody cares. Nobody wants your opinion, and you are not special, no matter what your mommy told you. I’ll do as I please and if you don’t like it, go bother people at another table.”
Ted gaped in shock. In his mind, the man’s words verged on an “assault”. He looked helplessly at the dealer, who just ducked his head and tried not to laugh. Indignant, he rose, took his pile of chips and fled into the depths of the gaming house in search of a friendlier table. He didn’t find one that he liked, so he finally gave up and sat at the bar. The bartender seemed to ignore him in favor of tidying up her workspace. He cleared his throat and received only a glance. He mumbled as much to himself as to her, “I just want a drink while I wait for a table to open.” He wondered at her stony silence, maybe she resents me for being…
His vocal ruminations were interrupted by a feminine voice, “What do you want?”
Ted looked up to see the bartender, mocking smile in place below shining, mesmerizing eyes. Ted simply gaped and eventually worked his jaw uselessly. The bartender shrugged and walked back to the other end of the bar. She spoke with a large man who was clearly part of the security team. He glared at Ted while she spoke. Ted wanted to avoid a confrontation. He’d been conditioned that he should seek authorities if such a situation loomed. Yet casino security was the only available authority here locally. There were Tribal Police on the Reservation, but he wasn’t sure they would want to listen to him. He finally shrugged and decided to go back over to the hotel for the rest of the night. This trip had been very unsatisfying… like all those he’d taken since he moved away from his parents’ home a few years previously.
There was an indoor walkway to the hotel, but Ted decided to go by the outdoor route to get some fresh air and enjoy the natural beauty that the builders had incorporated into the facility. As he walked dejectedly down the sidewalk, local flora pressing in from each side, he heard, from the nearby forest, a screeching wail. It startled him and he had to stop a moment to catch his breath and wait for his heart rate to slow to something more manageable. He realized that it must have been an owl or some other night bird. His father had told him that there were always weird noises “out in the sticks”.
As he plunged his hands into his pockets and determined to go to his room for rest, he caught the faint smell of burning tobacco on the breeze. It wafted over his shoulder from behind and caused him to emit a feeble cough. He looked back in annoyance. In the shadows behind him, he saw a figure. It was dark and stood still in a way that made him uncomfortable. An orange glowing circle of embers hovered around the face and rendered just enough light to illuminate the blue-grey curls of smoke as they exited the tiny conflagration and rose above the brim of a black hat. The ember flared for a moment and then flashed to the ground and was snuffed by a shadowed… foot? It wasn’t exactly clear to Ted; the figure’s lower extremities were... blurred. An even brighter flare, from a lighter or match stabbed into Ted’s eyes as the Smoker lit his next cigarillo.
Ted glared irritation but felt uncomfortable at the unnatural stillness to which the figure returned once the new fire was lit. He coughed once more, this time deliberately in a passive-aggressive attempt to communicate his displeasure and resumed his walk. He strained to listen behind him to determine whether the figure followed. He truly wished to get away from the stink and the threat of cancer or other respiratory illnesses. He slowed to listen, then gave up and looked over his shoulder again. There was no figure in the dark back near the exit to the casino. He turned to resume his walk, but a smoky black form now loomed before him! Its eyes glowed and smoked like large twin cigars as it gaped a maw that emitted pure black smoke and glowed with blue flames within the deep tunnel of the throat. Ted’s consciousness fled his body and found itself in a burning nightmare landscape that extended for as far as he could perceive in all directions.
**** * ****
Darnell, known to his public as “Murder Bush” a deliberate mistranslation of “merde bouche” a.k.a. “Deadly Rapper” for having been a suspect in a shooting back in his youth, stepped up to the dice pit as the geeky dude left. He had plenty of chips and cash to back them. His entourage was there to support him and kiss his backside as often as he wished. He rolled through six passes before he crapped out. He hadn’t over-bet, so he’d won a small amount. He picked up his latest winning chips and handed them to the hostess who had kept him well plied with drinks and snacks. He was sure that for the right price, she would take care of his other needs. He played a few card tables and finished with Roulette.
Each time he won a few chips, he passed them on to the young woman or to one of his flunkies. In the end, they had all received at least some reward for the praises they’d heaped upon him; not for any real accomplishments, but rather to curry favor with the man whom they considered to be wealthy and important: a celebrity. The girl stayed at his side and except for when he asked her questions, she said nothing. He liked that: bitch know her place, he reveled in internal satisfaction. He liked her looks too. She was medium height and a little, “thick”. She was clearly interested but hadn’t gotten in his way when he flirted with other women. He truly liked this one. The more he considered her, the more he wanted to get down to business.
Eventually, he posed the question to her, “How much for the next few hours?” His brazen suggestion that she would take money for sexual favors was the final test. If she grew angry, then she didn’t appreciate his genius…
“Whatever you think is fair. How about we see if I can satisfy you? If I can, then you may want to be generous… as you have been so far.” She hefted the chips so that the pieces clinked in her palm. “If not, I don’t deserve a reward.”
She had passed with flying colors. Might even take this one back to civilization with me, he purred in his mind. He’d always thought of himself as a Big Cat… maybe a leopard or jaguar, definitely something dangerous and sleek. His need grew more intense by the moment. He desperately wanted this woman. “Come on, let’s go to my room.” He husked in a voice grown thick with desire.
They reached his suite, his groupies having been dismissed to their own nefarious pursuits, even his bodyguard. The big man had shrugged, “Your call boss-man.” and then stumped across the hallway to his own room. Now he was finally alone with… her. He stripped off his shirt and flipped his shoes into a corner. She stood by the window and watched. The drinks he’d consumed finally caught up with him before he’d shucked his pants and drawers, “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He was excited, which made urinating a challenge, but it had to be done, so that he could maximize his pleasure. When he stepped from the restroom, au natural, he saw that his latest conquest had done the same and now stood, bare to the world and staring out the window, all the curtains on it pushed to one side, so that the night loomed and the light of a single small desk lamp lit the room. He stalked over to her, ready to take her right there at the window in full view of anyone who looked up from the outside. He secretly hoped for an audience. He enjoyed having others watch him take what he wanted.
She turned to face him, her head lowered… no, it had sunken into her body, only her hair remained above her shoulders! A… mouth, gaping and slavering opened on her stomach, a mouth too large for her body and rimmed with rows of teeth like sharpened spikes. She stepped forward to embrace him and the screaming began… sounds that he was accustomed to eliciting from others rather than emitting from his own person.
**** * ****
“Rhino” was unhappy. He didn’t like to leave Darnell unattended. Perhaps now that his boss was in the room, he could go stand guard outside the door. He took care of some personal ablutions as he wolfed down a couple of energy bars and then walked out into the hallway. He started to settle in front of Darnell’s door, when he heard a muffled scream and faint… slobbering-gobbling noises come from the other side. He quickly tried the door, initially too panicked to think of the extra key card with which Darnell had entrusted him. He fumbled for it and soon had the door open. The interior was completely dark. The light from the hallway spilled inward but didn’t seem to reach as far into the room as it should.
He drew his pistol from the holster on his waistband and began to stalk forward, “Boss, you okay? You hurt?” The room was as silent as a tomb, he shivered a little as that thought crossed his mind. Over by the closed drapes, he smelled something awful: fresh blood and spilled entrails… recent death. His feet squelched on wet carpet. He turned around quickly. There had been no noise, but he’d felt a… presence. There she stood, arms spread wide, mouth on her gut spread wider. Rhino wasn’t one to scream or yell, even in extremis, so no others would come to this room to investigate.
**** * ****
Shelly was glad when the rowdy group left the roulette wheel that sat behind her favorite row of slots. The former “one-armed bandits”, that were now, “multiple button digital bandits” lined every available wall space, and in some spaces stood in rows that drew regulars like a dung-heap draws flies. She’d grabbed her favorite machine early in the evening and sat sliding in dollar bills and working up her points. It was called “Buffalo Dance” and featured images of American Bison and feather-bedecked hunters. The theme on the screen matched and she hoped to one day see the “White Buffalo” image adorn the entire set of images… the grand prize view. Despite the fun graphics, it was her favorite because it was near a restroom and a free soda and snack bar. She found herself ahead and on a roll. She absently lipped her dangling cigarette back into her mouth for a long draw. The smoke obscured the screen for a moment, and then she noted a shadow that lengthened across the reflective surface. Someone stood close behind her. Someone who exuded a chilly air. She paused and looked around, “Can I help you?”
There was no answer, though the shadow shifted slightly as if its caster had heard her.
Now she grew annoyed, this is just the sort of thing to break my winning streak! she raged internally. She braced her hands against the machine and worked her buttocks to make the stool on which she perched spin, so she could confront her harasser. She gaped, and nearly lost her cigarette, there was no one standing near enough to cast the shadow. No one even faced her. She chalked it up to excitement, maybe someone stepped too close when passing to go to the restroom, she thought, still a little annoyed and... chilled.
She turned back to her game and continued working the buttons, pumping in bills, and winning, a little at a time, the points now built well above her investment. This weekend is gonna pay for the last two months of losing and breaking even, she thought triumphantly. The shadow loomed across the screen once more, this time even larger, as though the figure that cast it stood closer. The shape was amorphous but hinted at anthropomorphic. She shivered as an icy breeze flowed around her, as though the air conditioning had sent out a short, cold burst, a minor malfunction…
She turned around with more alacrity and determination than the last time, mouth agape, cigarette once more dangling… precipitously and endangering the cleavage she displayed, already baked and wrinkled from years of sunbathing. The frigid air passed, and no one stood anywhere near her, though a customer approached, headed for either snacks or relief. “Excuse me sir, did you just see someone, maybe a large man, standing behind me?”
The man paused and looked at her in confusion. He had clearly been absorbed in his own thoughts, “Er, what? Uh, No. I wasn’t really paying attention, but… no.” He bustled on toward the free fountain drinks machine.
Shelly shrugged, can’t give up now, the pot is even bigger. She checked her points; she was nearing her all-time high. The winnings would pay her space rental fee at the RV park for the entire month. She pressed and played the buttons more fervently than ever, determined to break the bank on straight points or to reach that magical spin that would offer an instant reward of $10,000.00. She set her new points record and reveled for a moment. She reached for the now small stack of dollar bills the rest having been devoured by the machine. She fed in the entire remaining amount, then once more gazed at the screen. It was entirely blackened by a looming shadow.
The temperature of the air around her plummeted and she shuddered with the sudden biting cold. The cigarette was long extinguished, and she’d let the cold fag fall into the ash tray built onto the side of the machine opposite the drink holder. She was so cold, and she wanted to cry out for help, but the darkness closed in around her as the shadow enveloped her and cut off her breathing. Her fingers, paused above the “spin” button, struck and as her consciousness faded, she saw the flashing blue light and heard the blare of the winner’s siren. White Buffalo images filled all nine spaces. I won! The grand prize!
**** * ****
Terry filled his large cup and stood sipping and daydreaming. He’d lost everything he’d budgeted to lose. Yet he knew that one more try would put him back in black for this trip. He mused about what he would do with the prize money. He’d set his limit at $300.00 and had quickly lost it all on slots. Maybe he could risk just a few more dollars… skip a lunch or two until his next paycheck if it didn’t work. He was startled by the jackpot winner’s flashing light and siren that went off just behind him. That bitch! He yelled internally. Figures some old used up skank would win the big prize. He looked over at the nearby machine with anger and envy vying for control of his senses. She was gone!
He stepped over to the machine and looked around in confusion. Maybe she’d gone to the restroom? No, she’d have passed right by me. He shook his head and stepped up to look at the screen. He could still feel the recent presence of a player, the trace of warmth from a human body that might linger in a space for just a moment after the human had vacated the space. He looked around the casino floor, she was nowhere in sight. She’d been wearing a low-cut silver-spangled top that was cut way too low for her sagging, sun-ravaged bosom. She should be easy to spy, she looked like a deflated disco ball that had fallen from the ceiling to play slots. The only thing that came his way was a train of employees, led by a waitress in a skimpy outfit with purple sparkles and carrying a tray with a glass and a dark bottle. She was followed by other employees, who’d formed a sort of conga line: they sang a congratulatory chorus as they approached.
Terry gaped for a moment when he realized that they thought he was the big winner. He’d have to deny it of course. Surely the woman would be back at any moment to claim her prize. The floor cameras would have recorded who had sat at the machine, but it was too late. The group of enthused employees encircled him, and the attractive young waitress poured him a glass of champagne and snuggled up to him. The manager approached and seized his hand for a vigorous shake, “Well done sir! I see that not only have you hit the jackpot, but you’ve raised an additional $3,000.00 in points. A fabulous prize and well played I’m sure.”
Terry was flabbergasted. He’d never won anything like this… I still haven’t, not really, he reminded himself. He rarely broke even on his gambling forays, whether to the casino, or the corner store for lottery tickets and video slots. He allowed himself to be swept into the reverie and led from the machine to the bar. The employees peeled away as they approached, and he soon found himself with only the bottle and a receipt that he could cash out before he left the premises. A sullen-looking woman stood behind the bar, wiping glasses and a large, mean-looking security staffer menaced the far end. He already had his bottle, so he wasn’t sure why the staff members had deposited him with these two killjoys. He shrugged, picked up the champagne and started to walk away from the bar.
“You can’t take that with you. Either drink it here or give it to me and I’ll put it in the trash.” The bartender stated in monotone.
The security officer stood up straight from where he’d been leaning against the far wall, apparently propping up the building. He folded his massive arms in a threatening manner. Silly, thought Terry, folded arms should be a hindrance, but I get the feeling he’s dangerous regardless. He figured that he’d had enough anyway and set the nearly empty bottle on the bar, “You can keep it ma’am. I can afford another at the hotel.” Terry started to walk away from the bar, but a huge ham-like hand seized his shoulder.
Sausage-sized fingers applied painful pressure, “You apologize to the lady.” The wet heat from a mouth placed uncomfortably close to his ear and beath smelling of river bottom, sent a shiver of disgust through his body. The voice was low and deep as the river that ran past the back side of the property.
Terry decided on the better part of valor and head facing forward to avoid the obscene orifice, “Sorry ma’am, I meant no offense.”
The fingers let go and a harsh laugh sounded from behind the bar. “He don’t even know why he’s apologizing, fool. He ain’t worth the trouble, let him go.”
Terry felt a slight shove and he was sent on his way to the cash-out window. There he met with the lead cashier, an older woman in drab clothing, “I’m sorry sir, we give out only these pre-paid cards, we cannot provide cash over $1,000.00. However, you can treat them like a debit or credit card.” the cashier informed him. It seemed he had no choice, so he accepted. Thirteen grand is thirteen grand, he assured himself. He was elated, though he continued to glance around nervously, waiting for the woman in the sparkly fish-scale top to accost him and name him thief. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. The floor was full of players, some laughing, some intense, some dejected or mesmerized by the games of chance in which they’d lost themselves.
He thought about what to do with the rest of his evening. He didn’t have a hotel room; he’d planned to sleep in his station wagon as he always did before the long haul home. Perhaps he should get a room? Maybe they would take him without a reservation… he giggled a little at the unintended pun: a reservation at the Reservation… he shook his head to clear his overreaction to the silly internal joke. He decided that maybe someone on staff could help him. He approached the major domo at the front entrance that led to the interior walkway and the hotel beyond, “Excuse me sir, do you know whether the hotel will accept a resident without a prior reservation?”
The man, single dark braid wrapped in a leather holder and draped over one shoulder, looked at him gravely, “Yes, I know.” He said nothing more and did not smile as though he’d intended to be humorous.
Terry tried again, “Will you tell me please?”
The man flicked his chin in the direction of the hotel, “See the clerk at the desk.”
“Jerk, you’d think I hadn’t pissed away enough cash in this place over the past few years,” Terry muttered as he stumped toward the hotel, ensuring that he was well beyond earshot before he spoke. His head had begun to buzz a little from the champagne. Took a while for it to affect me, he mused. The hallway appeared to narrow, and his peripheral vision grew grey. He felt dizzy and as he entered the main lobby, the large room began to spin. His last view was of the sky-blue ceiling decorated with a few puffy clouds as it faded into darkness like the sun had set.
He awakened to the sounds of voices chattering happily. He looked around, his vision blurred slightly and his head feeling heavy and sore. He soon found that he could not move his arms or legs… they were bound… he was strapped to a table. He saw numerous bodies moving about in the mostly dark space in which he found himself. “Please.” He croaked, throat dry and feeling scraped. “Please, help me, let me loose. Loose me…” his perceptions cleared slowly, and he saw that the bodies that moved around him, now chanting rhythmically rather than babble-chattering, were emaciated. The owners showed as much bone through their skin as would a dead thing, long decayed. He noted spikes above a few heads… no, antlers… The rest wore… masks? Of various beasts… no, the skulls of those creatures, still filled with glistening fangs. Their dance grew ever more frantic, more energetic than they should be capable of performing. Then one of them reached out with a stick, on the end of which was a small claw, taken and preserved from some dead animal. It used the claw to gouge out a scoop of flesh from Terry’s side. He screamed in torment and horror. His screams soon matched the rhythm of the chanting and they went on for a long time before they at last faded when he’d lost too much blood to remain conscious.
**** * ****

As a Yankee fan, if you have not watched Brian Cashmans' end of the season press conference, you are doing yourself a major disservice because it is very enlightening.
I cannot recall a media interaction in recent years that more clearly demonstrates the dangerous arrogance and stubbornness of the modern Yankee organization than this press conference. It was almost megalomaniacal.
In particular,the interaction between WFAN New Yorks' Yankee beat reporter, Sweeny Murti, and Brian Cashman that illuminates the defensive, combative stance the Yankee organization has taken towards its' own fanbase in regards to spending.
First of all, major kudos to Sweeny Murti. If you want to talk about the media speaking truth to power (in a baseball context of course), he was asking questions that the self-censorious Yankee media lap-dogs wouldn't dare direct at a man that some have laughably deemed, "the Cashgod."
In this tense moment, it became clear that Cashman is in fact not, "the Cashgod." A “Cashgod” would not allow the Yankees to go through a 19 year stretch where they have as many championships as they do plagues of locusts.
Before we shatter the dogma, let's refresh ourselves on the transcript of the interaction from the press conference.
{TRANSCRIPT}
Sweeny: There are several starting pitchers over the last few years that you passed on, that are in the World Series right now...
Cashman: I didn't pass on them.
Sweeny: You didn't?
Cashman: No. I didn't pass on them.
Sweeny: How would you charactorize it?
Cashman: Well, I guess... why would you charactorize it as passing on them?
Sweeny: Were there opportunities to get some of these guys?
Cashman: Give me some specifics.
Sweeny: Justin Verlander. Gerrit Cole. Patrick Corbin.
Cashman: Justin Verlander was a player two or three years ago that was in play, and if you recall, the payroll structure that we were under, he was not going to fit in our environment given the directives from above. And that’s not blaming ownership on that aspect at all. But we had overspent to a level to where we were going to be under our payroll, and their ultimate goal was to get out from luxury tax issues where we were rewarding our opponents.
Sweeny: So you wouldn't categorize that as passing?
Cashman: So Verlander was not someone that was in play because of those protocols that were in place. So that’s one. But that question has been answered several times over.
Sweeny: It's semantics then as far as what we're describing why they're not..
Cashman: Well when we're talking about Patrick Corbin, did we not make an offer? Yes or no?
Sweeny: You tell me.
Cashman: You know the answer….. Do you not know the answer?
Sweeny: I was told no. Did you make an offer?
Cashman: We made an offer to Patrick Corbin. The Nationals made a more significant offer to Patrick Corbin. I don't know who told you no, that would be false.
Sweeny: So has Hal or anyone...
Cashman: So would you categorize that as a pass?
Sweeny: I would categorize it as we're arguing semantics and they're currently not here. But my question is..
Cashman: And Gerrit Cole was traded from Pittsburgh to Houston. Did we make an offer to Pittsburgh for Gerrit Cole, yes or no?
Sweeny: Yes.
Cashman: OK, did that mean we passed on him?
Sweeny: You didn’t increase your offer enough to get him, did you?
Cashman: Houston made an offer that in Pittsburgh’s mind was a better offer than ours. This is all ancient history, but these are all facts. But that doesn't mean we passed on anything. We made attempts to try to acquire.
Sweeny: My question to you is, has Hal expressed any regrets over any of these decisions that did not go in your favor over the course of the last couple years and or do you regret anything?
Cashman: I don't regret our process. And there are certain things in that process that are controlled and some things that are out of our control in terms of knowledge. I have no knowledge in free agency of what an opposing team is offering until ultimately it comes out after the signing is elsewhere. So whether it's Dallas Keuchel this summer or Patrick Corbin this past winter, obviously it’s illegal to be calling the other clubs to find out what they're offering. So you don't know until then.
In the Keuchel situation, for instance which you didn't bring up, I used the line of, “we missed out by the hair of our chinny-chin-chin.” It was a very close number from where our offer was, but how would I know that? So, you put your best foot forward you live with it. I have no regrets if we have a strong process and we put our best foot forward based on a lot of pressure points, and then you live with it.
So am I living with that? I’m living with that. Am I comfortable with every decision and everything that we went through in our process? I think we have a strong healthy process that leads us to make whatever offers we’re making at the time for good reason and something we can be comfortable with.
You don’t get everything you want at all times, but I think what we’ve done is do a lot of great things along the way. I can sleep at night with the process that we have in place. It’s served us well and put us in a position to take a legitimate shot at the championship so far in the more recent years. And that’s despite some of the options that went elsewhere.
{END TRANSCRIPT}
Did Brian Cashman have a Freudian slip when he said that the ultimate goal in 2017 was to "get under the luxury tax?" This was the directive handed down from ownership? Try to imagine, for even a millisecond, George Steinbrenner dubbing luxury tax management his "ultimate goal." Try to imagine the Boss allowing Cashman to even put that narrative out there for the fanbase to consume. Having trouble picturing something so perverted? That's because the Boss would never do that.
The modern Yankee organization has gotten comfortable ignoring and even shaming their constituents. They are upset that the fans want a championship at any cost. This is not a cost they are willing to incur because they are not as passionate about being champions as George was. However, they are "savvy" enough to recognize that in order to protect their bottom line, they must act as though they are desperate for a championship. They understand that if they can create a believable enough charade, Yankee fans will by-and-large drink the Kool-Aid and leave coins in the collection basket.
Everyday we resemble Mets fans or Knicks fans more and more. We are case studies in Stockholm Syndrome. We are so addicted to the cache of being Yankee fans; the history, the winning, the core four, the tradition, the Bronx NY, that we have no actual leverage over the organization to voice our discontent and get them to put their money where their mouth is, so they don't. They know the overwhelming majority will continue to show up at the gate, watch the YES Network, collect the jerseys and consume the content online regardless of how dismissive and abusive the organization may be towards the fanbase. In this case, we were represented by Sweeny, and they showed you exactly how they feel about people who question them.
To be clear; the "Cashgod" is comfortable with the process because it has put them, "in a position to take a legitimate shot," at a championship.
In any other area of the real world, would being, "in a position to take a legitimate shot" at success, and then repeatedly failing be something management is comfortable with? Does that jive with the Yankee winning tradition?
Organizations that are comfortable with their process and aren't successful end up like Blockbuster video. On the flipside, on the winning side, forward-thinking organizations that are adopting varying viewpoints and practices to disrupt the marketplace are the ones who last. You will likely be able to watch a Blockbuster documentary about how they collapsed on a streaming service one day.
Brian Cashman was so sensitive to a differing perspective that he fought vigorously with a reporter over the use of the phrase, "passed on." Can you imagine how dictatorial Cashman must be towards dissenters within his own ranks behind closed doors?
This doesn't resemble a "god" at all. If anything, it resembles a caricature of God in the story of Job from the old testament.
Summary: Job was an ardent worshipper. He also had a great life. God was pretty happy with Job. The devil made a bet with God that even his most loyal follower would turn on him if He punished Job with disease, death and overall misery. God took the bet. God then methodically destroyed every good thing Job had going for him. Eventually after every horrible affliction you can possibly imagine befell Job and his family, he asked God why this happened to him. In other words, he questioned God. The Devil won the bet. God appeared and spoke to Job and blasted him for having the audacity to dare question Him. Job apologized.
Obviously, this is a gross oversimplification of a biblical story, but Cashman more closely resembles this vindictive lord than he does any sort of all-knowing all-capable loving force. He's more of an old-testament type, yet at the same time he is abandoning the Yankee tradition and going all new testament with analytics and fiscal conservatism. In other words, he has the wrath of old-testament God and he won't die for his sins. Does that sound like a "Cashgod" to you?
We don't own the Yankees, the owners can do whatever they choose. But you better believe we bear an extreme fiscal burden everytime we go to a Yankee game. If I can pay $45 to park, or $13 for a beer, or $162 for a decent seat on a fairly laid back regular season game on my measly salary, I do not want to hear the billionaire-owned Yankee organization complain to me about their expenses. As a consumer, it's my right to tell them to go take a walk if I don't like their product or the cost.
We are not paying for a “legitimate shot” at a championship. Chances don't cost $200+ a night unless I'm at Empire City Casino, and at least there I know I'm going to lose before the night even starts. If a "chance" is what the Yankees are trafficking in, then charge us the same cost that the Tampa Bay Rays charge their fans. They just want a shot at winning too.
This isn't broadway. We're not here for tragedy. When we dish out money for a play in Manhattan, there is a mutual understanding. We are consenting to having our hearts broken. Show me the human condition, warts and all. Make us laugh. Make us cry.
That's not why we overpay to go to Yankee games. We're not here for theater. We are paying the highest prices in baseball because the Yankee brand is winning. We are paying for victory. We are paying for a dynasty, for a tradition of dominance. There is an understanding between Yankee fans that we will pay any price for baseball divinity.
Divinity is perfection. Divinity is all-knowing. All-encompassing. Omniscient. Omnipresent. Omnipotent. If the Yankee roster is Cashmans' creation, Cashman is an imperfect creator.
The "Cashgod" does not have the power of the wallet. Nor is he present on the big-ticket free-agent market. He does not have the knowledge necessary to be the disrupting force in the game of baseball. That credit goes to organizations like the Athletics, who started the Sabermetrics movement with “money ball.” Or the Royals, who won a World Series with a bullpen. Or the Rays, who started the "opener" trend. Or the Red Sox, who spread their money throughout free agency in 2013 rather than going after the big names. Or the Astros, with their sign-stealing operations. The Yankees are copying, not creating. Worst of all, they're not even replicating the success of the innovators. Unless of course you consider the Rays a success. Funny coincidence, the Rays are a Tampa Bay team, and that's where the Steinbrenners reside. Home is where the heart is, as they say.
Perhaps there was a scaithing viciousness in the old testament God. Such brutality can wear on even the most devout believer. However, in the ultimate display of compassion and egalitarianism, the new testament God sent His own son, who was actually a part of He Himself in human form, to die brutally and unceremoniously for the sins of all men.
In that moment on the cross, even Jesus Himself questioned God, just as Job did. He asked, "Why have you forsaken me?" At least us mere mortals had the vindication of knowing that God gets it.
The false, "Cashgod" and his "heavenly" owners feel no remorse punishing us with high prices and losing teams because they know that Yankee fans are little more than religious zealots. We will recite the doctrine like scripture and we will kneel before the altar of the Bronx. Step out of the orthodoxy and be burned at the stake. Sweeny Murti for a moment became a blasphemer, invoking the ancient tradition of the old-Yankee commandment, “thou shall not let the best players go to rivals,” and the Yankees were eager to strike him down with lightning. In their warped, revisionist covenant, Sweeny had sinned and must enter a confessional booth to repent.
Only so many heretics may be disposed of before the "Cashgod" is revealed as human. Flawed, capable of and prone to making poor decisions. Failing with regularity. Petulant. Unwavering. Dishonest. With Cashman, there have not been any miracles. He has been unable to turn water to wine. He descends into the river when he tries to walk across it. He refuses to be questioned and will not denounce his falsehoods and self-righteousness. We Romans are gathered at his Coliseum for one reason and one reason only. Not for entertainment, but victory. When we do not have it we demand it. Yet the almighty, "Cashgod" talks down to us.
Enough.
In 2020 A.D., if he does not secure the ultimate victory, he will be dragged before Pontius Pilot.
If you are indeed the “Cashgod,” then this is your cross to bear.

Seeing as the NY underground poker posts have been so popular, I figure I can give a bit of a different perspective on the underground scene of the mid 2000s. The Boston scene wasn't nearly as big as the NY scene, but there were still some big games and wild characters involved. I started off in small college games, so if you're only interested in the big mob associated games and stuff like that, this first part will probably bore you. I'm not going to bother changing names in the story. If you knew me from that time, it'll be obvious pretty early on who I am.
Back in 2005 I headed out from California to Boston for college. I'm still not sure why I was so set on going to school in Boston over the beautiful California schools that I had been accepted to, but there I was. Facebook was a really new thing at the time, and you needed a college email address to sign up. As soon as I got my college email in about April, I signed up for Facebook and added every cute girl who was living in the same dorm as me. I also signed up for a bunch of Facebook groups, several about poker games around the campus.
The Moneymaker effect was in full swing at this point, and I had an edge. My best friend at the time's dad had taught us poker when we were 14 or so. We got started playing mixed games, I loved 7 stud variants, but over time we transitioned to NLH. When I left for college I had been a regular in a $0.50/1 NLH game at a house in a rich area that played pretty big, and I had been winning regularly. Between that game and playing online, I had turned $200 I had made from my after school job into a $1500 bankroll.
So I arrive in Boston in August and start going to various games. One was in a nook in the school library, a weekly $50 tournament with no rake, unlimited rebuys and insane players. One was in a frat house with a bunch of drunk bros. Then I found Stevo's game. I think Stevo was a senior at that point, he lived in off campus housing, and he had a professional quality poker table in a side room of his apartment. Besides the nice table and personalized "Stevo's Card Room" chips, what set the game apart for me was that it was the first private game I had played in with a dealer, Erik.
I introduced myself to the other players by my real name, but as became my trademark, people knew me better by my card protector. Bubbles She came from a cake my friends had gotten me for my 17th birthday as a joke, and since her base was perfect for sitting on cards, she became my card protector. I knew some of the guys in the Boston scene for 3 years, and many never knew my real name, they simply knew me as Bubbles.
Stevo's was $1/2 NLH with 75% stack match if I remember correctly. So if the big stack on the table had $1600, you could buy in $1200. The game played pretty deep, and with the same players most nights. Many of them had been playing together for a couple of years, so they knew each other well. The first night I went, me and this other guy Chris were the only freshmen there. It turned out we lived 1 floor apart in our dorm, and we became fast friends.
I bought in for the $300 I had brought with me (lolbankroll) and played my normal, pretty tight style. There were a few crazy bluffers on the table, but one guy Phil really stood out for how often he'd try to steal pots. I played some small pots and was up to around $400 when I looked down at AA. Phil raised $8 from EP, I 3b from late position up to $25 and Phil called. The flop came unsuited low cards and Phil bet $30, I raised to $90 and Phil called. The turn came an 8s which brought a flush draw and Phil checked, I shoved and Phil went into the tank. He flipped up KJss and said he thought I had TT or 99 and so he had lots of outs with his 2 overs and flush draw. He asked me if I wanted him to call and I said absolutely. He eventually called and nailed his flush on the river. I headed to the nearest ATM and bought back into the game. I eventually left with about $500 for a $100 loss on the night, but I was hooked. The action was crazy, I had gotten it in great for an $800 pot and lost, and still only lost $100? I was going to make so much money!
The game ran twice a week, and I was always there. I still played in some random other games, but Stevo's was my main hangout. I became pretty good friends with some of the guys, including Stevo and Chris. Chris and I would regularly skip classes to play on Full Tilt all day. Often on Sundays about 5 of us would go to Stevo's place and grind Party Poker, especially when they had their monthly Party Millions tournament. One Sunday I was playing in a huge $50 online tourney on Party, and ended up going all the way and winning it for $22k. Suddenly I had a great big bankroll! I was consistently winning at Stevo's game, and I had picked up a crazy tell on Phil, the big bluffer. When I left Boston for good 3 years later, I'd finally explain to Phil how I had made so much money off of him, picking off so many of his bluffs he'd made against me. Whenever Phil would make a big bluff with nothing, he'd ask his bet as a question. "300?" He'd say, as if asking "is 300 enough to buy this pot?". I made thousands off of this tell.
As time went on, I wanted more than just 2 nights a week of poker at Stevo's and the crappy other games around campus. Phil had mentioned that they would sometimes go to a game in Chinatown, so one day I asked if he'd take me along.
The Chinatown game ran in an apartment unit above, what else, a Chinese restaurant. It was run by a guy named Jay, who seemed pretty nice, but had a temper at times, and people said was connected to the Triad. Apparently Jay knew the game would eventually get broken up by the cops, but he figured he'd get a few years in prison, but the $500k he planned on making from the game before then would be worth it.
The Chinatown game had 5 tables if I remember correctly. They'd have a tournament at 6pm on most nights, and then a cash game would start around 7 from the people busting the tourney as well as others who came just for cash. At first you could just walk in as long as someone went and introduced you to Jay and vouched for you. They had big screen TVs all over the walls, constantly playing High Stakes Poker, they had food delivered in for the players, fridges full of beer and soft drinks, it was great. Eventually the game would get robbed (although some claimed they thought it was a setup by Jay), and a steel door with an electronic bolt and a security camera would be added.
The game itself was a $1/3nl game with $500 max buyin. It played extremely loose, and I started coming by nearly every night. The players were a mix from all walks of life. Since it was an underground room, there was no age restriction, so some rich high school kids were even in the games. There were tons of college students of course. The Harvard kids always thought they were hot shit, but they always seemed to want to be the table bullies, and I'd pick off their bluffs. The MIT kids were another story, they were nothing short of geniuses, and I tried to stay out of their way usually.
I got a reputation for hitting and running the game, because my goal was to make $1000 and then quit for the night. Often when I'd quit early, me, Jay and some of the others guys would play board games for cash or weird random poker variants. I was making a killing in this game. I went out and bought myself a BMW, I was taking girls from the dorms out to $100 a plate dinners, I thought I was the man. It was 2nd semester, early 2006, and I was also failing out of school. I managed to scrape by first semester with a 2.5, already putting me on probation for my academic scholarship, but I didn't care. I called my mom and told her I was going to make more money than her in 2006.
2nd semester, Chris and I had signed up for many of the same classes with the idea that we'd force each other to go, but instead we enabled each other to skip. One Wednesday morning we were supposed to be going to class, and I don't remember who suggested it, but we ended up instead driving up to Montreal for a 5 day weekend. I got a speeding ticket going 95 MPH through Vermont on the way there, Chris got a ticket driving back through Vermont on the way home, but overall it was a great trip. We played some poker at the casino up there, and I made a few hundred bucks which we blew at the bars and clubs.
A few months after the robbery, the Chinatown game got raided by Boston Vice Squad. Apparently having regular cops there didn't help us out any, they had their money taken along with anyone else there. Jay was arrested, but all of the dealers and players were let go after a bit of harassment. Luckily for me, despite being there about 6 nights a week, I wasn't there for the robbery or the bust. However, unluckily my favorite game and my cash cow was gone.
Now I was back to just 2 days a week at Stevo's. I had met a guy named Rich through the Chinatown game, he was often a dealer there but would also play sometimes. Rich hit me up one day and asked if I was looking for another regular game. I told him I was, and got an invite to a game called The Loft. The Loft was a game outside of Boston in Chelsea. It was in an upscale loft and run by a guy named Moon. Moon was a total character. He was probably around 30, had been an engineer for GE, but quit because he rejected the idea of paying taxes. Moon was a conspiracy nut, and as we became friends he'd tell me all kinds of crazy theories, often involving Jews. As a Jew myself, I told him I was sure upset that all of these fun Jewish conspiracies were happening without me!
The Loft was a good game, but not as juicy as the Chinatown game. There were 2 tables, but usually just 1 ran, and it was often the same people every day. Many of them sucked at poker, so I was still making a bunch of money, but some of the shine had worn off. I completely stopped going to classes around this time, but was still living in the dorms and joined a fraternity. This frat was famous for crazy parties, and we'd sell cups for $5 at the door as admission. Eventually a party got busted up by the cops, and the frat president and a few other guys got arrested for selling alcohol to minors. The mayor of Boston went on TV and made an example out of us, calling us the negative Animal House version of a fraternity and calling for harsher regulations for serving alcohol to minors. The national fraternity revoked our charter, and that was the end of that.
The school year was coming to a close, and I was supposed to go home for the summer. I was done at the university, and didn't really know what I was going to do the next year. I drove the BMW all the way home to California and then went with a bunch of friends to Europe for the World Cup. We spent 5 weeks there, went to the 3 US games, and had a great time. I played some PLO in Barcelona despite not really knowing how to play (that was the only game they had there at the time), and I won $1200 by playing no hands for hours until I hit a full house, then getting paid off by the maniac players. When we stopped in Paris I played at the Aviation Club, the swanky poker club a few blocks from the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs-Elysees. They told me I couldn't come in wearing tennis shoes, so I went across the street and bought $200 loafers at Lacoste, then proceeded to win $5000 over the course of a crazy 24 hour session. My total expenses for the trip were $5500, and I had made $6200 in poker during the trip, life was amazing!
I ended up deciding to sign up for a program where you spend a year in Israel, get some college credits and volunteer. I ended up doing more drinking and partying than volunteering and studying, and got kicked out of the program halfway through.
I came back to California and went to community college for the semester, before deciding I missed the grind and that I was going to move back to Boston for the 2007-2008 school year and go to community college there (yeah right) but mostly get back to the underground poker grind. I had just turned 20, had about $80k and the BMW, and I was ready to jump back in. I talked to Rich, the guy who had gotten me into the Loft game, and he was still dealing poker around town and was looking for a roommate. I told him I was driving out to Boston the next week from California, and that he should find a 2 bedroom for us near campus. Little did I know, Rich was not to be trusted, and I was in for a shitshow of a year...
Part 2: https://www.reddit.com/pokecomments/bfvdp3/inside_boston_underground_poker_part_2/?

Martingales
Part One: Something Wicked This Way Comes
Part Two: Instruments of Darkness
Part Three: Absolute Zero
Part Four: All Sevens
Part Five: Whale-Watching
Part Six: On the Shores of Oblivion
Part Seven: Ante Up
Theme
“Okay, what the hell is this?” Martin’s confusion is evident in his tone as he takes in the sight before him, slowly stepping out of the elevator as he does so. Rather than the sumptuous yet gaudy building he’s been used to, here it looks like he’s entered into some ancient Greek temple. Worn columns reach to support a supposed ceiling, and rather than carpet, colorful flecks of tile make sweeping images that spread across the floor. The walls are stone as well, daubed in paint and carved with expressions of stern individuals, and of others kneeling before the banks of a snow-white winding path. No, not a path, a river, Martin notes as, upon closer inspection, he sees hands reaching into the depths, and others raised before mouths.
“Welcome to the Executive Level, Mister Gale,” A smooth voice says from beside him, causing the boy to jump a solid foot. An immaculate looking man in black suit and tie stands beside him, his face masked with an inscrutable mask of tragic woe. “Your friend mentioned that you were having troubles with your memories; please, allow me to be of assistance.”
Martin turns to look for Anthony, but only an elevator door is to be seen, the lift hidden behind twins doors of steel.
“Come now, Mister Gale, let’s have a conversation, you and me. Are you thirsty, hungry?” The masked figure saunters deeper into the room. Beyond a fountain of oily black water and that looks like its offering liquid snow, there sits a stone table, a pair of chairs on opposite sides. Well, a throne and a chair; the one beside the fountains is tall-backed and imperiously proud compared to its counterpart. Settling into his throne, the man gestures to the chair across from him. Martin’s teeth gnaw at his lip in concern, but he gradually makes his way into the room. As he does so, he notes the ceiling, where two figures are coiled overhead. Each is the mirror of the other, one dressed in white and with platinum tresses, while one is dressed in the inky coils of night. They stare down from overhead, neither lesser than the other.
“There we are.” The man says as Martin settles into the chair across from him. A gloved hand sweeps across the table in a casual grandness. What Martin thought was just a stone table bears second inspection, as it turns out to be tiled with squares of obsidian and some white stone-
Howlite, his mind supplies, though he hadn’t had a clue the word existed until that moment.
-Obsidian and howlite. On the table, a richly lacquered box rests. The figure across from Martin opens the lid, and begins to pull piece after piece from within. A chessboard, with pieces of onyx and moonstone.
“Do you play, Mister Gale?” the man asks.
“I- uh, I don’t know, but I-!” The confusion of this situation is all encompassing; whatever Martin had expected up here, it was not a chess game with a masked individual in what looks like a forgotten ruin. He begins to protest, but is cut off by one gloved finger being raised. The figure, whomever they are, commands authority to silence with even just a gesture.
”Right, I should’ve guessed. Well, let’s see what you remember, then. I find it easier to talk while my hands are distracted. Memory goes first, and the House responds.” The gloved hand goes from interdiction to encouragement. Martin looks down to the pieces, but his gaze lingers for only a moment before he’s back and focused on the stranger across from him. Another stranger and place he doesn’t understand, again!
“I don’t even know who you are,” Martin glowers at the tragic mask sitting opposite. “Why should I play?”
“You’re right, you’re right of course, Mister Gale. How about this then; we’ll include an ante for each piece taken. With each successful capture, the loser shall answer the question of the claimant, and do so truthfully. And as a show of good faith, I’ll give you an answer unbidden.” The woe-struck mask leans across the table, looking at Martin with a misery that he can feel deep within his chest. Pinpricks of red light can be seen within the depths, but anything remotely passable as eyes cannot be seen.
“You may call me Stamatios the Tragic,” a sibilant hiss of a sentence comes from behind the mask. It takes all of Martin’s effort to avoid shivering, but the displeasure must be clear on his face as Stamatios leans back into his throne.
“And now that we’re acquainted, Mister Gale, let us begin the game.”
Black 1; White 0
“First piece to me, Mister Gale,” Stamatios notes as a bone-white pawn goes back into the box. It was bound to happen, Martin figured. It had to be done to succeed down the road.
“How is your head feeling? Anthony had mentioned that you were still dealing with one doozy of a migraine when we talked.”
“It’s… better,” Martin says guardedly. He’ll play by the rules of the game, even the added ante, if it means getting some iota of knowledge from the stranger across from him. “But I still can’t remember much.”
“Well, I’ve always found that a little bit of knowledge can be a most dangerous thing…”
Black 1; White 2
“Well done, Mister Gale,” Stamtios says approvingly, “in just a few moves, you’ve claimed a pair of pawns. Have you had time to think of your questions?”
“What is this place is my first one.”
“Good, good. This room is a penthouse suite for my brother and myself to reflect and separate ourselves from the world. Just as the Lotus is a place of refuge for some, we need that ourselves.”
“A brother… Do I have any siblings, then?”
“A sister, that I have been told of; my brother would know better,” Stamatios sighs. Martin is hooked though. What he couldn’t get from Anthony in the terms of answers has been claimed here in just minutes! And what’s more, that proves the dream was right! A sister, a father and mother, cousins and uncles; a whole family is out there waiting for him!
“Can I-” He begins to press his advantage, but a warning finger is raised again.
“Questions, questions Mister Gale. If you want answers, you must play better.”
Black 3; White 3
A pair of white pieces return to the box soon after, along with an ebony as well.
“Two for me, and one for you, Mister Gale. You seem to have come off a little rougher on this exchange. I think I will hold onto my questions for now; feel free to ask yours, though.”
“Can I talk to your brother?”
“I certainly believe you could, yes. But he is not in currently, and I have no way of contacting him that you can use, I am afraid. Do not worry though, Mister Gale. If he wishes to talk with you, he will make himself known to you.”
Black 4; White 3
“”Mister Gale, what do you think of Anthony?” Stamatios the Tragic asks as he a white rook finds its way into the box.
“I… I don’t trust him. I think he’s lied to me about a lot of things here. I think I trust you more than I trust him,” Martin admits. “At least you didn’t try buddying up to me as a friend.”
“Hmm, I see… It’s a shame that some people have such disreputable motives. Taking advantage of someone’s memory lapses like that; simply boorish behavior.”
Black 6; White 3
“Mister Gale, you simply need to play sharper, you won’t get any answers at this rate.” The pieces are definitely looking lopsided in their box, with ivory outnumbering ebony by a significant amount.
“How does it feel, knowing nothing of yourself?”
“It’s… it’s not something I like. I feel like someone took five different puzzles and tossed all of the pieces together. Just when I think I’ve got the frame completed, someone goes and messes it up.
“Truly unfortunate to hear; it sounds miserable.”
“I… I wouldn’t say that,” Martin muses. “There’s nowhere to go but up, isn’t there?”
“Isn’t there?” Stamtios echoes. If a mask hadn’t been between them, Martin would swear that an eyebrow was being raised with the mirrored question.
Black 6; White 4
“Did I know Anthony before he found me?”
“No, I highly doubt it. He’s been a long-term resident of the Lotus for quite some time, and it’s a shame to hear that he’s being… casual in his approach to things. I take it he didn’t offer you anything to eat, did he?”
“I- Wait, you didn’t take a piece here, I don’t have to answer,” Martin retorts. The synapses in his head went into overtime now, dealing with that bit of information. Anthony had never known him, and he had stayed at the Lotus for a while. Nothing he said is true, nothing.
So… Where does that leave him?
“You’re right of course, Mister Gale,” Stamatios inclines his head in a slow nod. “Shall we continue?”
Black 6; White 6
“Is my name Martin Gale?” Martin asks.
“My answer will be a history lesson for you, Mister Gale.” Stamatios begins, as Martin takes another pair of pieces. The board has thinned considerably, with roughly half the soldiers and nobility on each side of the board. “In eighteenth-century France, gambling parlors were home to a particular theory of betting, and by extension, probability. Do you know what that is?”
“No…”
“I’ll tell you, then. If you bet fifty dollars on a hand of poker and lost, how would you go about recouping said loss?”
“I’d bet again,” Martin notes, wondering where this is going.
“But would you bet the minimum, or fifty dollars? How safe would you be, and how brave would you be in going past a point of safety?”
“I, uh…”
“Enter the Martingales; those supremely brave and supremely foolish gamblers who, when faced with loss, doubled their efforts. If you lost fifty dollars, you bet one-hundred. Down one million, you’ll bet two million; so on and so forth. I doubt you need more explanation than that.”
“That’s a terrible idea though, why would anyone do that?”
“Well, if you win, you aren’t out anything at all, of course. Someone can go from serfdom back to their lordship.”
“And a lord could be made a pauper,” Martin counters. “I don’t know how this connects to me, though.”
“Well, Mister Gale…. You may not be the Martin Gale, but you are certainly a Martingale, at least in our eyes.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Questions, Mister Gale. I have answered what you have asked. Keep playing.”
Black 4; White 7
“Why do you think I’m a Martingale?”
“Because Mister Gale, I know you.”
Black 8; White 8
“Here we are, on the crossroads; halfway between existence… and oblivion,” Stamatios intones as Martin rolls his eyes.
“A bit melodramatic, huh?” He asks, and Stamatios shakes his head.
“Not at all, Mister Gale. There’s a tipping of the scales that one can only see when they’re perfectly balanced; your cousins know that better than most, I’m sure.”
“Wait, you know my cousins?”
“Only by reputation; and no, I won’t tell you their names. Focus on the game, Mister Gale.”
Black 9; White 10
“How can I get my memory back?”
“There’s several ways, I’m sure. Time would probably be the most effective method, I would say. Certainly the safest.”
“What happened to me?”
“I cannot say, for I was not a witness. I can only offer a guess, but that would not help your situation, I fear. Mister Gale, how does that make you feel?”
“Why are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”
“I’m not; I’m trying to understand you. If you want help, you need to be understood. And unfortunately, there’s not much for me to understand yet. Like you eloquently said, you’re like a bunch of puzzles put together. We can each put together a different picture, and what I think you are may be very different than what you think you are.”
Black 12; White 12
“And now we’re in the endgame, Mister Gale. May I say, this is a most admirable game. I daresay you could even give my brother a run for his money as well; we’ve had ample time to practice together, and it seems like you would fit in quite well.”
“What do you mean?” Martin asks.
“Well, quite simply, you would be a natural fit to join my brother and myself in our day to day operations. The Tragic, The Comic… The Cynic?” He offers in a lilting voice. “It’s not like anyone except for me has given you the truth so far. The Lotus-Eaters down below hardly care about you, Anthony is a tool that I would leave to you to take care of as you’d like, and you’d have quite a bit of autonomy to pursue your own endeavors.”
“That’s… what’s the catch?”
“Hmm… ask a different question for now, I’m not sure how to properly answer it for you yet, and don’t want to lead you astray. I’m not a proverbial snake.”
“Then what is Camp Half-Blood?”
“...I see you are recuperating more than Anthony would have led me to believe.” Stamatios’s voice is guarded, for the first time since the game of chess and questions began it actually sounds like he is on the defensive. “I am bound by my word though, Mister Gale. It’s a Camp, one for training people such as yourself to fight and survive a world that would have you dead. A Camp that you left of your own volition, I might add.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a Martingale, Mister Gale. First for a claim, then for family, then for fraternity. And everytime its cost you something more; your normalcy, your innocence, and now, your memories. Eventually you won’t be able to pay the costs… and what then?”
Black 14; White 13
“One minute from doomsday, Mister Gale,” Stamatios notes. “And with myself right behind.”
Martin’s eyes scan the desolate board. If this were a literal battlefield, it would be clogged with blood and corpses. Here, on immaculate howlite and obsidian, it’s an austere representation of the battle of questions between them.
“...Why did this happen to me?” He asks as the seconds transform into minutes of silence between them. The question had been building for some time in him, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask, with an onyx bishop and ebony rook, staring down the gleaming bastion that his own rook provided against, as Stamatios had put it, oblivion.
“I mean, why me? Out of everybody in the world, why am I the one who has this lot?”
“Because we needed someone like you. Someone intelligent, and enduring. Those qualities are rare to find together, and even rarer when you look for the other conditions as well. Not many people would be willing to play a twenty-hour game of chess for answers.”
“Twenty hours?!” Martin exclaims. It had hardly felt like twenty minutes, let alone twenty hours. No twinge of hunger, no parched throat; nothing to indicate that this had been going on for the better part of a day.
“Well, in here, I suppose it seemed a little faster,” Stamatios admits. “I can only imagine how it went outside of here… But yes, you have the patience to see something through to the end, that’s another thing.”
“I- I don’t care about that, I just- I don’t want to be a toy to you, or to anyone else!” Martin protests, pushing his chair away from the board.
“Mister Gale, I do have an alternative for you, if you’ll hear me out? ….Good, thank you.” He adds as Martin, halfway to his feet, settles back into his chair again.
“You’ve been hurt by everyone you know, and forgotten everyone else you knew. You don’t even know what your life was like before the Lotus Casino took you in… So why risk the outside being worse?” Stamatios asks. From within a pocket of his suit jacket, he pulls out a small earthenware bottle with a wooden stopper.
“I can make the pain stop for you, in all ways. You just need to drink of the Lethe, Mister Gale. One mouthful, and you’ll forget everyone that’s wronged you, every pain that’s hurt you, everything that’s happened to you; just let the River consume it all.” With a free hand, he points up to the ceiling. Martin’s eyes follow his hand, and he stares up at the figures, astounded to see them slowly revolving around each other. More shockingly, they each look wounded, hurt. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises mar their body and clothes, looking as if they spent the past twenty hours on the chessboard’s battlefield rather than the pieces.
“Existence is a terrifying thing,” Stamatios continues. “And I can offer you a reprieve. Think of it, oblivion. You don’t have to worry about knowing anything, you just get to be! There’s no expectations, no obligations, you will just get to exist, in the truest sense of the word! This is a brand new start, Martin; very few get an opportunity to travel this particular road.”
Martin’s eyes drift to the clay bottle. It looks so plain, how can it do what he’s promised? There has to be a catch.
“There has to be a catch,” Martin echoes, an observation which Stamatios rewards with a nod.
“Astute. With this option, we would like you to become one of us; a Brother of Oblivion, a member of our dear little cult. And no-” he stops the protest. “I won’t tell you who or what we serve; it’ll be a waste of my breath if you do choose the option, and I do hate repeating myself.”
“And if I don’t take your option? Am I free to go?”
“I don’t know about free, but you will be able to leave, yes.” Stamatios muses. “We’ve found you before, we will find you again. I doubt you’ll like what happens when we find you again. I daresay you’re running out of limbs and friends to save, at this rate. We won’t kill you, but everyone else… well, if Peleus didn’t hate dogs so much, we would have already solved this problem.”
“I… are you-”
“Yes, that’s a threat, Mister Gale,” Stamatios sighs. “I rather thought you’d pick up on the inference, honestly. You were much sharper with all of your memories, you know.”
DWOOOOoooooom-
With a droning noise being the only alert, the lighting of the room vanishes in a trace. Martin’s eyes dart from side to side, looking for the source. His own eyes widen as they settle in on Stamatios’s eyes glowing red in the depths of his mournful mask.
”Please do not be alarmed, guests. We are currently on emergency power due to an unscheduled power outage. Concierges, please guide guests back to floors ten and up and explain the compensation package at their convenience. Also, inform them that any damage due to flooding on floors one through nine is covered by our comprehensive insurance plan. Mister Dhark, to the basement level ten. I repeat, Mister Dhark to basement level ten, please.”
“Damn it…” The expletive drips like poison from behind the mask. Stamatios rises to his feet, staring down at Martin and their board.
“Stalemate it is, Mister Gale. You have a choice before you now. If you are here when I return, we will welcome you into the Brotherhood. If you are not, then my brother and our agents shall plan our next move. This elevator is set to run on emergency power, so your escape will be guaranteed in these conditions; I doubt my brother or I shall have time to hunt you for quite the foreseeable future…”
“But when we do, I shall see you skewered on a dozen spears and force-fed the waters of the Lethe, so you only can remember the agony of pain without the reason why… Keep that in mind during your thinking process. I shall return within the hour.” And with that, the pair of red eyes vanish. Martin stands from his chair, looking around the room. The only measure of light comes from the elevator’s readout, otherwise the room is in complete darkness. Martin looks down at the chessboard, his eyes looking for any sort of answer that may be hidden in the battlefield.
It’s a stalemate game; neither of us would have won this. Just where this innate knowledge of chess comes from, he has no idea. The same thing happened with the game of Mythomagic on the main floor, though… Just a sense of how things work in terms of logic and tactics.
That’s neither here nor there, though. What matters now is the impasse that Martin finds himself in the twixt of.
If I drink the vial.. I lose sight of who I am, but the people I left behind will be safe… But I’ll never remember them again. He grabs the vial from the table and bounces it experimentally in his palm. It’s such a light object, to hold such weight in his mind.
“But if I go without, I put everyone in danger… But I could remember who everyone is… maybe,” his thoughts turn into words as he weighs the option in hand.
Which is better to choose? Should I be turned into one of them to protect others? Or should I be myself, and live with the consequences and dangers that such a choice brings?
“What would Father do?” He asks aloud, with only the babbling of the fountains available for reply. He sighs, looking down at the phial in his hand. Slowly the gears begin to turn in his head, as a plan begins to form.
Thank you for your patience, Lotus Hotel and Casino Patrons. We are now pleased to announce that our temporary power issue and flooding has been corrected. You are now free to return to the lower floors, where we will be offering free games for the next two hours! No risk, only reward as our way of thanking you for your patience! Thank you, and remember, when you stay at the Lotus; a weekend stay is like a year’s vacation!
Hundreds of people slowly return to the lower main floors of the casino. Bell-bottoms, poodle skirts, three-piece suits; all walks of life push against each other, eager for the opportunity to let their wallet’s feast on fortunes that they cannot understand… or care to, for that matter. Waitresses flit from table to machine with serving trays filled to the brim with ambrosial lotus flowers, ensnaring their prey just as surely as a spider pounces on the fly already ensnared within its web.
Martin notices none of this as he pushes out from the crowd, shoving his way through to a direction that nobody else seems to care to go; the exit.
“Excuse me sir! The game floor is-” The woman behind the check-in counter begins, but her words die in her mouth as she sees him effortlessly walk through the revolving door. In the past year that she’s worked the welcoming counter at The Lotus, she’s only seen two other groups do that. One pair with a lawyer towing them out, and the others after causing a scene and leaving after a few minutes. Never someone just by themselves.
“Have a-” She can’t even remember what she’s supposed to say when someone leaves the Lotus, it’s such an intermittent occurrence. Instead, she presses a button on the phone resting on her desk. She knows what she's supposed to do when it happens though, the laminated sheet of paper by the phone ensures that A few seconds of ringing, and a click is heard as the second line connects.
“Mister Dhark, the House has went bust. I repeat, the House has went bust.”
“So, both of you have lost your shirts in this little thought experiment, I see.” A man dressed in an impeccable charcoal suit and a mask miming comedic joy. Before him kneel two other individuals, each wearing masks of tragedy, one with hunched shoulders and a cloak, while the other wears a suit that is a twin of his comedic twin.
“Dear brother, it is not our fault; Anthony threw the game before we even had a chance to turn him to our side,” the Tragic protests.
“And who is Anthony’s handler, kind brother?” The standing Stamatios asks, being rewarded with a slumping of his twin’s shoulders.
“But, Lord Stamatios, we aren’t… aren’t done yet.” The hunched figure wheezes. “He’s… he’s hardly left…. Left Vegas. I can, with Skilos… I can catch him.”
“No.” The word is absolute, a glacier that signals the finality of all life that dares defy its passage. “He beat the pair of you, as I thought he would. He deserves the reprieve. I take no satisfaction in taking a piece off the board when it’s broken.” Stamatios the Comic turns from the kneeling figures, crossing back to the stone chess board where his Tragic brother and Martin had played their game. Kings and rooks and bishop still stand tall upon the board. Idly, he flicks the ebony king, sending it toppling to the floor with a clatter.
“And he managed this without only instinct… He did not know of Athena or his gifts, and he still put you to a stalemate, kind brother? Surely, you were humoring him?”
“...No, dear brother. I played my best game. We took twenty hours, which the Casino took as twenty weeks. The House always-”
“Don’t you dare say that tiresome cliche, kind brother, or else you shall find yourself as a fountain ornament before the month is out.” the smiling Stamatios notes. “Though, you did well enough to stall for time. My agents have found several leads that we have been looking for for some time. We shall prepare to move when we are able.”
“And what of us, dear brother?”
“You, kind brother, will see to the Casino. Make sure that there is no lasting damage from the power outage. And see to the rainwater that poured in; I swear we’ll have to get that carpet torn out and replaced. It absolutely reeks of seawater, dead fish, and failed ambition down there.”
“And me… Lord?” The Oathbreaker heaves the question. Stamatios the Comic turns to him with his forced smile.
“You, my loathsome abomination, will be going to New York. If our Martingale ups the ante, then take him out, but not before. Skilos is yours. And if you fail or kill him before his time… You’d best hope he remembers how to kill someone like you first. His mercies will seem like a mother’s compared to what will await you should I get my hands on you.”
“...Yes, Lord.” He gasps his assent as he rises to his feet. From within the depths of the cloak, he draws a crystalline whistle. Pulling the mask up to his nose, he brings it to his exposed mouth and blows. Nothing happens for a heartbeat, then two. On the third, a bounding hellhound leaps from the shadows.
“Skilos… bring me to New York.” The Oathbreaker commands as he clambers up the monster’s back. Once he is firmly seated, the pair bound into the shadows and vanish once more.
“Dear brother, I do not trust him… I believe we were rash in elevating him,” the Tragic intones.
“I do agree, kind brother. Consider this our third test of Mister Kaufmann. If he finds a way to remember that he is in fact Mister Kaufmann, then he will be rechristened in blood.”
“I remember our game on Tetepare, when you thought Mister Cleary would be Mister Kaufmann’s equal. Do you stand by that?”
“No,” the Comic smiles, and based on the tone, a genuine one hides beneath as well. “I do not believe we’ve met his equal in many, many years, dear brother… We will either enter true existence once more, or final oblivion. We stand-”
“At the Crossroads.”
“At the Crossroads, yes. And Mister Kaufmann shall dictate the path. Now, go get that carpet dried. Oh, and have a long talk with Anthony about his… thoroughness when it comes to preparing our guests.”
“...Yes, dear brother.” Rather than rising to his feet, Stamatios the Tragic sinks into the shadows pooled around his feet. Stamatios the Comic looks up at the slowly spiraling image of the mirrored women on the ceiling and sighs.
“You really only have one hope, you know.” He pauses, then adds. “Each of you, I mean. Either I shall win, or Mister Kaufmann will… Best of luck to both Memory and Oblivion, may the true grandmaster win.”
The world is dark outside the bus depot, as dark as Vegas can manage with all of the neon and gaudiness. By contrast, the depot is threadbare and boring; Martin can’t think of the last time he’s been somewhere that’s felt half as comfortable. The light up display board he has been watching updates, with the second bus listing ratcheting up to the top of the board. A screech goes up through the building’s speaker system, followed by a scratchy voice.

Now boarding, Las Vegas to New York City. Please have your boarding ticket ready, and begin forming to board. Now boarding, Las Vegas to New York City.

Martin settles near the front of the bus, a small bag filled with toiletries by his feet. The card that had been handed to him by the concierge in the Lotus seemed to have a few uses outside of the casino, it seemed. Beyond the necessities, there were just a few other items; two to be exact. The first, the logo of the shirt he had found in the suite’s hamper. And two, wrapped within the cloth, a stoneware bottle that sloshes ever so slightly when it is moved.
Wait, what? A third item, a box the size of a pencil case stamped with a Caduceus stares up at him. Curiosity getting the better of him, he gingerly opens it. Nestled on a fitted interior rests a bronze ring, and a matching bracelet. Tucked into the side of the box, a small note is hidden. Unfolding it, his heart begins to tap away at a faster speed as he reads the contents, one part typed, the other handwritten on the bottom.

Dear Mister Gale,
We at the Lotus Hotel and Casino wanted to say we appreciate the opportunity to cater to you, and hope you enjoyed your stay with us. Please find enclosed a lost item that was recovered in the flooding, as well as a token of esteem from one of our patrons. We do hope that you will consider the Lotus in the future for all of your celebration and relaxation needs.
The Lotus Hotel and Casino

Well done, Mister Gale. Enjoy your reprieve before the game begins anew. Olly olly oxen free.
“You got cleaned out too, huh kid?” A man in his late forties settles into the spot behind him. Peeking over his shoulder, he shakes his head good-naturedly. “How much did they take you for?”
“...Everything.”
“Damn, at least you thought ahead enough to have your ticket home and souvenirs prepared. Me? I had to call up my wife and ask her to wire me some money. I’m just glad we have a comfy couch; I’ll be sleeping on that for a while, I think. Fuck Vegas.” Regardless of the expletive, he still seems in good spirits as he laughs at the thought.
“Fuck Vegas,” Martin echoes, though no laugh follows. The air brakes hiss as the bus lurches forward. Turning his gaze to the window, Martin watches as the bus garage is left behind, and soon enough Vegas itself fades away. Before his eyes drift closed, he sees one last thing.
“WELCOME TO FABULOUS LAS VEGAS, NEVADA” the iconic sign greets the departing demigod.
“...Fuck Vegas.”
[Storymode]
Total Time in the Lotus: 28 Hours (6 on the casino floor, 2 unconscious, 20 in the Executive Level)
Total Time Elapsed: 26 weeks.