the Game #6

Edward knew instinctively that his turn would come last.  He would have to wait and watch each of his companions go through their own personal hell; then and only then would it come around to him.  Edward Teraneau, WSOP three-time champion and player of the year, highest accumulated earnings of any poker player in history, most respected for his ability and feared by lesser players would be brought down to the same level as everyone else.  He had to give Darius credit, he certainly knew how to level the playing field.

Three down, six to go.  The door opened in the fourth room and slammed against the wall with a bang.  Two very large men were struggling with a young man in a black t-shirt emblazoned with the Sex Pistols logo.  His hair was cut into a bright red mohawk.  Numerous piercings adorned his ears, nose and lips; two of which were connected with a chain.  His hands were cuffed in front of him but he was swinging his elbows and kicking the two men with a pair of Doc Martin boots.  He managed to connect with the shin of one of the men who responded by slamming the young man’s head into the wall.

“Scott!” Angela Wayne screamed her son’s name.  “Darius, he’s only a boy.  You have to let him go!”  She turned and addressed the men in the room.  “You two assholes keep your fucking hands off of him.  Scotty, are you alright?”

Darius motioned to the men who then removed the handcuffs from Scott’s wrists.

“Ms. Wayne, your son recently turned nineteen, if I’m not mistaken.  Rather spirited as well.”  Darius’ face registered no response to the events taking place around him.  Angela went to the glass and waited for her son to pull himself up off the floor.

Five rooms remained empty.  Five players watched as the next door opened and a middle aged man in a navy blue suit and red tie was escorted inside.  Ginger Halstead gasped and ran to the window.

“Hey Ginger.” the man said.

“Gary, did they hurt you?” Ginger asked, fighting to keep her tears at bay.

“No, babe, I’m fine”, he answered.  “You ok?”

“Yeah…. yeah, I’m ok”, she replied.  “I just wish we were somewhere else.”

Four to go.  Edward’s heart was racing in his chest.  As bad as all this was, he was quite sure it would get worse.  Much worse.

The next door opened and through it walked a woman whose demeanor was more suited to royalty than to a captive.  She was tall with high cheekbones, hazel eyes and smooth, dark skin.  Her hair was wrapped in a brightly colored scarf and she wore a long, elegant dress.  One of the men attempted to lead her by the arm and she looked at him as if he were something she had scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

“You will not touch me.  I am fully aware of what is expected of me; I do not require your assistance”.  The strong Carribean accent echoed through the room and announced the arrival of Martinique Solomon, George Varney’s fiancee.  George walked slowly to the window.

“Hello, Niqui,  are you alright?” George asked.

“Georgie boy, I am fine.  Other than being subjected to the company of thugs, I am none the worse for wear”, Martinique replied.  “The question is, what in the name of the saints are we doing here?”

“I honestly don’t know, Niqui, but I have every intention of finding out.” George said in a calm voice.

Before he could say anything else, the door opened in the next room.


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