Casino Less Popular, 8 PM Start

The Las Vegas game starter had just answered a question about another game he hosted, when the grinder on his right perked up.

“Where is that game?” the grinder asked.

“At Casino Less Popular, eight pm on Mondays.”

“Is the game good?”

The host was nonplussed. “It was incredible this past Monday, but you can’t know. The players make the game.”

The grinder did catch the host’s leading stare but remained unsatisfied. “Is it, you know, going to be good? It’s Casino Less Popular, a block off the strip! They aren’t known for a lot of games.”

The host saw no point in deception. “Well, it’s a convention hotel and casino, so sometimes you get a lot of walk-ins in their name tags and lanyards, and sometimes it is nearly empty. You take a chance.”

“But is it guaranteed to come off? It’s Casino Less Popular, after all, and I don’t want to go all the way there for no reason.”

“Yes,” said the host slowly, “I am aware of where the game is. What I’ll say is, every seat counts. So, if you come, you’ll help get the game going and hopefully make it good.” There had been a time when the host was more diplomatic, back when his hair was black and full.

The grinder’s mouth twisted. He dropped a few chips rhythmically and scooped them up with a snap. It was a little motion he’d learned to make over the years. Drop, bounce, scoop. There is a lot of down time waiting for a hand, and it was important to him that he learn to do something to help pass the time.

The grinder thought a few more moments. “Can you let me know if the game is good? Text me?”

It was the host that grimaced this time. He was not a handsome man, and his concerned expression made him appear much older, almost beaten. Still, he pushed away the table lightly and quickly in order to reach something his pocket.

The grinder stopped dropping and snapping chips as he watched the host appear to pull out his phone. However, the black object in his hand was much thicker than a phone, almost hexagonal or and rounded. It wasn’t plastic but dry and leathery. In fact, it was a handle which ended at a flat bar of dull, rough metal. From the metal bar emerged a heavy steel blade, absurdly large, slightly curved and very shiny, a true Bowie knife. The host punched the air with a swift, elliptical swing. The grinder’s decapitated head fell on to the table and rolled into the dealer’s tray, where it lost momentum. The body sat unaffected, other than a fountain of blood from the neck, whose veins squirted to the rhythm of the grinder’s former chip dance.

There was admittedly some commotion, but with time already paid, the remaining players agreed to complete the down. The dealer had seen it all and so worked around the grinder’s displaced head; his mind was elsewhere.

By the way, some good news: “I promise to be there, if I can,” said one of the regs.