| Always Bet On the House |
[21 Jul 2008|08:31pm] |
The Old Godwin Box Factory
Chicago, IL
After midnight, the main event was over.
The lights went down, the metal bleachers emptied, and the bodily fluids on the floor were soaked in solidifier, scraped up, and thrown out. The only thing left was the stench. The room stank of sweat and blood and something putrid that dripped out of the dead boxer's nose. Or maybe it was more accurately termed a snout.
In 2013, there was money to be made off curiosity. It was the same mentality that had drawn spectators into carnival sideshows in centuries past. Even back during the Great Depression, when people didn't have two cents to rub together, when there were mouths to feed and no food to put in them, they still scrounged in their pockets and came up with change. All they wanted was a chance to see the unbelievable-- conjoined twins or a bearded lady or the world's fattest man. Not even the holy rollers stayed home when the freakshow came to town.
Nowadays, they didn't want bearded women. What people wanted was to see for themselves the monsters that showed up on the 11 o'clock news. Not in cages, not behind shatterproof glass, but in their element. What they wanted was an adrenaline rush, a story to tell. The second incarnation of Darian's ring provided a venue for that fervent wish. He even took it one step further. He married curiosity with the powerful motivator of greed.
What captured Darian's interest was the impulsive nature of the human mind, coupled with its avarice. What would a spectator pay to watch a pair of demons rip one another apart? How much would a gambler bet on the winner? He never got tired of figuring it out.
The Dealmaker accepted cash, and when a gambler won, he was good for the winnings.
But he also liked to think of himself as an 'equal opportunity lender'. If a gambler didn't have any money to put down, he could borrow from the house. In Darian's house, cash wasn't the only form of currency. There was also physical currency, and metaphysical currency, and those rewards could be so sweet. But when the gambler lost, there was hell to pay, because he paid the Dealmaker's price.
Whatever seemed 'fair'.
After midnight, the main event was over.
It was the encore that rocked the house.
In Darian's office, there were just the three men. The owner, the loser, and the henchman. Phillip, former concierge for the Bellagio hotel, filled the latter bill. He had made the trip to Chicago to work for his old boss. There were some nights when he wasn't sure he had the stomach for it. His own torso was a disgusting mass of scar tissue -- the price he paid for a pretty-boy face -- so he knew well the kind of pain that Darian could inflict. .
He flinched. There was nothing like the sound that flesh made when it was ripped open.
"It's really not important," Darian was saying. The white sleeve of his shirt was rolled to his bicep. This, so he could reach in and not get it stained. He looked the gambler in the eye while he was fishing around. "You won't even miss it." The organ made a wet slap when he tossed it in a pan. He got up and wiped his arm on a towel.
"So." Darian turned to Phillip and scratched his nose on his shoulder. "Who's next?"
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