94 Ashan, 724
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It was the same night Kotton had undertaken playing a game dubbed 'roulette'. He had won only once, but that was enough for him; he already felt more than comfortably susceptible to the black hole of gambling. He had introduced himself to the concept of 'IOUs' and mooched off his new companion, Miss Iona. He now had a loan of fifty chips he needed to pay back once he collected it in tangible currency. Chips were what casinos used in the form of currency and they were usually considered checks. This was sensible to someone who had spent countless hours or their life trying to repay IOUs to those he had borrowed from.
It had come to light that Miss Iona wasn’t far from the title of a shill- a term he had learnt after he had taken his first step into the Four of Hands. They were a kind of swindler who had thus far been nothing but overenthusiastic, driving Kotton to play more games than he normally would have had he been alone. Shills went around to various tables that seemed empty and they entrusted many newcomers who were without a sense of skill, enabled said newcomers with encouragement and mild reassurance and the rest was undocumented. How fortunate was that? But maybe that's just how casinos worked. For some reason, this didn’t bother Kotton. He fell directly into this trap like it was a pit that declared free doughnuts at the very bottom.
There were no windows, it seemed, and probably for good reason. Logically, the young man presumed this was to keep players from recognising the time of day. No respectable business wanted their clientele to leave because dusk had fallen. And it only helped when most people were drunk. But Kotton wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t had even a lick of alcohol. No droplet of the cursed drink could be found anywhere within his person. He was unexpectantly grateful for that; he felt he needed to be in a clear state of mind in a place like this or else he would have nothing other than the pair of pants he wore to his name. It was all him, and that meant he was in control and knew exactly what he was doing. He was able to foresee the future and look inarguably to the past without the impediment of short term memory loss. It was also of benefit to him that he was invested in the learnings of the linguistic value of casino slang, and Miss Iona had been doing a wonderful job teaching him. They gave him information that curtailed his plan to ask around the establishment like a dopey tourist. So, in a sense, it was a win-win, even if he was paying them for it.
“That man there may be aware of the juice, but he don't give a hoot given his get-up,” Miss Iona announced, pointing to a wealthy looking individual wearing a dark suit and an even darker tie. The tie looked like it was strangling the poor fellow's neck (or what there was of it- he was an extremely heavyset guy). The juice was known as a fee charged by the house for participation in games like poker and craps. Kotton recalled scrutinising the add-on to his starting pile upon entry but hadn't known what it was other than a form of tax.
Recently derailed and now distracted by something other than betting his life away, he spent a few extra moments taking in the populace. He was entranced by the varying degrees of class and racial heritage that accentuated the room. He was able to pick up on things like the different colours of chips and what they meant; the variability in players according to how they dressed; and the advantages that could be for someone who didn't like betting more than they could afford. And it was all thanks to Miss Iona.
He soon became bored of observing just as he had become tired of roulette and exactly like he had grown disinterested in gin rummy. He gazed across the floor into the crowd, carefully choosing not to linger too long at the bar. Miss Iona quickly picked up on the young man's lack of immersion and offered a suggestion. They tapped on his shoulder to get his attention and declared, “I see an empty seat over in the far corner there. Blackjack. You haven't played that before.”
There across the room, in the exact opposite direction he had been looking, stood a large table with bright red felt. He scratched behind his ear as he envisioned himself being escorted by a ravishingly beautiful... person dressed in lace and feathers and obscenely vivid colours toward an oblong table already attended by many... expensive looking individuals. There was a young woman with curly blond hair, eyelids scorched with charcoal and decked in chartreuse sparkles from bosom to ankle. Beside her sat a stoic man with a long white beard. He wore a stark black top hat and a monocle rested gently against the regal cheekbone under his left eye. Across from him was a husky male wearing nothing other than some shade of gold. His pantaloons were loud as they glistened under the false lighting of the casino. Kotton couldn't shroud the subtle blush of his cheeks as he inspected his opponents.
After accustoming himself to the station, the young man gently raised his chin to look at Miss Iona. Their eyes twinkled with a potential that probably meant more than Kotton cared to explore, but regardless of the awkward transaction, they spoke with the bob of their boa. “The goal of blackjack is to beat the dealer’s hand. But don’t go over twenty-one, honey. That’s a no-no. Or else you lose. That’s called busting, by the way.”
He could practically Miss Iona's soft murmurings in his ear. Yet, funnelled into the forefront of his mind, this tidbit went. “You get two cards at the start and after every round you’ll add up the value of these cards, okay, baby? Most cards are at face value, which means what you see is what you get. But the cards without a number, like jacks, queens, kings and aces? Yea, they’re worth ten points.”
Kotton's memorization skills still had a while before they were fully operational, but he was able to get the gist of it. Thankfully, blackjack didn't seem to be too much more difficult than gin rummy.
The start of the simulation went without a hitch- the dealer ‘broke the deck’. Miss Iona was courteous enough to explain that breaking the deck meant reshuffling the cards. This wasn’t something pinnacle to his understanding of the game, but it was a neat anecdote that could be used for future situations if he considered taking up gambling as a hobby.
The first two cards swept themselves against the velvety texture of the table. Kotton picked them up and positioned them into his hand with the regality of a queen plucking a soldier destined to fight. He saw that the faces of the cards declared two of clubs and five of hearts. The dealer took his turn and pulled from the deck his own couple of cards.
“Tell him ‘hit’, love,” Miss Iona endorsed as they laid their expertly manicured index finger on top of Kotton’s trembling forearm. The words were announced and were responded with an additional two cards cast against him. They were an eight of diamonds and a three of hearts.
“Now tell him you want to stand,” Miss Iona instructed before clarifying their address with necessary interpretation. To ‘stand’ meant to not request of the dealer any additional dealing of cards.
As it stood, Kotton was at eighteen points (Miss Iona helped him figure that out). His eyes wavered between the deck in his hand and that of the dealer’s. Eyes met. The connection was cold. They were locked in a battle of glacial proponents. Forget all the other players and their fancy get-ups. The young man was unable to determine any tells from this guy. Did he hold more than twenty-one points? Did he hold less? Was his deck more than what he himself held but still less than this holy count of twenty-one? The anticipation was atrocious and it seemed to last far longer than the span of any shadow against a sundial.
But finally, the dealer deposited his hand against the soft fabric of the table. There, Kotton counted: one, two, three, four- seventeen points. Without thought, he too put down his hand so that it graced the table with the excellence of a hesitant rookie. He didn’t need to count, for he already had. He had eighteen points and it was clear as day, red felt or not.
The margin was astronomical (in the sense of 'wow there was a smidgen of difference between hands'). It was so out of this world, that the half blood almost forgot to rejoice with victory. Instantaneously was he suffocated by the feathers that met his mouth and the 'not-so-there breasts that adorned Miss Iona as they hugged him. Unfortunately, as someone who was always on the ball when it came to overthinking, the only thing he could focus on was the fact that he had to owe them a specific percentage of the winnings.
After they had disconnected themselves from such a paltry embrace, Kotton’s companion suggested the idea of doubling down.
“What does that mean?” the young man inquired.
“Doubling down, my love, is when you make twice of your original bet. You then receive an additional card. Sometimes people play it safe, other times people play it… naughty.” Their long fingertips danced along the vital points of the young man’s neck- prodding, tapping, massaging… Whilst he was someone who could so easily be thrust into addiction, he was also torn by the mountainous sense of anxiety that filled his brain like a fog.
Overthinking had its benefits. For example, he was able to understand the mathematical computation that came out the time he had spent at the roulette table. There was always a fifty-fifty chance. But after every spin, the chance doubled. A fifty-fifty chance turned into a quarter by quarter chance which in turn transformed into a one-eighth by one-eight chance all due to the basic calculations of multiplication.
Blackjack was something else entirely. Kotton wasn’t yet able to wrap his head around the probability of the game. So instead of wasting meaningful time trying to compute and assess and configure, he listened to the muscles of his legs and wandered himself on over to the bar, which had contemporaneously made itself available after far too many overwhelming youngers and their requests.
Because he was void of any liquid courage, the young man’s lips remained bonded to one another- curse the old social anxiety. He had to focus on another’s request in order to accumulate the bravery to ask for a drink. Yet, even as a recovering alcoholic, his wishes were dampened by his subconscious decision for the requisition of a club soda with lemon and added ice (let's not forget that!).
Once he received his beverage, he defiantly sipped on it, staring straight ahead toward the many bottles of liquor adorning the shelves. Then, he burned his eyes into the wooden counter of the bar, focusing on the myriad of cigarette burns and stained circles from leaky beverages of unknowns. It wasn't long before his fascination disappeared. The casino and the bar were quick to no longer hold interest for him. Knowing this, he decided to exit the establishment for the favour of feeling the soft breeze of Ashan air tousling his soft, auburn hair.
It had come to light that Miss Iona wasn’t far from the title of a shill- a term he had learnt after he had taken his first step into the Four of Hands. They were a kind of swindler who had thus far been nothing but overenthusiastic, driving Kotton to play more games than he normally would have had he been alone. Shills went around to various tables that seemed empty and they entrusted many newcomers who were without a sense of skill, enabled said newcomers with encouragement and mild reassurance and the rest was undocumented. How fortunate was that? But maybe that's just how casinos worked. For some reason, this didn’t bother Kotton. He fell directly into this trap like it was a pit that declared free doughnuts at the very bottom.
There were no windows, it seemed, and probably for good reason. Logically, the young man presumed this was to keep players from recognising the time of day. No respectable business wanted their clientele to leave because dusk had fallen. And it only helped when most people were drunk. But Kotton wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t had even a lick of alcohol. No droplet of the cursed drink could be found anywhere within his person. He was unexpectantly grateful for that; he felt he needed to be in a clear state of mind in a place like this or else he would have nothing other than the pair of pants he wore to his name. It was all him, and that meant he was in control and knew exactly what he was doing. He was able to foresee the future and look inarguably to the past without the impediment of short term memory loss. It was also of benefit to him that he was invested in the learnings of the linguistic value of casino slang, and Miss Iona had been doing a wonderful job teaching him. They gave him information that curtailed his plan to ask around the establishment like a dopey tourist. So, in a sense, it was a win-win, even if he was paying them for it.
“That man there may be aware of the juice, but he don't give a hoot given his get-up,” Miss Iona announced, pointing to a wealthy looking individual wearing a dark suit and an even darker tie. The tie looked like it was strangling the poor fellow's neck (or what there was of it- he was an extremely heavyset guy). The juice was known as a fee charged by the house for participation in games like poker and craps. Kotton recalled scrutinising the add-on to his starting pile upon entry but hadn't known what it was other than a form of tax.
Recently derailed and now distracted by something other than betting his life away, he spent a few extra moments taking in the populace. He was entranced by the varying degrees of class and racial heritage that accentuated the room. He was able to pick up on things like the different colours of chips and what they meant; the variability in players according to how they dressed; and the advantages that could be for someone who didn't like betting more than they could afford. And it was all thanks to Miss Iona.
He soon became bored of observing just as he had become tired of roulette and exactly like he had grown disinterested in gin rummy. He gazed across the floor into the crowd, carefully choosing not to linger too long at the bar. Miss Iona quickly picked up on the young man's lack of immersion and offered a suggestion. They tapped on his shoulder to get his attention and declared, “I see an empty seat over in the far corner there. Blackjack. You haven't played that before.”
There across the room, in the exact opposite direction he had been looking, stood a large table with bright red felt. He scratched behind his ear as he envisioned himself being escorted by a ravishingly beautiful... person dressed in lace and feathers and obscenely vivid colours toward an oblong table already attended by many... expensive looking individuals. There was a young woman with curly blond hair, eyelids scorched with charcoal and decked in chartreuse sparkles from bosom to ankle. Beside her sat a stoic man with a long white beard. He wore a stark black top hat and a monocle rested gently against the regal cheekbone under his left eye. Across from him was a husky male wearing nothing other than some shade of gold. His pantaloons were loud as they glistened under the false lighting of the casino. Kotton couldn't shroud the subtle blush of his cheeks as he inspected his opponents.
After accustoming himself to the station, the young man gently raised his chin to look at Miss Iona. Their eyes twinkled with a potential that probably meant more than Kotton cared to explore, but regardless of the awkward transaction, they spoke with the bob of their boa. “The goal of blackjack is to beat the dealer’s hand. But don’t go over twenty-one, honey. That’s a no-no. Or else you lose. That’s called busting, by the way.”
He could practically Miss Iona's soft murmurings in his ear. Yet, funnelled into the forefront of his mind, this tidbit went. “You get two cards at the start and after every round you’ll add up the value of these cards, okay, baby? Most cards are at face value, which means what you see is what you get. But the cards without a number, like jacks, queens, kings and aces? Yea, they’re worth ten points.”
Kotton's memorization skills still had a while before they were fully operational, but he was able to get the gist of it. Thankfully, blackjack didn't seem to be too much more difficult than gin rummy.
The start of the simulation went without a hitch- the dealer ‘broke the deck’. Miss Iona was courteous enough to explain that breaking the deck meant reshuffling the cards. This wasn’t something pinnacle to his understanding of the game, but it was a neat anecdote that could be used for future situations if he considered taking up gambling as a hobby.
The first two cards swept themselves against the velvety texture of the table. Kotton picked them up and positioned them into his hand with the regality of a queen plucking a soldier destined to fight. He saw that the faces of the cards declared two of clubs and five of hearts. The dealer took his turn and pulled from the deck his own couple of cards.
“Tell him ‘hit’, love,” Miss Iona endorsed as they laid their expertly manicured index finger on top of Kotton’s trembling forearm. The words were announced and were responded with an additional two cards cast against him. They were an eight of diamonds and a three of hearts.
“Now tell him you want to stand,” Miss Iona instructed before clarifying their address with necessary interpretation. To ‘stand’ meant to not request of the dealer any additional dealing of cards.
As it stood, Kotton was at eighteen points (Miss Iona helped him figure that out). His eyes wavered between the deck in his hand and that of the dealer’s. Eyes met. The connection was cold. They were locked in a battle of glacial proponents. Forget all the other players and their fancy get-ups. The young man was unable to determine any tells from this guy. Did he hold more than twenty-one points? Did he hold less? Was his deck more than what he himself held but still less than this holy count of twenty-one? The anticipation was atrocious and it seemed to last far longer than the span of any shadow against a sundial.
But finally, the dealer deposited his hand against the soft fabric of the table. There, Kotton counted: one, two, three, four- seventeen points. Without thought, he too put down his hand so that it graced the table with the excellence of a hesitant rookie. He didn’t need to count, for he already had. He had eighteen points and it was clear as day, red felt or not.
The margin was astronomical (in the sense of 'wow there was a smidgen of difference between hands'). It was so out of this world, that the half blood almost forgot to rejoice with victory. Instantaneously was he suffocated by the feathers that met his mouth and the 'not-so-there breasts that adorned Miss Iona as they hugged him. Unfortunately, as someone who was always on the ball when it came to overthinking, the only thing he could focus on was the fact that he had to owe them a specific percentage of the winnings.
After they had disconnected themselves from such a paltry embrace, Kotton’s companion suggested the idea of doubling down.
“What does that mean?” the young man inquired.
“Doubling down, my love, is when you make twice of your original bet. You then receive an additional card. Sometimes people play it safe, other times people play it… naughty.” Their long fingertips danced along the vital points of the young man’s neck- prodding, tapping, massaging… Whilst he was someone who could so easily be thrust into addiction, he was also torn by the mountainous sense of anxiety that filled his brain like a fog.
Overthinking had its benefits. For example, he was able to understand the mathematical computation that came out the time he had spent at the roulette table. There was always a fifty-fifty chance. But after every spin, the chance doubled. A fifty-fifty chance turned into a quarter by quarter chance which in turn transformed into a one-eighth by one-eight chance all due to the basic calculations of multiplication.
Blackjack was something else entirely. Kotton wasn’t yet able to wrap his head around the probability of the game. So instead of wasting meaningful time trying to compute and assess and configure, he listened to the muscles of his legs and wandered himself on over to the bar, which had contemporaneously made itself available after far too many overwhelming youngers and their requests.
Because he was void of any liquid courage, the young man’s lips remained bonded to one another- curse the old social anxiety. He had to focus on another’s request in order to accumulate the bravery to ask for a drink. Yet, even as a recovering alcoholic, his wishes were dampened by his subconscious decision for the requisition of a club soda with lemon and added ice (let's not forget that!).
Once he received his beverage, he defiantly sipped on it, staring straight ahead toward the many bottles of liquor adorning the shelves. Then, he burned his eyes into the wooden counter of the bar, focusing on the myriad of cigarette burns and stained circles from leaky beverages of unknowns. It wasn't long before his fascination disappeared. The casino and the bar were quick to no longer hold interest for him. Knowing this, he decided to exit the establishment for the favour of feeling the soft breeze of Ashan air tousling his soft, auburn hair.