A rough, scratchy surface seems to be covering your face and head, and your arms are bound behind your back by a length of metallic cord wrapped around your mid-torso. For added measure, your ankles have been manacled together with only enough slack to take little baby steps. A gruff voice commands you to get up and walk, and you feel something grab your arms. You’re pushed a step or two forward and the ground disappears from beneath your feet. Your stomach leaps into your chest as you plummet through the air, and a moment later your feet smack painfully onto some gravel. You’re marched along by whatever force is guiding you, and the crunching rock soon turns into a long trek over soft ground. Every so often, you feel something supple and stringy lashing out across your face, but you can’t see what it is. Your gut is soon groaning from lack of breakfast, and aches so much from what feels like a threat of implosion that you even begin to feel faint. When you stumble, your arms are. Two stacks to match the black man's original. "Wait" I said. "What about me?" The croupier didn't even look at me as he raked my chips away, "Red 3 lady, your chips were on Red 5"."They most certainly were not!!" I shouted. Then I realized that when I had collided with the black man and jerked my hand back, I'd dropped my chips on the wrong square! I felt sick. As I stood to leave, that huge black hand held my arm. Shocked, I looked up. "Bad luck ma'am" I felt that deep rumble again. "That's partially my fault. Here let me help" He pushed one of those big stacks of chips in front of me. "Why don't you play off of these for now? I'm Anthony, Anthony HC Taylor". I was mad, and frustrated (and a little tipsy). Besides, it WAS his fault. He owed me! "That would be fine Mr. Taylor. I'm Andrea Wilson" I said a bit primly. "It's Anthony or HC ma'am. Not Mr. Taylor." He rumbled. "Andrea, please" I replied. Reaching for my drink, I finished it off just as the waitress brought me another. For.
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