Kieran waited at a slight distance, inspecting Weasel intensely enough that his presence was soon revealed. Disturbed, Weasel turned around with an annoyed scowl, his ire-filled gaze boring through Kieran.
"Why are you staring at me? I can feel you! Look away from me. I don't like the way this feels."
Unconvinced, Kieran continued to silently stare at Weasel, his apparent incense growing. Another outrage was on the horizon, bubbling at the shore of Weasel's untempered tongue.
An irascible fellow—quick to excite and easy to infuriate.
That eruption, however, was quickly stopped by Kieran.
"I wouldn't advise you to do that. Don't you love counting cards? Love playing blackjack? You just said you enjoy cards because, unlike humans, who muddy the odds of each card with trickery, you can count the odds of blackjack."
Reason washed over Weasel's anger, fighting back the flames, but something more cautious and tentative swept through his mind. His secret had been revealed!
Did he voice his treachery too loudly? That wasn't good. He could be taken advantage of and extorted. All his potential gains were evaporating inside Weasel's mind, and the dissipating excitement in his eyes betrayed these thoughts.
Somewhat. Kieran couldn't read minds, so he didn't know the exact thought process.
With a careful retreating step, Weasel asked a tentative question.
"Who are you? What do you want with me? Did you come to kidnap me? I felt your focus try to steal me away. I know that look you gave me—possessive and nasty. Yuck, I hate it!"
Weasel gradually began to habitually raise his voice, attracting some roaming curious eyes.
"You should relax, else you'll attract unwanted attention. With all those eyes on you, how will you count those cards? The challenge will vanish… or maybe it'll become greater. What with all those watchful eyes trained on you."
Kieran passed by Weasel, a grin playing on his lips. He could see the gears turning in Weasel's mind, his presence shriveling. He shifted his glasses, lowered his head, and avoided any eyes possibly looking this way.
The true nature of Weasel. To defang the cunning, wily predator of information, he simply needed to remind him of the threat of mass focus.
Weasel shuffled behind Kieran, his mouth moving in murmured utterances. He read the table they approached, only him and Kieran.
A polite smile was offered to the two from the genteel dealer. The young man's smile was a facsimile of a kind, amiable person, but it could never truly be that. It hid the guileful methods of an underhanded dealer.
Soon, the cards were dealt, Kieran showing a "14" with Weasel showing an "11."
The dealer's occupational script came, his hand seated lightly atop the deck.
"Hit or Stand?"
It was Kieran's turn first. Sparing the murmuring Weasel an imperceptible glance, he met the dealer's gaze without fear.
There was none to be had, after all. Kieran wasn't attached to the money he had turned into chips. This was a night of wily recruitment.
"Hit."
The dealer had yet to pull a card, but Weasel reacted as if struck by a bullet, staring at Kieran in horror.
"You're showing a 14, the dealer shows a 3, and you hit?! This is a table where the dealer may only stand on a 17 or better! You flipping twit, ya know how to play?"
"Sir… please. Let the young man play as he wishes. This is a night of fun. Don't intrude upon his entertainment. That is beyond rude."
A polite response, of course. But it was craftily put together under the guise of professionalism. In fewer words, he said: let the dumbass waste his money and make the house flush.
'Or something like that.'
Kieran shrugged.
The card was flipped. A 10 of Spade.
"A Bust."
A disappointed scoff came, then a peeved click of a tongue. Weasel was not happy with this scenario at all. He had read the outcome of that hand. To him, there was no bigger fool at the table.
Then, it was Weasel's turn. A bead of sweat trickled down beneath his matted, clumped hair, the honey color seeming dirty from accumulated sweat and grime. His mind churned out nuanced information, solving probability after probability, readjusting for what Kieran screwed up.
"Hit or Stand?"
Weasel gnawed his lip, slipping Kieran a glance, then back to glaring at the cards in deep thought. Seconds passed… then almost a minute.
The dealer's patience was tested. His inquiry was quick and timely.
"Sir? Would you like to Hit or Stand? Any longer, and I'll have to assume you're Standing."
What were the odds of another "10" card appearing? With two of them showing in quick succession, the likelihood was incredibly slim. It fell into a category of risk Weasel disliked.
Still, he had to do something. He squeezed out his following words painfully. He would have preferred to double down but that was silly now, given the current uncertainty.
"Hit."
A 9 of Diamonds flipped.
Twenty. But it wasn't a twenty-one. He could still be beaten.
Again, Weasel shot Kieran a nasty glare. It screamed of bloody murder. Oh, how we wished he could wring that smooth neck. The demented things Weasel would do.
If he had the frame, of course.
That misshapen hermit hadn't touched a weight a day in his life. He'd likely hurt himself first before inflicting any pain upon Kieran.
The dealer flipped his card.
An 8 of Hearts.
Despair tided over Weasel, gripping him as he clawed his blanching, already pale, clammy face.
"No. No, no, no! This… this can't be."
Another card was flipped. A 3 of Diamonds.
Hope returned to Weasel. That was only a fourteen. He prayed… maybe calculated a coming large card. Well, his calculations weren't wrong per se, but they weren't wholly accurate. A big number did come… just not big enough."
"Ah, a 7 of Clubs. 21. The House wins on this turn."
The cards were discarded, and during that turn, Weasel spewed vulgarities. Endless amounts. So much Kieran wondered how long the freak could scream without breathing.
To his dismay, it lasted well into the subsequent hands.
Again, Kieran screwed the table on these odds.
He screwed it again, knowingly and willfully in spite of Weasel's passionately voiced advice.
A few more purposeful screw-ups had Weasel seething, the dealer smiling faintly, and Kieran contemplating if he had done enough. His fellow player's face was twisted in rage, dark and resentful.
"Hey, guy. You've got a little something right…there? What's that? A stain? No, a wrinkle? Oh, you seem very bad. Are you bad at blackjack too?"
Kieran's next bout of levity was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. In this instance, that camel was Weasel's patience.
"Blubbering buffoon. Beautiful-faced idiot with no brain! You're screwing me over so bad. I'm down on everything. Look at my chips! MY CHIPS! I had to drop my bets because of you."
He looked over, eyeing Weasel's chips on the table.
"Looks to be $10,000 to me. That's a good amount of change to play with. Why are you so mad? Play better."
Apoplectic with rage, Weasel forewent using words; he jumped at Kieran, clamping his jaw like a snarling wild dog. The sound was harrowing and audibly disturbing. The kind of sound that made your bones ache, and your body shudder.
"Sir, sir! Please act with reason. Do not harass others."
The dealer attempted to mediate the situation, but Weasel would not listen to reason. All of his attempts to read the card had been scuffed by the asinine gambler beside him. What an idiot!
Amused, Kieran held Weasel back with a hand and slid $50,000 worth of chips to him, roughly all of what he had made him lose.
The gesture confused Weasel but also left him feeling conflicted.
Did he ask for charity? No.
He just desired that his game not be interrupted or his instructions at least be followed. Simple desires.
"You think this makes us even? No way, that's just not happening. You're a fool. I can't stand fools. Your brain is a steaming pile of piping hot DOGSHIT! A glorified airhead. Intellectually challenged baboons ass! You are touched!"
Throughout the stream of vulgarities, the dealer gave Kieran a pained, contrite smile and a look that asked if he wanted the man removed. Instead of having that happen, Kieran tapped the table, signaling for the dealings to continue.
Another hand was dealt; the round beginning.
This time though, Kieran lazily Hit, Stood, Split, and Doubled Down roughly a second before Weasel's passionate input.
Ten rounds in… the dealer began to sweat heavily, his calm facade shattering to disparate, concerned pieces.
Mirthfully deranged laughter echoed in the private room as the chips grew in Weasel's and Kieran's favor.
"The baboon has the luck of the Irish! I love this! I love blackjacks."
Hilarious how quickly his mood changed when the night was going in his favor. Just for the hell of it… a part of Kieran wanted to fuck up Weasel's day some more. But he didn't need to.
Because after a while… the dealers changed.
A man with slicked-back dark red hair, almost the color of dried blood, stepped to the table. All except his keen green eyes were obscured by a black and white mask resembling a creepy, hollowed-out face set in an eerie smile.
A flicker of expectant challenge set in Weasel's eyes, and Kieran grew serious too.
The touch of the devil had come.
