The dice hit the board and do more sliding than rolling. I’ve wiped them down a few times, but they’re still a bit sticky, and Sara hasn’t called a timeout in hours.
I mean, the game is rigged as it is, you could at least let the poor saps roll properly. Maybe even let them win one. Give ‘em the hope that they’re getting out of this alive.
In my day, there was no internet or television. And you can only drink and whore so many nights in a row before you succumb to syphilis or liver failure… so as we do today, we played games to pass the time and try to forget we’ve all got one foot in the grave.
16th century game night didn’t include Cards Against Humanity (that would get you drawn and quartered), the French hadn’t stopped drinking long enough to invent charades, and the crude technology behind the red buzzer in Operation would most certainly have been considered witchcraft in addition to being extremely annoying. We played chess, and tables, and cards, and we rolled endless dice.
I still play chess with Stroth on occasion, but it’s not as fun when you have to let the boss win. If I want dice or cards, I just walk downstairs.
Sara prefers board games. She loves Monopoly, Life, Stratego, Jenga, and yes… Operation.
It’s a little passed 3. Two of them are dead… I think. She bled them both pretty good during Monopoly. First guy tried to buy Boardwalk… big mistake. The second wouldn’t leave jail because Sara owned most of the properties. I thought it was a smart play.
If this wasn’t so gruesome I might laugh. Stripper sitting Indian style, covered in warm gore and pieces of masticated flesh. Stacks of Milton Bradley games off to one side. Johnny Cash sings about the epic showdown between the Baron and Billy Joe. And two naked, lifeless Ed Hardies chained to the floor with bloody Monopoly money caked to their bodies. A third, Primo Ed Hardy, grips a teeny pair of tweezers as he tries to remove the Funny Bone for $200. Success might buy him a few more minutes of air in his lungs… or it might piss her off. I guess that’s what makes it fun.
He’s shaking. Shaking bad. Wraps a hand around his wrist. It helps a little.
Sara’s grinning like a teenager.
A bead of sweat slinks down one of his greasy locks. Hangs on the end and fattens until it’s too big to hold... even in that gel.
It plummets… hits his fingers and WHOOP!
Those tweezers go flying through the air, ricochet off the wall, and hit Sara…
Right in the boob.
Shit’s real quiet.
Primo Ed Hardy turns to me with an “I’m sorry please help me is she going to eat me” look. Maybe I’m getting soft. This’ll have to be delicate.
“It’s late, Sara. Maybe we should…”
Sara claps her hands and unveils a jolly grin of bloody fangs, “Battleship!”
Poor guy... he’s sunk.