The alley was dark, non-descript, and putrid. By the look of it, it had been home to more than one nights rest to some form of life; maybe a few. Bordered by not one, but two extensively ornate fences, both of which had been erected at a time when fences kept things out, and not in. Now it kept what was in from getting out. If it got out, it might be a situation. A situation that would make news. News was not welcome to this tong this congregation of immigrants bent on self policing, self rule.
The tong's Gai-lo ran the place with a fist. A fist of iron? No, the fist was clad in servitude; servitude to debt. Surely there was a place where cigarette smoke was banished to the breeze, this was not that place.
When you enter, you enter under many eyes watch; eyes that did not believe the sights you see; eyes that cursed your being. You were not welcome. Your money, ah, yes, was. Your money will leave you. Your money will remain. That is assured. But you must enter, first. "Fuk Yuk Lin requested this" was the entry code.
No answer.
A jibberish of Mandarin-Cantonese-and-poor-as-fuck imitation of Pidgin English rattled off behind the very old, very secure door. Recognized though, was the definite du ni la mo du ni ga se fut expression of disgust that another gambler had arrived.
"No; I dont have worms in my ass" escapes your lips; more a fuck you than a snide comeback.
Door opens.
"You go this way" No shit Sherlock, er, Charlie. "Oh, you come back, Mr. Big Winner, eh?"
Well, duh. You cant have a derlict gambling addiction without a gambling venue, can you now? Far from it, you can have one, you can have a damn evil one. Ask the old filipino men just jonesing as bad as a heroin addict for the first football parlay sheets to come out emblazoned with the fictional "for amusement only" across the top of the weekly parlay sheets. You know that well, since after showing some prowess in actually beating enough point spreads that the old manong men were paying you for picks. Lucarative side job; wagers to be made, others to be lost. Eh. What the fuck.
No alter to vice would be complete without proper sacrifice. The tong made damn sure you had the scars to prove it; not only sick with OD on MSG, they made the walk of yours complete with a dragging leg; proof positive to any you met that you were a tool. At least you arent a cat. Then you'd be food. Shit, you fuck up again at the tables, you may be food.
Through 3 more damn doors, through that damn stink-ass kitchen, back up (again) some bizarre staircase, and into the "Casino" No wonder the Police never get here. Fucking GPS cant find this shit. What the hell would they do if some "player" coded? Damn. Maybe better not to know what is in the Kung-Pao Chicken. The 'cashier' will grant drug; drug green, please. Easily consumed playing chips, brought to by the requsite go-fer, a spiked hair, 20 something triad wannabe. He'll be dead in a year; splatterd across the freeway racing the first rice burning dumbass he came across. Fast money, fast death. At least he stayed in one piece.
"Ah yeah, you back to take more of our (distinction definte on OUR) money, eh Big Winner?"
You are sooooo fucked.
The dealer slaps out the cards; the other players barely acknowledge your arrival. Why? Gimme. Gimme syndrome. Gimme cards. Gimme money. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Metaphore for life in the world today. I Want; you want, we all want.
To the left a chain smoking, 300 pound woman of perfect hair, a damaged clothes. What the hell? Right; another female, 60-ish, frail and smoking a harsh blend of filipino extract of tobacco. What a fucking riot it would be to hear the complaints of the vigilante non-smokers of the world would be here.
More Chinese take-out, coming up!
As the single up-turn of weak grin creases your lips, you think of the irony of that scene - some self-righteous douche-bag complaining to "security" - Security that would eject the douche right out the window without a blink.
Cards - peek-a-boo, you pull two Kings (no splitting allowed, house fucking rules)to the dealers 9.
Left, stands. "You up, motherfucker" That shit wont get 'em tips, but they dont care, you will lose. "Stand, Fucker", right back. Right, hits. Stands.
Of course, the dealer pulls a 6.
And another.
Sweeps the chips away.
And the night begins.
*all BS - I made this stuff up driving to work today.
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