Orogarn Two sat in the furthest corner of the bar watching Crysophylax drown himself in potent potables and wondering where that infernal racket was coming from. What had started as a quiet noise barely heard over the dragonly sobs had soon grown to a deafening howl that threatened to shatter his eardrums. He desperately tore a soggy cocktail napkin into shreds and twisted them into thin wads, which he shoved forcefully into his ears. This helped to dull the clamor, but it did nothing to abate the emptiness in is heart or his pockets.
Why’d they have to have slots?
For two solid hours he had dutifully shoved one kabob after another into the greedy maw of nearly every machine in the casino. If his calculations were correct, out of the 1000 individual kabobs he had slid into the greedy coin slots he had won exactly 8. Considering that most gambling establishments offered a fun and entertaining 90-95% return on their slots, Orogarn Two could not help but be flabbergasted by the unconcealed avarice of the Dwarf proprietors of the Glitzy Caverns and their unbelievably low return of less than 1%. He had looked around him in amazement as other casino visitors had cheerfully given up their money for absolutely nothing in return except the thrill of pulling a metal arm and watching those shiny wheels spin.
Gullible peasants.
Kabobless, he had returned to the only place that made any sense – the Automatic Moolah Machine. All he needed was another KB 1000 and he was sure he was going to hit the big one. With a little luck and a lottta dough, he was going to take these dirty dwarves for all they were worth and then some. But his plan had backfired.
When he had slid his card into the AMM, instead of the normal instruction set he had been presented with two completely unexpected choices:
(1) Avoid a lecture from your dad and get only KB 10 so at least you won’t starve
(2) Get KB 1000 and quite a shouting at from your father who’s about tired of shelling out money for your addictions!
He had stood there for several minutes mulling over which button to push. Denimthor’s lectures were laboriously loud and likely to last loads longer than Orogarn Two could possibly stomach. Still, 1000 kabobs would really hit the spot, and he just knew that the Mighty Mount Pantaloon machine at the far end of the hall was ready to pay off big-time in not more than 100 pulls. He had reached to push
2, but just them the an upset Chrysophylax had wandered by and swiped him (accidently on purpose, I’m sure) with his gigantic tail, bruising his shoulder and sending his finger into the
1 instead. With a cry of dismay and a look of rage at the departing dragon, Orogarn Two had taken his ten kabobs and the AMM receipt and set of in pursuit of the clumsy beast, intent on revenge but unsure of how to go about it against such a large adversary.
And now he sat with ears stuffed with Kabloohah-soaked paper watching the dragon crash to the floor in a drunken stupor. He had followed the dragon to the bar thinking to tape a “Kick Me” sign to his back, but instead he had ended up sitting in a dark booth reading the receipt he had gotten from the machine. He had escaped a harangue from his father, but the Proctor had still sent him a message through the Automatic Moolah Machine, which, of course, was connected directly to the Citibank. What he had read had sent shivers down his spine.
Quote:
Dear OT2,
Hoping this finds you well, for things are certainly not well here in the city of Minus Teeth (yes, the Denturians have repaired our fair home!). Though our great enamel towers again stand tall, I fear they may not stand much longer in our name. Since the great calamity, the Porcelain Throne has been assailed by wave after wave of law suits holding the Stewards responsible for everything from the damages caused by the fires to the rising costs of dental floss. Long have I sat high in the Tower of the Citibank communicating on the ancient cell-antir which only you and I know about (and now all of our readers), and I can see that our cause is quickly becoming hopeless. There is no way we can fight off so many attackers at once. I am afraid I may have to start selling off stock (yours, of course,) to pay for our rising legal costs. You’ll understand if I have to suddenly cut off your AMM access.
In recognition of our trouble times, I have written a new motto, effective immediately.
You can bank on the Proctor: Better to be Minus Teeth than minus kabobs!
Sincerely,
Denimthor
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Orogarn Two sipped his drink and wondered what could possibly go wrong next....