Prompt 2: Pulp Reality

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Pulp Reality:

The lonely lamp that was hanging above my friends head, which was dropped down in agony, still swivelled a bit after what just happened. On the floor, in front of his feet, Chris' tears had mixed with the blood. His heavy sobbing had relented somewhat and had turned into a barely audible, but laboured breathing. He was on the edge. Not of anger mind you, he was far past that station. The big black bouncer had battered him into submission with a one-man-show of good cop/bad cop and several rounds of fisty-cuffs. For my friend it barely mattered. He was perhaps strong-hearted, once. Now, there was barely any dignity left, any humanity. He was shivering all over, from toes to spine to neck, there and back again. It was painful to watch. Almost as painful as letting your swollen tongue wriggle through the places in your mouth were there were once teeth. 

How long have we been in here? Nobody could tell. The room was void of windows, save the minute slit in the door. I couldn't where we were. Some back room of an undisclosed hole of pain of which few, I imagined, knew its existence.

A great night was turned into a horror-movie and not the kind where you can laugh at the poor attempt of scaring people. We were robbed of our possessions, our money, our shoes, even our clothes. Together with that, dignity went out the window sometime between the missing front teeth and Chris' bladder contents. We were two miserable souls lost not in translation, but in understanding. Luck was confused with skill, or cheating even. We didn't cheat. No sir, we didn't! If I would be religious, I could exclaim that I was honest to god. Then the fists usually came. They always did. 

My heart jumped. The heavy iron doors creaked open and in came a tall figure, barrel-chested and ready to smite like the Lord Almighty on a bad Tuesday morning. 

'Ready to tell me the truth, motherfucker?' His drawl was horrendous to listen to.

'I know not of what you speak', I responded. I tried to sound dignified but the words just sounded weird. Probably because I was missing two teeth and my cheeks were swollen.

'Liar!'

And then the fists came. Hard. Uninterrupted.

That was the last thing I remembered before waking up in an overpriced hospital bed.

Around 60 minutes earlier

'We be rocking this table man!' Chris said with a big smile on his face.

'Success does not call for grammatical stupidity my friend.'

He was right though. He was rocking the table.

Chris was never the mathematical genius, but luck usually was on his side. As such, it was not a bad choice to choose good 'ol Las Vegas as the venue for the umpteenth time he threw a party in honour of being single again. I never complained. Drinks were always on him.

'Really, I didn't know I was this good at blackjack.'

'Dude, you don't even know how to play. You just like to say 'Hit Me' to female dealers,' I responded to my friend in good spirits.

'Are you saying I'm into weird stuff?' he asked in full honesty, not getting the joke. Then it dawned on him. He wasn't always the brightest. The proverbial coin hit home and he snickered at the poor attempt at a joke. 

'So, how much are we up?' I asked while I dropped a chip on the waitress' serving tray asking for two more scotch, with a splash of soda.

'Over 20 grand now. I think I'll take a gamble with the next round' Chris said.

'Really? What have you been doing so far?'

'Being lucky, I guess. I'll put up half, going for double or nothing.'

'What does that actually mean?'

He grinned. 'I have no idea.'

He put the chips in the assorted places. The dealer shuffled and put the cards on the green. Two minutes later, Chris was up another 20 large. I was baffled.

'What other hidden talents do you have?' I asked the moment I put a fresh scotch to my lips. I never had a chance to taste. A big gloved hand pressed down on my shoulders.

'If you would follow me gentleman.'

It didn't sound like we had a choice.

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The prompt was:

You've been playing cards with your friend at a Las Vegas casino for a couple of hours now and he’s up big. Suddenly, a pit boss grabs you and your friend and hauls you both off to a back room, where several rough-looking guys are waiting for you. “What’s going on?” you ask. “Your friend has been counting cards, and we don’t approve of that here.” Write this scene.