Betting Against the Big House

    “The Clownish fellow visits every now and again, always looking ever-so melancholy. Never does he utter a single word, and never does he take home a single child. He just looks around and leaves and comes back...looks around, leaves, and comes back."

    "Been doin' it as long as I been here," adds the Rat. "Every foist Thoisday."

    Rocko and Jamie seem welcoming, so I press the issue a little further. "Wh-what do you think he's doing?" I test.

    Jamie's smile is inviting as he files one of his claws against another...but, from studying the poker game, I learned early not to trust the pandaboy's slumbery, serene grin. It is his eyes that hold the truth, and what I see in them is not friendly—quite dangerous, really. "As of yet," Jamie says, "I have heard no theory as to what he is doing. Not a sensible one, at least."

    Rocko is grooming his matted fur with a tiny comb that is impractically toothless. “He’s a suckin’ hornhonka, chief. I bet he don' even know what he's doin'." He spits on the comb. "He sure ain’t takin’ none of us outa here, that’s fer suckin’ sho.”

    “H-He—erhm, excuse me,” I start to speak but nervously choke on my sentence. I cough and continue. "Sorry...you said he can...take kids home?"

    "In theory," says Jamie. "It is one of the warden's more curious initiatives. The 'Guardian Care Program', I believe he calls it. It is a probationary exercise with the objective of rehabilitation. The freedom it grants is very limited, I am certain. However, freedom, even limited, is still freedom."

    "Yee," says Rocko. "The dickens of it though is that this suckin' Clown is 'bout the only one who does the the stupid ting. And all he do is stroke his chin and frown! Ain't that the woist?"

    "Then why do you guys even bother?" I say. "You know...getting all gussied up and stuff?"

    “ ‘Cause why the muck not?” enters Enuff at last. Apparently he can tolerate questions of who or what, but not questions of why. Enuff glares at me from across the cell as he cleans his fingernails, daring me to say something else. As terrified as I suddenly find myself, this outburst does not seem surprising to either Rocko or Jamie, who are picking crumbs and lice out of each other's scalps. They look smug, expecting, pleased with themselves, like lures in a trap.

    All three watch me to see if I will make a move or, as they surely expect, just lower my head and accept my new fate at the bottom of the pecking order.

    I struggle to think of a way to respond, but I am too upset with myself to focus. I have to say something—anything!—as long as I speak it before Enuff's attack can solidify into a lasting judgement. I am stupidly aware that my hesitation makes me look like a coward, and I become so self-conscious that I can barely think. My thoughts are stuck in a loop, one feeding off the other, until my mind is so clouded I can barely see past the back of my eyes.

    Enuff returns to his grooming, and my skin prickles from the breeze of my opportunity as it rushes past me, gone forever.

    Spit, I think. Spit spit spit spit SPIT! Do something, moron!

    But what? I think back to poker. What would I do if this were a match in a tournament? If this were a round where all I have is a weak hand and the other players are betting high against it? Well...I would probably fold. Pick your battles wisely and with great discrimination, I recite in my head, a rule that I have memorized well. This is certainly one match that I can't win, so I  might as well back out early.

    The only problem, though, is that I essentially came to this table with only enough chips to enter the blind. If I fold now, I'm out now. I may never get another chance to re-enter. So what is there to do other than play?

    This is enough to at least get my tongue moving. " 'Why the muck not?' " I imitate, hoping the lateness of my response is not as obvious to the others as it is to me. But I must have mumbled, because no one seems to have heard it. I clear my throat and speak again, perhaps a little too loud this second time:

    "WHY THE MUCK NOT?!"

    Rocko drops his comb. Jamie's eyebrows reach for the ceiling. Enuff's head shoots up, and I feel like a Matador pulling out the red cape. It is now officially too late to fold.

    "You got somethin' you want to say, scabwagon?" asks Enuff. "'Cause I'm all ears."

    Talking has always been difficult for me. I do so little of it that every time I open my mouth to speak, I sometimes wonder if actual words are coming out or if it's just sounds and noises, like someone hitting all of the buttons on a DJ's soundboard. Sometimes that's how people look at me when I talk, as if I had just whinnied in their face like a goat. That's how I feel now, and my cheeks heat up.

    "Oh...um...I was just...you know..."  

    "What's your beef?" says Enuff, who shoves words into my mouth since I can't seem to do it on my own: "You think some'in be wrong with us? That it? You callin' us stupid for tryin' to get out of this spit hole? You callin' us prissy little idiots? Huh? That it? You callin' us a bunch of fetches?"

    God, what have I done? Without thinking, I have pushed all of my chips into the middle of the table with nothing but a crummy two-seven offsuit. The bully stack has called my ignorance, and now there is nothing left for me to do.

    Nothing except perform a naked bluff, of course—there is always that.

    But it kills me to do so. Despite what most people think, expert Gamblers hardly ever try to lie about their hand; only the amateurs think bluffing is a real strategy. Bluffing does nothing but get players into trouble. It's not hard for a tiny, low-risk bluff to snowball into an everything-or-nothing, stone-cold folly. Really, if poker can be boiled down to its core conflict, it's "how long can a person go without being tempted by greed?" It's a game that rewards the virtuous and the patient while punishing the liars and the proud.

    But in here, I have no time to be patient, no room for virtue. There is no option left but to bluff...but what to bluff?

    I drop my eyes away from Enuff's, and I can see down the throat of my shirt. The dogtags dangle there, quietly, patiently. I had almost forgotten they were there. I think of Toby and wonder where he is.  

    "Well," I hear myself say, "I don't want to end up like Panini, is all."

    I stop talking, as if that one sentence explains itself. The three inmates look at eachother, then Enuff speaks for them all when he says, "The muck you talking about?"

    "Panini," I say. "You know—Jacob Panini. No? Oh, come on! You mean to tell me you guys haven't heard of Jacob Panini? Man, when's the last time you guys have been outside?"

    "Been awhile," says Enuff, his voice dripping with impatience. "Been a long while."

    Yeah, I bet, I think to myself. Okay, smartguy. How long can you keep this up before they realize you're just a big jackhat?

    "No wonder you haven't heard. It was only on the news for a day or so before the government got to the papers and the TV Reporters. Yeah, pal, they pulled that story fast! I don't think they ever—"

    "We ain't got time for your stupid stories," Enuff says and returns to his grooming. He gestures for his friends to do the same, and they do.

    I shrug. "Suit yourself. Getting out of here isn't worth the risk. Not to me, at least." And I close my eyes and tuck my head into my shoulder, acting as if I were going to nap through the Clown's visit. This is essentially doubling down on a bluff, but I figure that maybe if I stall long enough, the Clown will interrupt and give me more time to...stall.

    Rocko and Jamie share curious looks between each other, sneaking a few glances at Enuff who is intensely brushing the hairs on his arm. Then Rocko meekly speaks up, making sure, for his own protection, not to stop whatever his hands are doing. "Why'd they pull the story?"

    My bet pays off. Enuff snarls at the Rat, but I don't wait for him to ruin the well-placed bait. "Oh? About Jacob?" I say, easily coming out of my nap. "Beats me why they did it. Didn't want the public to know that such a thing was possible, I guess—you know, what Jacob did. He went missing around the same time the news reports stopped. I have a feeling he got a visit from some men in black suits, if you catch my drift."

    "Lords, friend!" says Jamie. "Get to the point! Just tell us: what did this fellow do?"

    "He changed," I say at last. "Big time." And I begin recounting the story as I had heard it so many times before:

    "He used be a normal norman kid, like me. Except he would spend all of his time sitting on the couch watching the shopping channel. He loved that station so much he would never turn off the television. He didn't buy anything, either; he just enjoyed the products and the pretty models. So he would just sit on that couch and stare at that TV until his body passed out. Then he'd wake up and do it some more. His parents could never get him to go to school or to church, and there was nothing left for them to do but give in to their son's addiction. They cut a big hole in the couch so he could use the bathroom. They sat a minifridge right at his feet so he wouldn't starve. They hooked'm up to an IV so he wouldn't die of thirst.

    "Then one day Panini pulled a bag of pretzels out from between the cushions, and he found that he couldn't eat them. Not only did they burn his mouth, but he had blisters on his fingers just from touching them. Same thing happened with popcorn and margaritas. His parents called a Doctor, but the doc checked him out and claimed that—other than being two-hundred pounds overweight and having the heartbeat of a comatose orca—little Jacob was perfectly healthy. 'Just a little salt allergy,' the doc said. 'Should be temporary.' "

    Out in the hallway, the other inmates are raucous. The visitor is getting close. I have to increasingly raise my voice to be heard. It's not without reward, though. The boys in my cell are listening intently to the story, Enuff included. But none of them are more interested than myself. I just can't wait to hear how this whole thing is going to end.

    "But things only got weirder. The day after the Doctor's visit, Jacob started to sweat mucus. The day after that, the mucus became so thick Jacob couldn't unglue his arms from his sides. Then his legs stuck together, like a tail on a fish. On the third day, his eyes started to protrude from his sockets like binoculars, and, by the end of the week...Mr. and Ms. Panini were the proud parents of a...bouncing...baby...slugboy!"

    I watch them, and their reactions are not too different from my own when I had heard the story from my Nanny for the first time. Rocko looks horrified, Jamie looks intrigued, and Enuff looks furious. "Bullspit," he says. "Everyone know spit like that just dumb stories."

    I shrug. "Believe what you want," I say, then address Rocko and Jamie. "But if you happen to be on the fence about whether someone can actually transmogrify spontaneously, you've got to ask yourself: where did the first talking animoid come from? Hm?"

    "There are theories," Jamie answers promptly. He doesn't sound convinced of the authenticity of my story, but he doesn't quite sound ready to discard the notion either. "Some Scientists believe they have traced the origins of animoids and animen back to a tribe of early Sabretooths, the descendants of the first human pets. They hypothesize that the cats became so trained to be like their masters that, over the generations, they eventually became their own masters. Others say it is simply a side-effect of bestiality." Jamie smiles and sighs like he is remembering something fond.

    "Perhaps," I concede, but I turn my efforts to Rocko, who needs no more convincing. The Rat is clutching himself tightly, as if he expects to burst into a ball of mucus if he were to let go. "But does any of that really explain things like unicornmen or talking Ladybugs?" I say. "It's quite the stretch of reason to think that all of the diversity in our world came from one pack of trained cats or from some busy perverts. And there isn't a guess out there that comes anywhere close to explaining things like singing Base—"

    "Mucking. Shut. Up."

    Enuff is done playing. The last round of betting is over. It is time for me to reveal my hand, and I'm not doing it. "I don't see what none of this got to do with us," Enuff says. "Who give a spit about slugboys or Unicorns? Even if your stupid-ass bedtime story be true, what that got to do with us? You think we goin' to turn into worms or somethin'?"

    "No," I say. Enuff has struck the heart of the matter, and my momentum loses its balance. "Just, you know—"

    "Maybe a nice Caterpillar, huh?"

    Rocko and Jaimie are now snickering to each other.

    "No," I say.

    "Some Gypsy scum like you, maybe?"

    "No, not—"

    "Then WHAT?" roars Enuff. He slams a meaty fist against the cot, and cards explode into the air.

    Whatever fantasy I was living in starts to crack and crumble around me. My heart is trying to flee the impending disaster, even if it means having to hammer through my ribcage and bust through my shirt. Alright hotshot, I think. What are you going to say? What exactly IS wrong with them trying to get out of here? What harm is there in trying, for Doug's sake? What's the worse that could happen? For that matter, what the worst they could hypothetically change into?

    "Kellies," I say.

    Rocko and Jamie freeze. Enuff looks incredulous. For a terrifying second, I wonder if I used that word correctly. It's not often that I use bad words. Wait, it is "Kelly", right? One of those people who stand on sidewalks and wear fishnet stockings and sell kisses or gropes or something? Or are they called Dickies? Wait, no that’s something else...no, surely it's Kelly.

   "What the muck did you just call us?" says Enuff, and I know that I said the right word. And by how long it took the boydog to respond, I also know that the word slapped him hard.

    Perhaps my cards really aren't all that bad. What I said is the truth; I wasn't just fishing in my head for insults. The word is pointing me towards some ugly truth about the boys, a sickness I had felt ever since I saw the look on their faces when Rocko announced that it was "the Clown again." A light had dimmed in their eyes, one more coal sputtering out and dying.

    "Kellies," I say again, and as I find my words, my heart cools down, deciding to stick around and see how the show turns out. Once the first few words fall out of my mouth, the rest follow like a chain on an anchor. "If not now, then soon. Every time you guys bat your eyes and flash your goods to some smug duck waving a Get-Out-Of-Juvie-Free card, you're that much closer to going to sleep with makeup on and waking up with red puffy lips and shiny blue eyelids. A minor kelly to a major Kelly, just like that."

    This image is enough to make Rocko's fur bristle and Jamie's black nose flush. They both turn to Enuff, but he seems no less uncomfortable. After a moment, he straightens up and spits on the ground.

    "Oh yeah, limp-thumb?" he says, and once again something proud builds up inside him. "You think you better than us or something?" Enuff looks as if he has just opened the case of his favorite gun. I admit that historically it is a flawless attack, one that is impossible to defend against. Enuff can sense his two companions ease up at the appearance of this familiar tactic, and this makes Enuff's confidence grow even more.

    "Yes," I say.

    The other three wait for me to elaborate, but I don't. My statement hangs in the air, and suddenly Enuff isn't as confident about his hidden ace. I blink a few times, patiently waiting for someone to provide a counterpoint. Outside, the sounds of shoes walking up galvanized steps—one pair firm and heavy, the other squeaky and awkward—echo in our ears like the ticks of a clock. A vein on Enuff's neck beats with each step. He has to respond, but he is too stupid and too unprepared to think of anything. "Suck my almonds," he is forced to say. It is weak, and this is obvious to all.

    "Like you've got any left to suck."

    I am starting to feel...powerful. A very foreign feeling is taking hold of me. What is it? Is it adrenaline? No, I've felt adrenaline before—like when the Mailman rings the doorbell and I'm the only one home. This is something hotter than that. Is it...could it be...

    Am I feeling...confident?

    Enuff shoots up from his seat. A heavy arm rockets past my ear and hits the stone wall behind my head. I try not to flinch, and, all things considered, I believe I succeed at it. I do not turn away from Enuff, as painful as it is to look at him. At this proximity, I can see every scar, every clogged pore, every laugh line. Flies, which typically look for rotten meat to lay their eggs in, scavenge Enuff's face by mistake. One tries to crawl across his eyeball, but has to fly away—not because he blinks, but because his eyes are darting frantically over me, as if looking for some weakness to tear open. The tension inside the boydog continues to build until it feels like he will explode if he so much as draws another breath.

    Then Enuff stops. His muscles relax and his lungs release their pressure. He parts his lips in a putrid smile. Before I can protect myself, Enuff's hand locks around my neck and presses my head against the wall.

    I am currently reminded of a very important rule of poker that I have unfortunately neglected: learn to keep your mouth shut.

    "Hey, boys!" Enuff says, and his breath splashes against my face like the rush of air from a dumpster just before it shuts. "I been thinking..."

    "Enuff, pal, we ain't gots time—" starts Rocko, who is tracking with his large ears the approach of the Clown and the C.O.

    "If the Clown gonna pick anyone, who you think it gonna be?" asks Enuff, ignoring Rocko's plea. "A tick-ridden Rat? A oversized, bamboo-eatin' smartjack? Some ugly mothersucker like me?" Enuff tightens his grip around my throat. "Or he gonna pick some pretty, blonde-haired norman who only been inside a few weeks? Who still got babyfat on his bones? Still smell like grass and fabric softener?"

    With his free hand, Enuff removes the lighter from his waistband. He runs it against his leg once to open the lid, then again in the other direction to spin the igniter and start the flame.

    "I think we ought to level the playing field a bit," he says. "Just ain't fair as it is, you know?"

    Rocko and Jamie have given up grooming themselves. Their attention is now equally divided between the approaching adults and the spectacle of their leader coming unhinged.

    Enuff holds the flame close to my face. I have to squint to see anything through its light.

    "Let's start with them pretty eyelashes of yours," he says. He runs the fire across my eyelids. My lashes burn and curl up until they are just glowing stubs. I tuck in my lips and bite down on them until I taste blood. I try to push the pain out through my nose in choppy exhales. Once my lashes are gone, Enuff moves the lighter a little higher and starts burning away my eyebrows. My toes curl up inside my shoes. The skin on my forehead boils. Even if I want to yell, I can't; Enuff's grip is too tight.

    "Master Enuff," Jamie says calmly, grinning with his mouth but not his eyes. "If the C.O. witnesses this he will surely confine you to solitary."

    But Enuff has forgotten about the C.O.'s existence. This is evident when he returns the lighter to his ear instead of hiding it.

    "Rocko!" Enuff yells. "Come hold his head."

    "Boss, I'd radder not."

    "Get over here, rat, and hold his head!"

    Rocko is gripping his tail and twisting it around his pawtips. He looks at his boss, then listens to the I'm-sure-familiar pleas out in the corridor:

    "Sir, you've got to take me with you!"

    "Please! I don't belong here!"

    "I was framed! Lindsay leaked the documents, not me!"

    "I'm pretty good at math! I promise! Oh, God, I mucking SWEAR!"

    Every time the guest dismisses a cell and moves on to the next, Rocko seems to become more delusional about his odds of getting selected.     

    "Sorry, boss, " Rocko says, staring into his tail. "It's just, you know...I'm in dis locked cage...and the kid's like tree-hundred times my size..."

    "What was that?" Enuff snarls. He turns his head and blasts a glare across the cell. He squeezes even harder around my neck, and my weight lifts off of the chains. I barely notice the relief, though. I am suffocating.

    "Sir," Jamie says in his sedative tone. "They are halfway finished with the eleven-years. We should all be prepared when they arrive. All three of us."

    "When who arrives?" spews Enuff. Hot slobber swings from the corner of his mouth and lands on my knee.

    "The Clown, sir."

    "The...the Clown?" says Enuff. The rage in his eyes flickers.

    "Yee, boss, the Clown," Rocko says. "Today might be the day one a us gets outa here." He chuckles nervously. "Jeez, he might even take all tree of us, who knows."

    "Get...out of here?"

    "That is correct, sir," Jamie coos. "He might even treat us to a pizza dinner. As much as three toppings, I wager, if we asked for it. And afterwards we could all get ice cream. The fancy type on a stick. You remember the sort? Shaped like a cat with gumballs for eyes."

    "Fancy...stick cat...eye gum?" Enuff's hand slides off my throat and he starts to remember where he is and what is happening. I gulp down as much air as I can while I have the chance. My hand massages my throat.

    ...

    My...hand...massages...my throat.

    So grateful was I for breathing again, I didn't notice that my tiny, sweaty hand had popped out of the restraint when Enuff dropped me. I quickly grab the chain behind the cuff and pretend like nothing has happened.

    Thankfully Enuff isn't paying attention to me anymore, just nodding his head and listening to the commotion out in the hallway. "Yeah," he says to himself. "Today could be the day."

    "You never know, sir," Jamie says. "But you must try."

    "Yee, boss. No shame in tryin'."

    Enuff looks at his two friends, and he walks towards them.

    "Don't...don't forget your pushup bra, Kelly."

    Enuff stops. I am determined to not let him get away. For the first time, I am at an advantage over him. For this round, I am the table captain. Enuff is backing down from direct defiance. Not only that, since putting things into perspective, I am no longer the least bit scared. I am angry, if anything. Shame on them, I think. Shame on all of them for degrading themselves like this. They're better than that.

    The boydog stands there, in the middle of the cell, not making a start in either direction.

    "Hey, boss," Rocko says. "He's just some punk tryin' to get unda your skin. Suck'm, a'right? Just suck'm."

    "Yeah, you do that," I tell him. A familiar rush takes control of me. It is the same thrill I get when the pot is high and the call is final and I know I have the best hand. It's the Gambler's high, and it makes me feel invincible. "But if you go to that door, everyone here will know you don't have the pistachios to stick up for yourself. Which is bad, brother. Real bad. Cause that's all you've got. Compared to everyone else in this cell, you've got the least amount of brains, the least amount of brawn, and—I hate to be the one to break it to you—you ain't the prettiest. All you've got is the biggest pair of walnuts. You can't afford to give that title up too."

    "Enuff, dear friend," Jamie says. "He is new here. What would he know? Please, you must ignore him."

    "You know I'm right. If I wasn't, it wouldn't bother you so much. So what's it going to be? You going to let the Clown walk on by, like I am? You going to finally stop giving this damned place the satisfaction of watching you wet yourself over some outsider who's not going to pick you anyway? Or, like always, are you going to get on your knees and beg for that sweet, swee—"

    "Enuff Tiddletink don't beg for NO one!" Enuff spins around and faces me. But he isn't as quick this time to charge.

    "Prove it," I say. "Prove you've still got some peanuts in the bag, because I don't think your friends believe it anymore. Just hang back with me, like the big Biker you pretend to be. What do you say? Just got to wait. Easy as that."

    "I don't need to prove nothin', and I damn well don't need that Clown!" Enuff yells.

    "Who are you trying to convince, here?"

    Enuff's face softens, but then it reconstitutes into something more stern.

    "I ain't goin' nowhere you little spit. As soon as that C.O. turns his back, I be all—"

    "Spit, he's here!" hisses Rocko.

    I look past Enuff at the figure peering into the cell, and...well...something odd happens. The precise second I lay eyes on him, the hairs on my arm stand on end. My stomach turns cold. My eyes harden. Whoever this Clown is, I hate him at first sight.

OTHER THAN THE PHOTOGRAPHS in history books and that one guy from the banana commercials, I have never seen an actual Clown before, so I had been expecting the stereotype. Pudgy. Probably balding. Overuse of makeup. Ill-sized clothes. Frilly collar and cuffs.

    But this Clown is none of those things. He is tall and slender. No makeup that I can tell, just the red bulbous nose and white skin that all Clowns are born with. And he is well-dressed...kind of...about as well-dressed as a color-blind Businessman. He is wearing blinding-white slacks supported by pink suspenders, a fitted teal dress shirt,  a stout yellow tie covered with red polka dots, yellow rubber dress shoes large enough to stash a pregnant wombat. His red hair has been groomed into a plump plume around his head. His hands are in his pockets, but his posture is straight.

    The expression on his face is complex—a little uncertain, a little sad, mostly tired. Instead of empathy for him, though, I only feel loathing. Despite the sadness and concern eating away at his face, the sole qualities I can excavate from his mess of an expression are pretentiousness and judgement. Every sign of vulnerability I interpret as a sign of insincerity.

    Jamie is at the bars with Rocko's cage in his hands, both of them swooning like the all the others. Enuff is still staring through my face, trying to telepathically bore a hole into my skull. Beads of sweat course down the harsh canyons and deep valleys of the boydog's head. His ingrown hairs stand on end.

    "I swear to sucking God," he whispers. "If he picks you, he gonna have to take you outta here in a thermos. If you get outta here alive, I be huntin' you down for the rest of my life. I swear it."

    "If he picks me, I won't go," I whisper right back. I can't stop myself from going deeper into the bluff. "I swear on my name, I won't go."

    "Bullspit. You go. You dumb if you don' go."

    "At least I won't be a fetch." I lean in close to him. "But you can go if you want. The Clown is right there looking at you. Right there! All you got to do is go over there and beg. But you know he's not going to take you out of here. He's a tease. They all are, and he's the worst. Have some dignity and stay where you are."

    And, to his credit, Enuff does.

    Until the Clown speaks.

    "Perhaps that one. The one with the head like a potato."

    And that's all it takes. Enuff swirls and smiles. He grabs the bars and pants with excitement. The Clown crouches and scratches under Enuff's chin. The man's escort is holding a pair of handcuffs. "Would you like to take him out for a walk in the pen, sir?"

    Enuff  is hopping, and I loathe it all. Crumshack, the C.O., Enuff—Society, sure, why not! And the Clown. I hate him as if I've spent my whole life sworn to kill him. And that sucking Clown stands back up and sighs and has the gall to say: "No, that's okay Octavio. Perhaps next month will be my lucky one."

    Enuff’s face melts, and the C.O. and his guest walk away, just like that. “Hey, wait!” Enuff screams. His voice cracks, revealing the child inside. “Hey! I can be a good boy! Come back! I’m—” But the slamming of the door silences him. He slips away from the bars. “I’m a good boy,” he murmurs to the air that has replaced the Clown. The other two feel their boss’s pain and try to comfort him. They turn away from the scene of the crime.

    While they were distracted, I had tried my hardest to free my other hand from its chain. I had tugged and yanked and finally, with a sick popping sound from somewhere around my pinky, I came free. I had fallen face first onto the floor. As the other three turn around, I am standing in the center of the cell, directly under the only light, cooly waiting as if I had been like that all along.

    “Yeah, it hurts, doesn’t it?” I say. Enuff sniffles, too humiliated to fight. “This spithole's trying to kill you one speck at a time, thinking you won't notice. It sucks you of your dignity, your willpower. Everything that makes kids kids and you you.” I pluck one of the cigarettes from Enuff’s winnings and chomp it like a cigar. “But you—bleh!" I make a face, take out the cigarette, turn it around, and put it back in my mouth. "But you don’t have to give them anything.”

    “Pal, who do you tink you are?” Rocko asks. "Just leave us alone, a'right?"

    “You know who I am. You've even said it," I say. "I'm the guy who's still got something to fight for. I'm the guy who hasn't given up. I’m the guy who’s going to get you three out of here and make sure you reclaim your macadamias on the way out.”

    “That is most gracious of you, stranger," Jamie says with a flat laugh. "But I am afraid you cannot offer us anything we have not tried. The security in this operation is quite formidable." He yanks a bow out from his fur. “And there are limits to how adorable we can be.”

    “No,” I say. “No more begging. This place doesn’t deserve anymore of that from you.” I place a hand on Enuff’s shoulder. “You don’t have to play this game anymore, alright? You can smell like lawns and laundry too." I lift up Enuff's chin so I can see his eyes. They are pink and puffy. "Hey? Are you with me? We're in this together. Same team. No more of this, right?" Enuff hesitates, but lowers his head and nods. As he does this, the lighter slides out from behind his ear, falls to the ground, and cartwheels over to my feet. I pick it up and light my cigarette. I do not return it.

    “You, uh...you tink you can act'ally get us outa here?” Rocko asks, a little embarrassed.

    “Right out the front door,” I say, smoke billowing out from my nostrils. I imagine the smoke looking like exhaust from the fire I can feel roiling behind my eyes. The effect falters, however, when I succumb to a fit of coughing.

    "Bullspit," Enuff says, more disappointed than angry.

    I am still coughing, red in the face and teary. “This isn’t—HUAG! ACK! ECK!—my first time dealing with a place like this. HOOAGCK!” After a few deep breaths of cleanish air, I regain my composure and look around, almost with nostalgia. “Funkleburg might not have been as dank as this place, and Ultrock might not have been as mean, but they were both bigger and under more surveillance. This place is a mindsuck, for sure, but that’s all it has going for it. This place has gotten too comfy being at the top. The C.O.s are fat and lazy, and the place itself hasn't been updated in decades.” I suck on my cigarette again, force it to sit in my chest and sizzle, then release it with a grin and a nod. “I got this,” I state, then cough some more, making sure to aim into my shoulder, like my Nanny had taught me, so as to not to spread any germs.

    The guys look confused, but then Enuff’s eyes widen with clarity. “Wait...can’t be,” he says. “Them's just stories. You ain’t...you ain’t actually—?”

    “Yup,” I say, finally getting over my episode. I reach around my neck and undo the clasp of the chain. “I’m Elroy Kidd. And I'm sick of the stench around here."

    I toss the necklace to Enuff. My aim is terrible, though, and my throw is weak. The necklace hits the ground and slides between Jamie's feet. The pandaboy picks it up and holds it out so all of them can inspect it. Two squares of metal are attached to the chain. Written on one tag is a number, #011888, and written on the other tag is a name, E. KIDD.  

    The boys look at each other in disbelief, and I am proud of that. I take another drag on my cigarette and wretch on it again. In another fit of coughs, I throw the large butt against the back wall, mumbling something about menthols.

    "Touch it, bite it, do whatever you have to with it," I say. I lift up my shirt to reveal the scar on my side. "And here's this if you've heard the rumors about me undergoing experimental surgery, or the one about me getting into a sword fight with the warden at Hookflank." I press my palm against the floor and twist it 360 degrees. "And here's this, if you've heard about me being double jointed."

    Enuff and Rocko glance at eachother then shake their heads.

    "Yeah, I know," I mutter. "I kind of wish more people were impressed with that one."

    No one is sure what to say, but Rocko twists his foot into his sawdust bedding and can't help but ask: "So...which one was it? Which story was true?"

    I pick up Rocko's cage and raise it until I am eye-to-eye with the Rat. "If you want to get out of here, I need all of them to be true. Now listen up."

    And listen they do. All night we stay up plotting and whispering, asking and telling, smoking and scheming. By the time the lights blink on in their simulation of sunrise, all four of us are wide-awake with anticipation. Rocko is nervous, wringing his tail in his paws again, talking so fast his sentences lack any kind of verbal punctuation...but his beady rodent eyes sparkle with something more than just fear or conjunctivitis. Jamie is still skeptical, but he is willing to humor the plan anyway, just to have a change for a change. And Enuff is as loose and determined and focused as a Warrior on the dawn of battle. "There ain't too many people in this world that could make me do this for'm," the boydog confesses, "but some'in about you...some'in about doin' this with THE Elroy Kidd...man, I get goosebumps just sayin' it! Dog, I feel like I can do anything!"

    Rocko nods at this, Jamie rolls his eyes, and something inside me shrivels up and dies.

    "Hey...hey boss," Rocko quietly says to me when he's sure know one else can hear. "Is is true you ain't...you ain't never lost a game a poka?"

   I get down real close to his cage and whisper back, "Never." This is easy to admit, because it is the closest thing to the truth out of everything I've said so far. I may not have any of the other incredible powers attributed to my name, but that one is different. I have always had a gift with numbers and probabiilities, and my aptitude for predicting likely outcomes borders on prescience. The game of poker has always been my favorite outlet to exercise such mental muscles.

    But that doesn't mean that it is the only outlet. Like now. When I hone my Eyeball of Logic on the conundrum at hand—when I crunch all the numbers, run all the possible scenarios, consider every last variable down to the smallest fraction—there is only one way I can possibly escape this place, and it envolves lying to these three kids, continuing the bluff until I can sneak out of this place alone, but alive.

    "Gee," Rocko says excitedly. "This is gonaa be good, ain't it?"

    "Yeah," I say with a wan smile. "Yeah, this is going to be a show no one will want to miss."