Aligator Blood (MMM/F)

[lanadelgagged]

(you’ve got) alligator blood /ˈæl.ə.ɡeɪ.t̬ɚ blʌd/: An expression of praise for a player who remains calm and performs exceptionally well under intense pressure.

· · ·

Seven Clams Hotel & Casino, Bigmouth Bay.



“All right. We’ve had it with you.” —came a growling voice from my back.


As I registered these words, a tightening grip fell on my elbows, dragging me from behind and lifting my five-foot-three frame from the red leather stool. Such was the violence that the stack of chips fell before me like a house of cards blown by the wind. Not even a beat to voice out a compliment. The men at the table froze with indifference. All eyes on me. Not even the pointy tips of my Miu Miu slingback pumps ever grasped the carpets as they dragged me across the Casino floor, past the cage.

It was three bald men, two holding me tight, the other guiding them. They were taller than me, save for the leader, all built like Spanish bulls. The shorter man opened a white door that led to a dimly lit corridor. As it slammed shut behind me, the revelry and soft muzak of the night were no more. Instead, there was a gleaming checkerboard floor and the vivid red of the walls.

My high heels slipped from my nylon-clad feet, and only then did the corridor’s echo reveal itself. A hollow whisper in the darkness. My eyes flickered across that nondescript space, drawn upward.

Much as I expected: no cameras.

There was another room at the end of that hallway, door ajar, with sodium light seeping from the gap. Nothing but a wooden chair, a desk and cardboard boxes, some empty, some still sealed with long strips of brown packaging tape. A metal bucket sat on the floor in one of the corners —next to a stack of rolls of silver FlexyTape® piled on top of each other— with a shovel resting inside, dripping some kind of thick grey sludge. I had heard of these rooms before, they have a folklore of their own and are passed on like myths or legends. But in that moment, I found those to be all too real, and if they were anything to go by, the menace of what could happen next began lingering on my mind.

I’d be lying if I said they eased me into the chair; instead, I was practically flung into it, and the sheer inertia dragged it a few inches further than it was. The entire room reeked of sweat and body odour. Someone was here before, no doubt, and for a very long time. Bathed under a single spotlight, these men circled like sharks. It blazed like the morning sun; without my sunglasses, I would have been forced to squint against its glare. The shorter man lit the tips of two cigarettes from a packet of Redwoods, sleeves rolled and back to the wall.


“Whatever this is, or whatever you think happened, I can explain.”

“Cut the crap,” —smoke billowed from his lips as he spoke.— “This is very simple: you tell us how you’re fucking us, and we’ll let you go with nothing but a slap on the wrist. Capisce?”

“I’m not fucking with you, you wanna know my secret?”

“Better be a good one.”


He walked towards me and held the other cigarette to my lips. I inhaled. Coughed a few times, then let it dangle from my lips.


“I’ve been playing poker since I was a little kid. I’m just… very good at choosing my opponents.”

“Do we buy that, Guppy?” —he inquired, gazing at one of the men.

“Not for a second…” —came his quick response.


Frankly, I’m usually pretty good at talking myself out of these situations. But as my wrists were taped to the sides of the chair, I realised this was no traffic stop. I eased into it, as much as the bindings on my wrists allowed and crossed my legs.


“You got a hell of a poker face; I’ll give you that.”

“What can I say,” —I smirked, feigning confidence. — “I take pride in my acting skills.”

“Actors are just big liars. They lie for a living. You’re no different…”

“Really? Is that why you dragged me back here? A lecture on integrity?” —I shifted on the chair. — “This isn’t Sunday School; we’re playing poker here.”

“But you ain’t a player.”

“Because I’m a woman? Come on, Sal, don’t be that guy.”

“Because you’re running a con. Nobody cleans out the table like that unless they’ve got an ace up their sleeve.”

I let out a chuckle as I averted my gaze from him. — “Are you frisking me now? Because you’d be surprised at the many places you can put up an Ace…”


I crossed my legs again, as sultrily as my predicament allowed, inching forwards. Sal seemed unphased. Instead, he leaned in closer to me, so close I was overcome by his pungent breath of cheap whiskey. He gripped the arms of the chair.


“I’m usually a funny guy, but not when I’m down sixty grand.”

“I’m usually funnier when not I’m tied up to a chair. You could have treated me to dinner first, that’s what a gentleman would do. Though I guess you’ve lost enough money tonight.”


A step too far. He opened the palm of his hand and swung it towards my face. I waited for the slap with eyes shut, prepared for the inevitable. When I opened my eyes, it was the cigarette from my lips that bounced off the concrete floor, and not me.


“Tell me how you did it.” —came his stern voice.

“Ask Lady Luck.”

“Lady Luck ain’t that generous.”

“My name’s Victoria for a reason…”

“I know a good player when I see it; you ain’t nothing but a crook.”

“And I know fragile masculinity when I see it.”

“You’re real brave for someone tied to a chair.”

“And you’re real stupid for thinking that I need to cheat. I read you like a book, buddy.” —I coughed. — “You’re practically wearing your cards on your face, goddamnit, you and all those guys on the table. The ring touching, biting your cheeks… Maybe if you stopped playing poker like a man in a burning building, you’d stand a chance.”


The poor ventilation was getting to us all as I saw the beads of sweat on their bald heads, too. The man eyed me as he digested my words, circling me. A rough smirk on his face.


“Check if there’s anything on her.” —he said to the men.


The other guys began tapping every inch of my dress, over my stomach, in its seams, in the back. Sooner than I knew, they were manhandling me, checking under my bosoms, between my legs, on the cups of the bra… Too close for comfort. But I drew a deep breath and gazed up at the spotlight.


“We should get a room,” —I suggested to one of the men. — “Your friend here’s flopping his hands like he’s never touched a woman before…”


They found nothing because I had nothing. At least not on me. They had looked everywhere but in the right place. As their hands drew farther from me, a victorious smile drew on my vivid red lips.


“She’s clean, boss.” —said one of the men.

“Like hell she is…” —he replied, face red with anger.


He stood silent, gaze burning into me. I tilted my head to one side and met it; I figured if I did this for long enough he’d be intimidated enough. But I was wrong, very wrong.


“What’s with the shades?” —came his stern voice again.


My fingers tightened behind the chair, where he couldn’t see. All the muscles in my bound arms stiffened. I drew a breath.


“They match the outfit.” —I replied.

“That so?”

“Ever heard of a thing called style?”


But he didn’t respond; the man snatched the designer sunglasses off my face and flipped them over in his hands. I squinted my eyes in an attempt to adjust to the sudden brightness of the room, not losing sight of him. He slowly brought them to his face.


“Careful buddy, you might not like what you see…” — I spoke to him.


He tried them on, eyes flicked between me and the shades. The muscles in his jaw tightened. ‘Where the fuck’s Lance?’ I thought to myself, wriggling and fighting the silver tape binding my wrists.


“Son of a bitch!” —he exclaimed…

· · ·

You’d be right to wonder how I got myself into this situation, and I’d be right to tell you that it’s a long story. But fear not, I’ll try to make it snappy for you. My name is Victoria Blade, and depending on when you ask me —or who you ask— about my work and what I do for a living, you’ll get a different response every time. The underworld never had any particular appeal to me, I wasn’t drawn to it, and neither did I make a name for myself in it intentionally. Instead, the underworld came to me, almost naturally.

I was born twenty-eight summers ago in the port town of Pumpherston, Silvermouth. Back then, the city made a lot of money from the shipyard and port, which all went into the wrong hands. I started pickpocketing at the age of fifteen and never stopped until I turned nineteen. It made me realise just how easily you can talk your way out of trouble if men deem you pretty, soft-spoken, or wear the right amount of clothes.

By the time I was twenty, I had moved north to New Damselham and enrolled in its college. I graduated without attending a single lecture or taking more than two tests. This was the time when I found out about my talent for forging documents. As it turned out, a certain Raymond Blade too had found out about my talent. When I met him, he was just a Law School sophomore born silver spoon in hand. Now, he’s my husband.

We’ve been working together ever since, earning very handsomely and living as understated of a lavish lifestyle as it gets: suburban townhouse, German cars, only a summer vacation per year…

Fake credit and debit cards are our best-sellers, but we can do almost everything: fake IDs, social security cards, forged passports, coins, autographs… If you can name it, chances are we can fake it. You meet all sorts of peculiar people in this business —though I’m hesitant to call it that— but not quite as peculiar as Victor Lance, Aja Makani and their gang.

It was Raymond who first introduced me to them; Lance was in our workshop with a certain blondie named Kimberly Tapes, who introduced herself as the ‘world’s best-paid errand girl’. They are the middle ranks of the faceless mobster everybody calls ‘Mister Nasty’, producer of eccentric porn films and owner of many strip clubs in Bigmouth Bay. They come to us for all their forging needs.

But here, in the casinos of Bigmouth Bay, everybody knows me as a Poker Star rather than a forger. I grew up playing endless games of Texas Holdem’ with my father, my uncles, and, before I knew it, the entire neighbourhood. Truth be told, I still get the same adrenaline rush when the cards are shuffled that I did as a child.

Everybody has their own ideas about poker. But none quite as popular as the belief that you need to have your brain wired like a machine, calculating your odds before you make a move, or become an expert in card counting.

It’s not rocket science. Sure, I can count cards, and I have a good idea of how to play whatever hand I’m given. But that’s not my secret. Poker isn’t about cards; it’s about people. More specifically, the people around you. Chances are, if you’re a good observer, you’re a good poker player. All you need is a sharp pair of eyes and a knack for catching the smallest of details.

A change of breath? That man is bluffing. A stare too long? That woman has a pair of aces. Why is she covering his mouth? Probably because he’s been dealt a terrible hand.

Sometimes, you can smell the tension, and you should never underestimate how much a person’s mood affects their playing decisions. And when all else fails, an odd, sudden change in betting patterns is more telling than a straight face.

Getting to know your opponents during a game is important, sure, but not nearly as important as choosing the right table. Don’t get me wrong, I still get a kick out of simply playing, but I get a bigger kick from making big bucks.

You can’t beat the big casinos at their own game, but you can definitely beat the big boys in the casino. How do I find them? There’s the challenge. Don’t look for a Rolex, don’t look for a flashy three-piece suit, and even less look for people dressed in designer clothes that have the brand’s name in big letters. Rich men have nothing to prove. The richest man in a table is usually the one wearing worn-down jeans and a Casio Wristwatch. Trust me, I’ve been there.

Why am I not including women players in the equation? Simple. It’s not that I don’t think they have the money —they certainly do— but profiling them is twice as hard and twice as time-consuming. You don’t want to spend too much time lurking about; it’s poor Casino floor etiquette, and the hosts don’t like it. Their hunger for money wants you to sit on those chairs, not stare.

· · ·

It’s with this logic in mind that I stepped onto The Seven Clams Hotel & Casino, nestled between the promenade and the marina of Bigmouth Bay like I did most Friday or Thursday nights. There was an unseasonably hot breeze from the ocean that hung in the humid air as I emerged from the taxi and onto the sidewalk. I donned an olive LeQuan Smith shoulderless dress down to the top of my knees, black opaque Cecilia De Rafael Pantyhose, and Bordeaux slingback pumps from Miu Miu, the only pair of heels that I was comfortable enough wearing all night long. No rings. It’s much better when they believe I’m single.

Even in your sharpest clothes, it’s hard to draw attention to yourself amidst the loud chiming of slot machines or the caricaturesque jingles bleeding from the low-fidelity speakers. Gaggles of people flocked like nightbirds, migrating from table to table, and I was no different, casting discreet glances at the poker tables, or rather the people gathered around them.

That’s when I found him. A bald, middle-aged man hunched over the table, protecting his cards for dear life. Cheap digital watch slacks a size too big, and sharp Italian accent. There were only men at that table, I watched them play, at least two more rounds before I made my move.


“Room for one more?” —I spoke softly, to the croupier.

“I’m saving this spot for Vincenzo.” —spoke the growling voice of one of the men.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” —the bald man replied, then looked at me, pushing the chair back. —“Come on, sit down.”


There’s always room for a lady.

· · ·

“That’s dramatic, Sal, very dramatic. What’s next?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a monologue about honour among thieves?” —replied Sal, with a sudden change of expression.

“That would imply that I’ve stolen something from you, which you have no proof of.”

“You steal from me; I steal from you. The universe always evens it out.”

“You’re gonna keep those?” —I complained.— “They’re ladies’ glasses, you know…”

“A man can’t wear ladies’ glasses?”

“You don’t even know how they work..." —by this point, I’m becoming frustrated at my fruitless struggle.

“I know enough.” —he pushes the cigarette into the ashtray.— “They show me things I shouldn’t see. And that makes you a problem.”


As he spoke these words, he beckoned to the other men. Like soldiers, they marched to the corner of the room: one retrieved two rolls of silver FlexyTape® while the other carried the bucket and the shovel after stirring it for a bit. Sal grinned as he glanced down at my feet, now only clad in black nylons. He nudged my ankle with the tip of his shoe.


“Look at this,” —he shook his head dramatically. —“You walk into a casino without shoes, sweetheart? Whose attention are you trying to get?”

“That’s an interesting way to talk about women’s feet, Sal. See anything you like?” —I replied, not losing sight of the henchmen.

“We should have a rule for that. This ain’t no public pool, you know.” — he paused. — “Probably thought you’d just float outta here on all that cash.”


The henchmen laughed, I didn’t.


“Some of us don’t need the extra inches to walk tall.”

“You don’t do much running, do you?” —he smirked.

“I don’t need to.”

“You’re not going to anytime soon. I hope you like a custom fit.”


The man Sal had called ‘Guppy’ earlier knelt before me and gripped my ankle tight, lifting my right foot off the cold floor. He guided it into the bucket, and that’s when I first felt the cold wave of wet cement spilling over my foot, seeping between my toes and crawling up my ankle as if it had a life of its own. I didn’t flinch but rather exhaled slowly, a calculated breath. Then came the other foot.


“You don’t wanna do this.” —I felt and heard my voice crack for the first time, in trembling words.

“Oh, I’m dying to do this.”

“You think it’s the glasses that make me dangerous? You don’t have a clue…”

“Is that right?” —he tightened his grip. — “Here’s what I think of your sunglasses.”


Sal’s pulse was a visible throb in his neck, blinking hard. Abruptly, he gripped them even tighter and snapped them in half. The lenses cracked like broken ice as he tossed them to the ground and stomped them relentlessly. As I watched the scene unfold, Guppy had scooped the cement even deeper. I tightened my jaw.


“Oh, you idiot…”

“What’s that?”


He came closer to me, feeling the warmth of his breath in my face, red with anger. Sal tilted my chin up with the tips of his fingers, but I did not yield.


“You’re a fucking idiot and a lying bastard. Be a man and take a loss…” — my voice rose.

“You can tell that to the fishes, sweetheart.”


Sal stepped behind me. I kept struggling, but I was already weakened from the bindings on my wrists and the drying cement creeping higher up my feet. All of a sudden, a rogue hand clamped my mouth shut, and I was forced to fight Sal’s grip.


“Why do you have to make everything so complicated?”


From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Guppy rising from the floor and grabbing the piece of tape. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear the sharp, deafening sound of the tape ripping from its spool. The next thing I knew, the three men were holding me tight, allowing Guppy to plaster a length of FlexyTape® over my lips which he wrapped around my head, sticking to my long brow hair tied into a Japanese bun.

They wrapped the tape over and over until I had covered the entirety of my lower face, my jaw. I saw my reflection in Guppy’s glasses, and only then I realised the gravity of my predicament. They had used so much tape that the imprint of my lips had disappeared; where my mouth once was, there was but a layered wall of silver.


“Isn’t that so much better?” — came Sal.

“Mmpphghhgghh.” — profanity escaped my lips, but all they could hear were muffled grunts.


This tension was unbearable, I remained silent but seething. The cement was now halfway up my calves and becoming a solid block, rather than a liquid. ‘Where the fuck is Lance?’ — That question hung in my head for long, way too long. For minutes that I should have been using to try and escape.

But the truth dawned on me. There was no escaping.

Even if I somehow managed to undo the tape on my wrists, there was nowhere I could go or run. I was truly helpless, not even my arms could free me. The cement was becoming solid, a huge weight on my legs. So I yelled. Yelled off the top of my lungs and fought the gag with all my might.


“MMMMPPGHHHGGGHH. MMMGHM MMMMPPPHHHH!”

“Ah, shaddap,” — yelled Sal, louder than my muffled garble. — “It’s not like anyone’s gonna hear you in here. Save it for later.”


Either intentionally or because of my predicament, his words sounded more sinister, somber. But nothing, not even the gag, could stop me from voicing out my distress. I paused to draw breaths and then kept wailing through my sealed lips. I was gasping for air. The strain on my throat and my lungs seemed to be in vain. My face was no longer red with anger, but rather red with partial asphyxia.


“MMMMMMPPPHHHH.”


I could barely catch what Sal was talking about with the other men, but I could hear them muttering something amongst themselves. Their footsteps seemed to suggest they were headed for the door. Suddenly, and as I kept yelling through the gag… A series of knocks. Very stern, very firm. Slow. Loud. Heavy enough to make the walls tremble.


“What the hell is going in there, Sal? Are you out of your mind?” — though muffled, I could tell. It was Lance’s voice.

“Victoria, are you in there?” — yelled a woman, it was Kimberly Tapes.


The men didn’t say a word, at least to them. They whispered and pondered.


“Now what, boss?” — inquired a trembling Guppy.

“Come on Sal, open up. We know you’re in there with her!” — Lance yelled.

“MMMMPPHGHHHGHGH.” — I screamed off the top of my lungs, desperate. Hoping that they would be able to catch it…

· · ·

[Caesar73]

Truly excellent Story. Loved the Tone, Dialogs, the sassy Lady!

[lanadelgagged]

so glad you enjoyed it! I love writing sassy characters ;)

[Caesar73]

so glad you enjoyed it! I love writing sassy characters

That shows In the most favourible Way!

[DioA]

Seconded on the love for sassy damsels. It’s fun for them to be dimensional.