Gambling Hall

Buster A. Trifilo

"Sir, please calm down or we'll have to call security." The small, blonde dealer spoke as calm as she could.

"You clearly are cheating me, why should I calm down?!" Buster could feel that familiar anger rise along the back of his spine like a searing hot snake, "You are counting cards and now I'm out $100!"

Buster was hotheaded, he's known that since he sent his college football water boy to the hospital. That little tussle almost got him 6 months, but he was able to bring the punishment down to community service. He didn't regret it though. The spineless nerd had decided that Buster's harmless jokes were too much and keyed his car. He wasn't one to accept people being assholes. That stands true even for this cute-in-a-uniform cheater.

"Sir, I assure you there hasn't been any underhandedness. If you would like another dealer can take my place." She was shuffling her feet and there was a look of guilt in her eyes. Or was it worry?

Buster raised his hands, "Yeah, sure whatever, just give me my hundred and a new dealer and we'll be fine."

"Uh," Now she looked nervous, "That's not our policy, Sir. I can't do that."

Buster's smacked his hand down on the table, dumping drinks and making everyone sitting at it jump. Several of them stood and made their way to a more peaceful table. The snake of anger was settling in his head, and what he said next came out in his special yell.

"That is not acceptable!"

Buster's normal yell was actually pretty docile, more like stern talking. However, when he got especially angry his yell had its volume inflated with anger. When he yelled this time, he actually saw the fear in the dealer's face and heard the whispers of the other patrons around him. He heard many of them walk away, and saw the dealers hand slip down under the table.

"I think you're done for the day, Sir. I've called the security and they'll escort you to your room."

"What do you mean I'm done!? I'm not done, until I get the hundred you stole! This is unbelievable! If I had known that this cruise was a money trap I wouldn't have gotten on this ship!"

"Marine,"

Steve turned his attention to the doctor on board, and then to the 'Coronary.' The doctor was right, there was a guy who knew his food. Steve mused briefly whether he was out of shape or caught up in some other medical condition. He knew all to well how much your fitness can tank with an injury.

"Well, hopefully he'll use the gym responsibly, shave a bit of that. Though some guys try too hard right away, and then they're off to see you anyway."

A quiet rumble in his pager and his earpiece comes on. Casino was part of his department today. Steve sighs and shakes his head.

"Not even out of port yet and someone is causing trouble in the casino. Hope none of us end up in your office, Marine."

After a quick salute to the doctor, Steve makes the quickest path there with Spock at his heels. A motion has the dog sitting while he approaches the big guy yelling at one of the blackjack dealers. Casually approaching him while still ready for the guy to take a swing, there's a few too many drinks on that table.

"Sir, you look like you could use a relaxing dip in your room's hot tub."

Sit.

Sit is good, because it gives me time to feel the room. This room is so different now that new humans are on board, gone is that awful smell of the new carpet, which made me sneeze repeatedly. Now? People.

People love and hate this place, they feel excited, hopeful, I can smell that. For some it is almost a mating ritual. For others? Exhaustion/elation/exhaustion... Everywhere there are lights flashing and noises. Like a pack frenzy over a kill, with so much food that a craze settles over them all.

The Target Human is angry. I can smell it coming off of him. Maybe he will let me chase him and jump on him! I like the sensation of flying I get when I spring upon a body. Maybe the Boss will calm him down. Either way, for now I sit. I sit and wait for the next command.

I know my duty.

BUSTER A. TRIFILO

When Buster was 12, he broke into the local supermarket. As he was just getting acquainted with his new superman action figure, he was rudely interrupted by the security guard doing rounds. He broke the guards leg with a baseball bat, but despite that the guard was still able to drag Buster to the security room and phone the police. Buster's parents didn't take the news too well and the security guard sued. With the full force of the supermarket chain behind him, the security guard won. That was the year when buster stopped getting monogrammed shirts and began going to a public school.

Some security guards just take their jobs way too seriously.

Buster turned toward the guard and held out his hands, palms up.

"Sir, this dealer was clearly counting cards and now I've lost 100 dollars. I want that money back."

He fought to keep is anger in check. Another slip-up like when he was twelve and he just might end up drifting at sea with nothing but the clothes on his back.

The captain's voice blared over the PA and Buster frowned, "Perhaps she should get me my money fast so that I don't miss out on the emergency procedures?"

Steve had seen this sort of guy before. The classic bully, the guy whose best days were high school, the angry drunk, the guy who can't take a loss. The sort of guy who probably took out a bad sports game on the local nerd. He was a combination of the lot of 'em. A lot of those guys were in boot camp, hoping to get to see some violence. Most of them washed out or were dismissed due to poor conduct. The rest either shaped up or hid their tendencies enough to get a spot within our nations finest. If Steve were less laid back, he might've been one of them. He wondered if the guy had ever seen jail time, or if his parents saved him from learning about consequences. But, this guy was consciously holding it back, the open palm stance usually meant to calm others was really for himself. He knew his beast, but his tendency could still win out. Steve knew that he had to tread carefully enough to not make him get violent.

The captain's message bothers Steve. Really, the various facilities shouldn't have even been open before the safety drills.

Steve glanced over at the table, and the drinks. Of course it was blackjack, one of the only games with actual participation from the staff. But really, counting cards? The dealer? This guy either didn't understand blackjack, counting cards, or casinos in general.

He used resuming eye contact with the guy as an excuse to shift his posture so the dog was not hidden behind him, and to assume his best posture. Not quite military attention, and this guy deserves no sort of salute. His good shoulder ever so slightly closer to the guy.

"I'm sorry sir, but that's a pretty serious accusation. These cameras here aren't just to catch cheaters but also for the IAGR to keep tabs on us. We have an IAGR representative on board and I'd recommend taking it up with him if you think this casino may be cheating. Though, before you spend anymore time on this I would like to remind you that in most casinos counting cards is not considered cheating, and dealers can't benefit from it at all. You're right about getting going now though, lets get these drills done and then if you still feel the need to I can escort you to the IAGR rep, or maybe you'd like a good meal down in our dining room."

Steve Waits for his response ready but not hoping for him to grab or punch. Steve didn't particularly like being in customer service mode, but this was a good job. It wouldn't be good for him to just teach this guy a lesson.

The boring jobs are the best.

Lookit the Boss. Look how he uses his posture and height and slight movement to bring me back into play. He has that tone in his voice. He is speaking as if to a large pup, bring him back into the pack, bring him to heel. No need to bite, or even growl at the moment, the Boss is telling me.

It is so easy for me to be at ease and alert at the same time, especially when I can smell the confidence coming off the Boss.

Whoosagoodboy. The Boss. The Boss is the whoosagoodboy.

Buster A. Trifilo

"Fuck this! I paid nearly $2000 dollars to get on this boat," he lied," What's another $100?"

His finger tipped over a full glass of whiskey so that the liquid splashed across the table as he turned to walk out. He knew that he shouldn't have, but Buster never had been able to fully push the anger aside. When he was able to keep himself from getting violent it usually resulted in property damage and swear words. He was a ticking bomb. He knew this, his coach had known this, and his co-workers knew this.

He'd love to say he hadn't lost his temper since he was twelve but there were many hospital bills, ruined friendships, and broken hearts that said otherwise.

"Maybe I will take it up with whoever you said, and then I'll be expecting an apology and a refund." He pushed the door open.

Alert, my eyes don't leave the eyes of the man, and I can feel the various parts of me twitching in anticipation of the moves his eyes are telegraphing. Finally his hand flashes toward the small water dish of the sort humans use for the strange astringent which they imbibe. (So small, I have dipped my tongue in these once, but the fluid within was like a poison to me! I can recall the dry burning sensation, even now.) He upsets the dish, but does not throw it, which is good.

I watch the Boss to take the next cue.