You Bet Your Life
By Brian Lawrence

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Executive Producer, Harry Harrison glared at Alan Walker.  "Six frigging months, Walker.  We've been on for six months and the best you've done is a dog."

Alan, the director of the hit game show You Bet Your Life, sat across the desk from the short, impeccably dressed, balding man.  Ignoring both his boss’ sharp tone and intense stare, he admired Harrison’s extinct wildlife holographic tie, one of many his boss owned.  This one depicted a white tiger stalking some deer-like creature.

"Our show,” Harrison continued in his obnoxiously loud voice, “is called You Bet Your Life, is it not?"

Alan jerked his attention from the diorama.  "Yes, sir.  Last time I checked."  He combed long fingers through his thick brown hair.

Harrison's voice rose with every word and his face turned from ruddy pink to scarlet.  "Then why haven't you found anyone who will bet their life?"

Alan remained calm.  "I've tried, sir.  I've got scouts around the globe.  In every casino, at every track, on all the boats.  Daily, we receive thousands of applications.  We have to find that perfect combination.  A gambler talented enough at Hide and Seek to be confident he or she can win and someone with nothing to lose so they'll risk it all."

"What about homeless people, or convicts?  They have nothing to lose."

"We've tried."  Alan shifted in the red, ergonomically correct chair, his back starting to ache.  "It's next to impossible to find a street person who knows how to play a sophisticated virtual reality game.  Most of them have enough trouble dealing with normal reality."

"And what about yesterday?” Harrison asked.  “You practically guaranteed that contestant was the one."

The scene on the left wall changed from mountains to a Caribbean beach.  The one on the right wall, in perfect synchronicity, changed from a dessert landscape to a tropical rain forest.  Barely audible were the mixed sounds of waves gently caressing the white sands and raucous Macaws defending their avian territories.

Alan failed to recall giving any guarantee about yesterday's contestant.  "He fit the profile.  My scout said he was a heavy gambler, no family, down on his luck."

"He bet his stinking dog.  What kind of bet is that?"

Alan remembered feeling relieved when the man bet his dog, just like he felt every day when a contestant bet other than their life.  Harrison had no qualms about the possibility of a contestant dying on worldwide television, especially if the ratings skyrocketed, but Alan felt ambivalent.  He loved the money that rolled in and his fame in show business circles.  Anyone who was someone knew him.  He got invited to all the right parties.  But to take a human life?

He studied his hands and mumbled, "It’s a nice dog."  A five year old golden retriever now living at Alan’s house.

Harrison raised his eyebrows.  Alan interpreted the look as a lack of appreciation for fine canines.

"Find me someone, Walker.  Quickly."

Alan nodded.  "Just one.  All we need is one and the floodgates will open."

Harrison smiled.  "Then get to work."  He looked down at the computer screen imbedded in the large mahogany desk.  He ran his finger over the screen and the booming sound of ocean surf filled the office.

Alan left.

*****

In a perfectly modulated voice, the announcer said, "Welcome back everybody to the game show that asks, 'Will you bet your life to win one hundred million dollars?'  Today's first round winner, Mr. Horace Pinkleton, is about to give us his bet and then face the seekers."

Alan paced the control room.  He weaved between seated assistants and watched the monitors lining the wall, each showing different angles of the set.  His scout had assured him this contestant was someone willing to risk anything for the kind of money the show offered.

"Come on pal, go for it."  He tried to ignore the twinge of guilt that nipped at his conscience.

The announcer intoned, "So what's your bet, Mr. Pinkleton?  Remember, the more you risk, the more you can win.  If you risk it all, you can win one hundred million dollars."

Alan stopped pacing and studied Pinkleton.  At least the guy hesitated.  Most contestants came in with an idea of what they'd bet.

The middle-aged, stocky man stood on a small stage surrounded by five clear, empty cylinders with wires feeding into them; they looked like octopi groping for a meal.  He clenched his fists in front of his chest and sucked in his breath.

Alan clenched his own fists.  The guy was ready to go for broke.  If he did, Alan's career would blossom, but he feared his conscience would wilt.

"Come on, Horace baby.  You can do it," a voice cheered from the audience.

"Who the hell was that?” Alan asked.  “Camera four, audience!”

"That's the contestant's girlfriend, sir," Alan's production assistant meekly answered.

"Girlfriend?  That's it."  Alan sighed and looked at the floor.  Dejection and relief waged an internal war.

Horace Pinkleton leaned closer to his microphone.  "I'll bet my house."

His house.  Alan lowered his head.  It beat a dog, but he feared his career was over.

The red vid-phone beeped.  Harrison's round face appeared on the screen.  Alan’s stomach did back flips, even though Harrison looked only mildly upset.

"Yes, sir?" Alan asked.

"Let him win."  The picture faded out.  The vid-phone went silent.

A long sigh escaped Alan as he leaned on the shoulders of one of the production assistants and said, "Give him level three.  He should be able to handle that."

Horace Pinkleton defeated the seekers on level three and walked away with five hundred thousand dollars, the largest prize yet.

Alan left the control room and boarded a people-mover headed toward the main office building.  He wanted to give his recuperating nerves a rest, so he eschewed the fast lane and took the slower transport frequently used by tourists.  From his cushioned seat he watched the mesh of glinting steel and glass.  The veiled sun gave the cityscape an ethereal glow.  The streets were empty, everyone choosing the people-movers to avoid unnecessary exposure to the harsh ultra-violet rays.  The transport docked at the main building's entrance and Alan, a little more relaxed, took the outside smoked glass elevator to Harrison's ante room.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Walker.  Excellent show today."

He shrugged off the compliment from Harrison's blonde assistant, Miss Simpson, wearing her ever-present low-cut red dress, if it could be called a dress, ending at her chair, where her butt was welded to the seat.  Yellow circles dangled from her life-like, artificial ears.  Her voice was as smooth as lager and her deep blue, glass eyes twinkled.  The compliment meant little.  She was programmed to be nice.

"Go right in.  Mr. Harrison is expecting you."

As he headed toward the smooth steel door, a tiny laser scanned his retina pattern, verified Alan, and allowed him to pass.

"We're getting closer, Alan."

The comment stunned him.  Lately, Harrison rarely used his first name.

"Thank you, sir.  The projected ratings for the rest of the week show an increase of ten to fifteen points.  They'll be our highest ratings ever, surpassing our initial show."

But would that be enough?  Would his boss still push for a lifer?

Harrison smiled and motioned for Alan to sit.  As soon as he sat, Harrison’s smile vanished.  "We can do much better.  I want a lifer.  Get me a lifer!"

Alan gazed at the ceiling and puffed his cheeks, letting out a long, noisy breath.  He wondered why he had been offered a seat when Harrison waved him away.

As Alan left the office, he felt the hook dig a little deeper, while he floundered a little harder.

*****

Jake Patterson sat at the blackjack table eyeing his last ten thousand dollars.  Already down ninety thousand he played a hunch that the next hand would be a winner.  He slid the remaining chips out for his bet.  A robotic waitress placed an unasked for drink to his left.  She was attractive and life-like, from the waist up, but he figured the titanium column below would be too cold against his bare legs.  With a quiet whir, the waitress rolled toward the next table.

Jake's gaze shifted from his money to his miserable cards, a seven and a five.  He looked at the dealer's up card, a ten.  No choice, he had to take a card.

“Hit me,” he said.

The shiny metal arm snaked out and flipped a card.  Jake flinched.  He hated the automated dealers.  At least this casino spent the money on competent natural language programmers.  Down the street he had used the gambler's slang for getting a card and nearly had his head taken off.  Fortunately, the arm had come up short.

Jake's hunch proved wrong, as usual.  The new card was a queen.  Busted and broke, he pushed his chair back and stood to leave.  Immediately, a blue haired woman slipped into his vacated seat.  Slowly shaking his head, he wondered when the unbelievably long losing streak would end.

"Oh, Christ," he muttered.

Big Joe, the manager of the Pyramid, waddled across the casino floor.

"Bad night again, Jake?"  The big man cupped Jake's shoulder with an iron grip.

"I've had better."  Jake tried desperately not to wince.

"You know, Jake, the days of busting limbs are long gone."  He squeezed harder.  Jake winced.  "And killing you would not fit our purposes.  But you owe us six million.  And you owe Tommy across the street four.  You really should give up gambling.  You seem to have a problem knowing when you're losing.  Get a real job, Jake.  Become a constructive member of society."

The man's cheeks danced as he spoke, like tofu in an earthquake.  Jake clenched his jaw and narrowed his brown eyes.  The man-mountain did not need to remind Jake of his own mountainous debt.  It had been an extremely long losing streak.  Nor did he need to preach to Jake about his gambling problem.  He planned to give up gambling...as soon as he could afford it.  He sighed.  At the rate he was going, that would be eons.

Big Joe released Jake's shoulder and said, "We took your car, Jake."

"No!  Not my ‘Vette."  Jake's love of his life was a classic 2001 Corvette, the first solar powered model, over fifty years old and in cherry condition.

"Please, Joe.  I'll get you the money."

"Sorry, pal.  But, look at it this way, your debt is down to 5.75 million."

"You're crazy.  That car is worth five hundred grand easy."

"Correct, but being the kind hearted businessman I am, I split it with Tommy.  You now owe him 3.75 million."

"Wonderful."  Jake hung his head.

Big Joe walked away.  As Jake watched the casino manager’s massive back fade into the crowd, he muttered,
"Actually, it's 5.85 million, but who's counting?"

Dejected, Jake went to the bar.  A bartender, a human, asked him what he wanted.  Fishing in his pocket, he found a spare ten dollar chip.  "Water, straight."

"Very funny, wise guy.  Short on money, huh?"

"Temporarily."

He turned toward the small game machine on his right.  Spelled out in gold letters across the top were the words "Hide And Seek - The ultimate virtual reality game".  Jake skipped reading the rules etched in a metal panel.  He'd played the game thousands of times.

Lifting the half helmet with visor off the holder, he slipped it on.  Then he pulled on the black, vinyl gloves suspended from the box by reinforced wires.  Entering the ten dollar chip into the slot, he prepared to battle the game's electronic foes, the seekers.  He chose level eight, ten being the hardest.  Jake had defeated level ten only twice before.  He was not in the mood for a difficult battle.  His logic was the payout for level eight was sufficient, so why risk his last ten dollars on a possible level when he could win a reasonable sum on a probable level.

And Big Joe thinks I have a gambling problem.  Hah!

It took nine minutes to eliminate the five seekers.  The machine spit out one thousand dollars.

"Well, only five years of nonstop play and I can pay back my debt."  Turning back to face the bar, Jake shouted,
"Barkeep, make it a scotch and soda."

"You ever lost that game, Jake?"  The bartender mixed Jake's drink.

"Not in over a year."

Jake felt eyes staring at him and turned his head.  A man two seats down the bar seemed to be closely following the conversation.  Jake flashed him an uneasy smile, then gazed at the giant high-definition, super active-matrix panel television mounted on the wall behind the bartender.  The crystal-clear screen showed a woman in the final round of You Bet Your Life.  One of the seekers, Jake guessed the fourth, a silver robotic representation of a wingless pterodactyl, used an anti-gravity device and blasted a shot into the woman's back.  Spinning, she missed with her shot.  The seeker scored again.  The contestant winked out and the scene switched to the game show's stage.  She lost her car.

"Pathetic," Jake said.  “I'd like to try that show.  They say if you bet your life and win, you get one hundred million dollars.  Wouldn't that be something?  Get Big Joe off my back."

"Then go for it."  The bartender dried a glass.  Some traditions never died.

"I have no idea how to get on."

"I do."  The man two seats down spoke.

Jake turned to him.  "And just who the hell are you?"

"That's not important.  If you want on the show, I'll get you on."

Fifteen minutes and one vid-phone call later it was arranged.  In one week Jake Patterson would be a contestant on You Bet Your Life.

*****

"I'm sorry, sir, but you have no credit available for this suit."  The overstuffed, greasy-haired clerk leered at Jake.  The man's fat, slimy fingers clenched the suit Jake had chosen for his big appearance on network television.  After spending two hours in the automated tailor pod trying on suit after suit, there was no way he was going to allow the clerk to deny him the one he had finally chosen.

"Couldn't you find it in your heart to extend me some more credit?"  Jake knew the plea was useless, but maybe the man liked his smile.  The women did.

"That's okay, Maurice.  You can put it on my account."

Jake whirled to face his savior and was shocked to see Big Joe grinning from puffy ear to puffy ear.

"So, Jake.  This is your big chance.  Worldwide television.  I'm impressed."

So was Jake.  He had told no one about his appearance.  "Thanks, Joe.  I appreciate it.  I'll repay you for the suit."

Big Joe laughed heartily.  "Jake, Jake, Jake.  I'm not concerned about the suit.  It's on me.  Consider it a small investment.  You're going to win big, I can feel it."  Changing to a more serious tone, he continued, "And when you do, well then, you'll pay off your debt."  He leaned close and put his large sweaty face inches from Jake's.  His bear-paw of a hand squeezed Jake’s shoulder, hard.  "Isn't that right?"

"You bet.  When I win, you'll get your share."

Joe clapped Jake on the back so hard he nearly lost his balance.

"That's what I like,” Big Joe said, “a man with confidence.  Need a ride to the airport?"

"Sure, Joe.  That'd be great."  Jake turned back to the counter and wrenched the suit out of the astonished clerk's grip.  "Nice doing business with you, lardo."

The man snarled and opened his mouth to reply, but a subtle movement by Big Joe forced the clerk to bite off his retort.

*****
 

"Places everyone.  Five, four, three, two, one, we're on."

Jake shook so hard he feared his insides would dislodge.  He stood in a small pod about seven feet high and five feet around.  The Hide and Seek Helmet rested comfortably on his head.  Additional attachments, not found on the casino version, ran from his body to a control panel attached to the pod.  He wondered about their purpose.  Both his hands were outfitted with black gloves.  The helmet coordinated all the movement reading his brain waves and translating them into actions.  He knew ninety percent of the game's tricks, easily enough to defeat the other four contestants.  Any changes to the game made by the show were concealed from the contestants, so he felt unsure about the seekers.

The announcer finished making his introductions and asked each player if they were ready.  Jake answered he was as ready as he'd ever be.

Coming to life, his game device hurled him into an electronic arena.  Multi-colored obstacles of all sizes and shapes surrounded him.  He knew that lurking behind any one of them could be one of his opponents.  He slowly moved forward.

*****

"Slow down the others.  We want Patterson to win this round."  Alan gave the order to the production assistant responsible for running the game computer.  "Don't make it too obvious, but enough to give him an edge."

The operator spoke commands into a microphone attached to the side of a monitor, which showed a map of the arena in one window and each of the five contestants in other windows.

*****

As in any good virtual reality game, Hide and Seek contained undocumented, hidden tricks.  Jake knew most of them.  As he leaned against a thin, seven foot, gray and white speckled partition, his suit took on the same color pattern.  A feature he’d discovered a couple of years ago, the chameleon suit, assumed the color of whatever the wearer touched.  It worked great playing the game on the worldwide net against human opponents but proved worthless against the seekers.

While he waited, virtually invisible, he activated the single shot cannon, in case an opponent wore a shield.

The first opponent played into his ploy and walked in front of him.  Jake hit him with the cannon shot.  The poor sap never knew where the shot came from.  The man crumpled and then winked out.

Jake continued waiting.  After five minutes, he became suspicious when other contestants failed to appear.  The playing field measured only five hundred by two hundred and fifty yards.  There were three other players.  Surely, another one should have wandered by.  Unless...He activated his status monitor, another hidden feature.  Only one other player remained.  Turning on the player profile, a woman's image appeared.  Jake had one kill, she had two.

He stepped away from the partition and switched off the chameleon suit.  It turned back to black. He reached into his mind to locate the anti-gravity device, found it, and put it on stand-by.  He cautiously moved forward.

He froze.  From behind came a sound like a shotgun being cocked.  It was a canon activation.

Big mistake, lady.  Should have had your cannon ready.

Using the anti-gravity device, he flew straight up.  Her blast passed just below his feet.  While he rotated, he activated the multi-burst laser.  His arm came up, aimed, and traced a line across her chest.  She screamed in agony.

Screamed in agony?  He decided the show version must have some type of graphic augmentation to simulate a kill.

She winked out.  The arena vanished and Jake returned to his tube.

*****

"Congratulations, Jake Patterson.  You are the victor in Round One.  Are you ready to face the seekers?"

"Sure, why not?" Jake muttered.

His voice carried to the audience.  They erupted in applause.  He wished he shared their enthusiasm.  He was good at this game, but he had nearly made a fatal mistake against a mere human opponent.  His strategy had to change against the seekers.  Lying in wait would not work.

The announcer's voice interrupted Jake's planning.  "Jake Patterson, make your wager.  And remember, the higher the wager, the bigger the prize.  What will you bet, Jake?"

What would he bet?  Why not go for it?  He had no family.  His parents died long ago.  He was an only child.  His wife had left him saying he gambled too much.  He had no children.  Friends?  Gamblers have no friends, only acquaintances.  What did he have to lose?  If he lost, he'd tick off Big Joe and Tommy.  He smiled at that thought.

On the other hand, if he won.  One hundred million dollars.  He was a gambler to the bone.  This was the big enchilada.  The wager of a lifetime.

"I'll bet my life."

The answer stunned the announcer.  It shocked the audience.  Several seconds of silence hung over the studio as if someone had pushed a giant “mute” button.

"Could you repeat that, Jake?" the announcer tentatively asked.

"I said, I'll bet my life against your one hundred million dollars."  Jake's voice rang with confidence.

The audience murmured.  The overhead sign flashed "Applause".  They responded, at first meekly, then thunderously.

The announcer snapped back to life.  "All right, then.  Prepare yourself for the seekers."

*****

In the control room, Alan's mouth hung open and his heart fluttered like a trapped bird.  The red vid-phone startled him out of his stupor.

"Yes, boss?"

Harrison beamed brighter than the spotlights on opening night.  "Level ten."  The picture faded out.

Alan cringed.  He knew of no one who could defeat level ten.

He reluctantly repeated the command to his operator.

The young man stared at Alan.  "Sir?"

The words, “I mean level seven” teetered on the tip of his tongue, but instead he heard himself say, "You heard me.  Give him level ten."

"But we've never gone over level eight."

"Just do it."  Alan turned his back on the operator.  Please God, let him win.

*****

Jake prepared himself, as he had done thousands of times, but this time he had to remember that he could take only two hits instead of four like in the casino version.  If he was hit a third time, he was dead, literally.

Without warning, his image winked into the arena.  He flopped onto his back, rolled over, activated his single shot laser, and fired.  A cannon burst flew over him, then a tall, wide seeker faded out from Jake's shot.

He breathed a sigh of relief.  So far, standard fare, which meant the second seeker would take its time, let the player get edgy.  That’d be okay with him, it would allow him time to calm down.  He stood, turned, and was nailed.

He cried out in pain.

Pain?

The purpose of the extra wires attached to him became clear.  Ignoring the sharp sensation, he dove to his left and fired his laser.  The shot glanced off the shielded seeker.  It disappeared behind a corner.  Jake activated his cannon.  He fired at the corner of the wall.  It disintegrated.  He fired again and blew the seeker's head off.  Two destroyed, but he had been hit.

The third seeker used an anti-gravity device.  It proved easy to eliminate.  Hearing it, Jake waited, crouching against a red obelisk.  It flew over.  He cut it in half with a multi-burst laser.  The easy ones were destroyed.

Cautiously, he moved forward, darting from one colored obstacle to the next.  The fourth seeker could be anything.  He remembered at least seven varieties.

Leaning against a green pyramid with flashing yellow stripes, Jake reviewed his options.  He had three choices.  He could wait.  Too dangerous as the seekers had scanners and would easily locate him.  And sometimes number four and five came together.  That would be it for him.  He could take one, but not both.

He could go back the way he came, but a silent seeker could come up behind him.  Finally, he could cross the open space before him.  It measured about fifty feet across to the next obstacle on all sides.  It looked clear, but that could change quickly.

Making his choice, he stepped out in the open.

A tiny red ball rocketed toward him.  Behind it, for an instant, he saw the faint outline of the fourth seeker.  With the invisibility cloak it remained hidden except when it fired a weapon.  The shot found its mark.  Jake doubled over with a burning pain in his abdomen.  While bent, he mentally switched his weapon to the scatter laser, banking on the theory that with an invisibility cloak the seeker lacked enough energy for a shield.  He straightened and fired.  Thousands of laser pellets covered a ten foot square area.  The seeker became visible just long enough for Jake to see it fade out.

Needing time to rest and think, he bolted for the closest obstacle.  He had not been told the level he played but he figured it was at least eight because there are no invisibility cloaks below level eight.  More than likely, he was playing level ten.  They wanted him dead.  That was easy to figure out.  Not only would that avoid a huge payoff, but the thrill-seekers, the ultra-competitives would be lining up to try the show.  The ultimate challenge.

And you had to be the first, didn’t you?

He desperately needed an advantage.

A thought occurred to him.

He reached deep into his mind and found what he sought.  Why not?  If the seekers had scanners, why wouldn’t he?

A grid appeared in front of his face.  On it were two blips, one stationary in the center, one moving to the left, closing fast.  He turned quickly.  Straight to his left he saw a black partition.  The moving blip was heading toward the center of the partition.  He figured the seeker would most likely veer to the near corner, so he simultaneously watched the screen and the corner of the wall.  For extra speed, he switched weapons to the turbo laser.

As the blip closed the gap, it maintained a path straight toward the middle of the partition.  Jake aimed his weapon at the corner, his arms taut as a drawn bow as he waited for the seeker to change directions.

A movement caught the corner of his right eye.  He swiveled.  The seeker was on Jake's side of the wall.

A “spirit-walker” device!  It allowed the seeker to pass through solid objects.  No doubt now -- level 10.

The seeker fired.  Jake fired.  A hot searing pain began to spread through his midsection.

*****

"Mr. Harrison?"  Alan waited as Miss Simpson paged his former boss.

"Yes, Miss Simpson?"

"Alan Walker is here to see you."

"Good.  Send him in."

Seconds later the door to Harrison's office slid open and Alan walked through.  Harrison's desk was bare except for a large cardboard box.

"Ready, Harry?"

He looked ready, wearing a loud, Hawaiian shirt and tan shorts.  His white legs glowed.

“Just about.”  Harrison grinned, but Alan did not feel quite so jocular.  Relieved?  Yes.  Happy?  Not yet.  Would he ever be again?

Harrison walked to the shiny black bookcase and filled a second box with books, trophies (an Emmy included), and the other items that adorned his office.

"Well, Alan, it was quite a ride.  Miss Simpson computed the final figures.  We topped three billion dollars in just six months.  The highest rating of any show in history.  If the FCC hadn't shut us down, we'd still be climbing.  And we owe it all to that Patterson fellow.  If he hadn't bet his life, we probably would have been canceled."

"Yeah, but maybe no one would have died.  I knew it would happen.  Patterson opened the flood gates.  After him, four more contestants in the next two weeks bet their lives.  And only one of them won."

He sighed.  The cost of his new wealth pressed down on him.  A yoke to bear the rest of his life?

"Yeah, well they knew the risks.  Especially after the first one lost.  And besides, they didn't die in vain.  They made us very rich men.  Cheer up, Alan, I hear the Caymans are great this time of year."

He turned toward Alan and opened his arms wide to match the smile on his face, then remarked, "Is this country great or what?"

Alan faked a smile.  "Just great."

But his lack of enthusiasm did little to dampen Harrison's mood.  Oh well, maybe after several weeks of tropical living the mantle of guilt would fall away.  But for now, it clung like wet paper.

Miss Simpson buzzed and informed them the limo awaited.  Harrison taped the last box closed, walked to Alan, and put his arm around his shoulder.

"Lighten up, Alan.  You're a wealthy man.  By this time tomorrow, you'll be sipping piña coladas and watching a gorgeous ocean sunset.  No more cares, no more worries."

Alan allowed Harrison to lead him out of the office. "Wonderful.  Just wonderful," he said.

*****

As Harry and Alan journeyed to the Cayman Islands, Jake, already there, lay on his chaise lounge watching the string bikinis.  Six months ago his choice of venue would have been Monte Carlo with its glittering casinos and thousands of auto blackjack tables.  But that was before the big game.

Glancing down at his stomach, as he did every day, he saw no mark left by the brief, searing pain he felt at the end of the game.  It occurred to him, as it always did, that the pain could have been much worse.  His weapon had been a nanosecond faster than the seeker's.  Both shots were on target, but to a computer that deals in picoseconds, a nanosecond is an eternity.  As soon as his shot scored on the seeker, the computer ceased the game.  The pain Jake had felt came from the heat of the titanium, white hot, pellet singeing the outer layer of his suit; virtual reality to the extreme.  It had been that close.  The pellet never made contact.  If it had, he would have died on the spot.

Jake smiled.

He’d learned his lesson.  After the big game, he gave up three things.  Gambling.  He found near death a good cure for compulsive gambling.  Hide and Seek.  He had beaten the best.  There was no point in playing again.  And he never again groveled to over-stuffed, greasy-haired store clerks.
 
 

Copyright 1999, Brian Lawrence