“Hey, look at this. I guess I am turning into something of a real character. This magazine reads: 'Wild Card attracts drama and controversy far beyond the average professional athlete. Golfer, Woods, ain't got nothing on Goddard. Goddard doesn't know when to quit relying on his bad fortune. He will either be an unforgettable icon of professional wrestling, burned into our minds, or self destruct before anything really becomes of him, and, at this point, the chances could be a single coin flip'. Heh, I don't know who's got me so pegged so closely, but the creep sure knows how to flatter a man.”
“Can you believe it?” a young Goddard asks, ecstatically, almost not believing it himself. “He showed me the cards like some asshole maniac, like he really didn't think I flipped the switch.”
The younger Jack Goddard stands outside of a brick building, feet away from it's steel doors. His associates, four of his close college friends and card-playing hustlers, surround the alleyway where they hold their conversation, all peaking with achievement and satisfaction from a bust well done.
“I didn't even hesitate,” Jack continues, holding a fat bank envelope. “I took a quick look to make sure the idiot had the gun in his own mouth and not in mind, and took the money off his dead corpse. I had it counted before his brains hit the wall behind him.”
Jacks tone is everything but lacking with confidence. For him, at this time, he is the king of the world, and accomplished an impossible task. Prior to this alleyway celebration, Goddard was set up for a hazing of sort- an initiation. The club of card players chose a target for Jack to bust- a weak link, and the only goal was to leave with as much as his dead money as possible. It seemed as easy as taking candy from a baby.
The task became to proved to be something more difficult. The man was a weak player, and an obvious weak player to boot. Now it was Jack responsibly to take this man's bank roll before the rest of the hungry sharks under the roof smelled the blood in the water. There was a cost to such strategy- he had to drop his persona and guard. He had to make his intentions clear and profound, regardless of any circumstances.
The man targeted for such a inhuman fix-job was a proxy. Previous to this incident, Goddard had no idea what a proxy was, let alone how to deal with one.
Jack laid into him, hand after hand, breaking him at every turn and river- demoralizing him to a point of a table outburst. There, Jack made a single choice and aimed for the head. The target's metaphorical skull exploded, gushing Benjamins all over a victorious Wild Card.
“You did good, Goddard,” a college friend adds, stepping off the brick wall. “I bet that fuck is just wishing he didn't lose his cool now- now that he doesn't have money for a cab home...”
And as the sentence trails off, a dark vehicle pulls at one end of the alley, creating only one unblocked exit, if need be, behind the five-piece. The vehicle pauses, creating very little disturbance, until a familiar looking poker victim leaves the building and approaches the side of the strange car.
“Aw, fuck, look at this shit,” another college brother moans. “It's fucking go time.” He pants, and looks behind him, hoping his friends were on the same page.
“What are you talking about?” Jack asks, looking down the alleyway with some scrutiny. The man receives an rolled-down, back-seat window, where, after some quick explanation, he turns and points to the boys from the frat in the shadows.
“Fuck, he's right,” another one confirms. “We busted a proxy boys, and now we are all fucked.”
The two more skittish associates turn and make their emergency escape down the concrete path on the opposite side. Jack, confused, stands and turns, asking for further explanation.
“A proxy?” Goddard asks, stepping back with the current of everyone's safety. “What the fuck did we do wrong?” He looks over suddenly offended his good work went so poorly.
“Oh, yeah, you got him, Jack. You got him good,” the calmest one explains. “You hit him so hard you didn't realize he was nothing more than a fishing lure with someone's money dangling on the hook. Now, whoever had their line attached to our target is wondering who scammed all his cash away...”
The darkly painted vehicle's doors behind to open, triggering the boy's feet to start moving more than their mouths. As feet emerge from the car, feet begin fleeing the alleyway, as if everyone was respecting some sort of occupancy limit. Jack and his friends fled as fast as they could manage, the blue leather bank bag pumped in his stride away. Trash cans are toppled and cardboard boxes are trampled, leaving a wake of destruction is left behind, as survival is the highest priority.
“W-w-who are those guys?” Goddard pants, trying to sprint and shout at the same time. He looks back and doesn't notice any sign of a pursuit, yet the he and his associates do the only thing their bodies tell them to do.
“I don't want to be around to find out,” one answers. “Some guy in some weird car is pissed off we hustled his proxy. Fuckin' sounds like some gangster-shit, that does...”
The paranoia and gutter talk overwhelm their previous cool and collected demeanor. They all kept it cool in the game, not more than an hour ago, but now they are completely exposed, weak, and dependent on a bit of luck to keep it clean. They come around to the other end, exposed to to bevy of routes and branches to escape from, and the darkly painted vehicle effortlessly rolls in, threateningly calm, and comes to a halt in front of the fleeing party. The boys hit the breaks on their shoes as quick at possible, as anything else would send them crashing into the side of this newly constructed blockade.
“Oh, fuck,” Jack shouts, accidentally shoulder blocking the side of the car. He regains his footing, using the stick of the glass to pull himself from his knees. The glass moves, sliding down, dragging his palms with it. “Fuck...” Jack removes his hands and takes a step back.
“What's your name, son?” a voice from inside asks, in a deep, harsh, but calm tone.
Jack doesn't answer. Instead he turns and grabs the bank bag he lost from his collision with the car door. He turns, noticing his team members, gently sliding out of view, and wonders if he should make a getaway attempt as well.
“I want that bag there,” the voice continues. “See, that's actually mine...”
“I fucking busted your boy there, so you lose!” Jack shouted back, walking backward, his eyes hovering over the surrounding streets. “So take that up with your friend and not me. I didn't give your money away...”
“Boy!” the voice interrupts. “Don't be giving me any lip! I don't your little faggot card games. I am a business man with better things to do. I wish I could sit on my ass all day, but, if I did that, the world would stop spinning. So, its because of people like me, little punks like you can assume that the money you are holding really belongs to you.”
Jack rears back on his heels, ready to sprint off this parked car. “If you want my money, you are going to have to take it from me...” Jack's quick feet begin to move, clenching the bag with his hand.
“I had all the intention to...”
Goddard pushes through the car's roaring engine and makes it across a busy street, causing screeching breaks and honking horns. He takes his route to twisting alleys, crooked corners and one-way streets. He cut a path through the cityscape- a difficult one for a vehicle to follow.
He rests for a moment, slouching in the darkness, catching his breath, but satisfaction only comes for a short time. He knows he made it out, but only temporarily. How long does he have to make this escape? He wonders this option, and, as he does, another realization comes to him: how difficult it will be to getting more money, having this lingering over his head. He'll have to play everything better and smarter than them- every single time. That's the only way it'll work.
And with that epiphany, he takes a deep breath and walks into the light, waiting for the next hand to be dealt.