The Games at Kingpin Island Ch. 01

Pete had never cared much about darts; he'd always thought of the game as an excuse to fuck around in bars.

Not anymore. A lump rose in his throat as he sized up the board and twirled a slug in thumb and finger, testing its weight. He swallowed, took a deep breath, closed his eyes. Tried to relax.

Focus on the board. Don't think about the money.

He put his sights on the bulls-eye one last time and bit his upper lip as he flicked the dart off his pinch.

Games, games, games.

Ever since Pete had arrived at Kingpin Resort three days before, it'd all been games. Darts and trivia at the bar. Volleyball at the beach. Water polo in the pool. The sprawling estate even had a two-lane bowling alley, a glittering arcade with coin-ops old and a new, RPG-custom living room stacked floor to ceiling with rulebooks. A model walkway was rumored, and a mock royalty reception chamber.

It must have cost more than the domestic product of some small countries. Then again, Frankie Kingpin was worth something like five billion dollars. Honestly, he was worth so much no one would ever know for sure.

In speaking of cost: No matter what you played at Kingpin Resort, money was at stake. Not real money; something called "kingpins." Thick purple bills in various denominations, smaller than American dollars, with a picture of Mr. Kingpin where the president was supposed to be.

It was weird. Pete didn't know what to make of it, any more than he'd known why he'd had to take a "com-pross"—their slang for "comprehensive STD test"; apparently they talked about full-spectrum procreative-ailment screening all day long—before they would issue him a resort pass. The test was free, and he'd passed it—duh; he'd never been laid—so it wound up a weight off his mind. But the cash thing nagged him. Why would an upscale casino resort trade in fake Monopoly money? Why would you care whether you won or lost? You needed kingpins to do anything around here.

He'd not cared much at first—after all, if you went dry, you could just water up from the cashier—but as he played, alternately raking in payoffs and wiping out, he was starting to taste copper when a lot of kingpins were on the line.

Pete had had to toss just a stamp into a pot to get a turn at the dartboard. Which wasn't much to throw in, but there was plenty there. Loose twenties and fifties (for a fifty, you got three tries) piled so high on the nearby end table that if you dug into it, you could bury your arms to the elbows.

This game was sudden death. The first to hit a bulls-eye got it all. There'd been a lot of bad shots in the bar that day.

After forever, the dart made its arc with the satisfying dull thwok of pin plugging cork. The growing crowd of dart-players processed the result. A collective, sad groan. He registered: bulls-eye.

"Wow," said Pete. He started gathering the kingpin pile. He tried not to gloat as he beamed at the sea of frowning faces around him.

Came a voice from the crowd: "Your lucky day."

His providence—he was actually a lousy darts player—netted Pete more than nine hundred kingpins, which, when added to the three hundred plus he already had, made him worth thirteen hundred forty Ks altogether. He'd holed up at the corner bar to count it. As he slapped down the total a casino rep in a tux rang a bell.

"Valued guests," said the Rep, soft-spoken while projecting, "two slots just opened for the East Wing. Anyone interested, count your kings, and let the bidding begin." He wrapped up with a wan grin.

"Four hundred twelve!" went someone from the crowd, not missing a beat.

"Four fifty!" answered someone else.

A middle-aged guy who'd been eyeing Pete's booty with envy whispered, "That's a pirate treasure. How much you got there?"

"Thirteen some."

He whistled. "This is my fifth time here; I've never seen a bid beat eleven." He patted Pete's shoulder. "Good chance you've got this."

"Seriously?"

The guy nodded. "Bid out. They don't take it if you win; they're just looking for the one has the most."

Hoping his new pal wasn't running a scam, Pete did as advised. The crowd fell quiet as the Rep gave the going count.

". . . Going three . . . sold. Valued guest, it looks like you just earned yourself an afternoon—or, as it often happens, a lifetime—in the East Wing. Enjoy."

Golf-clap applause rose from the bar patrons as the Rep came through and solicited Pete by the arm. "Come along to your room if you please, Sir. You'll want to pack some things, and we've got prep for you. It should only take a few minutes of your time. I'll brief you on the way."

Pete wasn't sure what to think. He'd no idea what went on at the East Wing; he only knew that in his time at the resort he'd seen exactly one man exult at the prospect of doing it again.

This, coupled with the professionally courteous but genuinely wondrous twinkle in the Rep's eye as he walked Pete to the lobby elevators, made him think he should agree to this. He was in for something unique.

Pete stared anxiously at the red light over the door handle he'd been told was the gateway to what the Rep had taken to calling "The Wing." After a trip to the hotel room for a shower (which the Rep had advised him to take, and be thorough about) and a change of clothes (he neglected this latter), he'd been brought through an airport maze of winding, bare hallways and several employees-only detours to this small, sparse anteroom, and told they'd slip the lock after the admission prep had been finalized.

Whatever that meant. It had been a pain in the ass, honestly, and this was all starting to feel like a trap. He'd heard the other door, the one the Rep had taken him through to enter the ante-room in the first place, lock when the Rep left.

"Hey," said Pete to the guy with him, a short, dumpy nerd in thick-rimmed glasses and a T-shirt with a wand-wielding wizard on it. Pete asked the geek not so much as he asked, distracted, the dribbled, dry cheese stain on his shirtcollar. "You know we're locked in here?"

"Verily, knave!" exclaimed the geek. "The East Wing must have a bulwark against peasants and tyrants!" He wagged a martial finger skyward. "At least one portcullis must be secure at all times!"

Pete sized the teenager up. "Fuck you talking like that?"

"Talking like, what?" The teen huddled. "Aren't you a larper?"

"A huh?"

"A lar—a live-action role player? Never mind, obviously not. I'm used to going in as a group with larpers."

"Nothing like that. I got lucky at darts."

The teen stroked his chin. "I see. First-timer?"

"Yeah. I guess you're not."

"Fifth." He shrugged. "Well, fifth-timer, sixth in. Seems to me larpers get in easy. Not sure why."

"No idea what you're talking about. You don't think it's a trap? Is what I'm asking."

"A trap?"

"Because, well, I mean, we're both locked in here, like I said."

"Oh, no." Pete's larper friend pitched the yoke of his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The East Wing is probably the most controlled real estate in the world. The security measures have a low footprint," he darted his pupils left to right, "but they're there."

Another squish of adrenaline in Pete's mouth reminded him of the gambling squish he'd so recently felt. But this time, the push was made not of greed but fear.

"You said it wasn't a trap."

"It's for your own good."

The Larper scootched over and rubbed Pete in the middle of the back, up to down, like a beggar. Meanwhile, the Larper fondled his own crotch. A buckle of the knee and he wriggled his swollen dug into the groove of his innerfly with a groan.

Pete did a double take.

"Dude." He shook the Larper's hand off. "You . . . you rubbin' a boner?"

"First-timers," the Larper chuckled, while squatting like a linebacker. "You ever find yourself back here, Lucky, and you're how I think you are, you'll be luggin' some lumber, too."

"It's just," Pete stammered. "Why do you have a boner, though?"

The Larper stopped in his stomp, thrown off rhythm. He made impatient eyes.

"You never watched web pornovision?"

"Well, not so much, actually, I was raised Catholic and¬—"

"Sexstyles of the Rich and Infamous is shot here." Retarded giggle; point to the earth. "Right here, dude."

"Oh, yeah. That. I've heard of it. Never saw it."

Again the Larper jogged his heels, this time faster.

"Sexstyles. For a sixth lap." He shook the sweat out of his hair. Just do it. "I'ma really nail this go-round." He Rockyed his fists. "I was born for this!"

"Thing is, I never saw the show so that doesn't really tell me—"

A siren blared. Its accompanying beacon spun red and the spazzing Larper punched the handle, getting up on Pete and headlonging through the open door.

"Huzzah!" cried he. "We will worship you, fair maidens!"

With that Pete fell after him, into the dark.

Pete came back in a series of scans, a coming to. His first glimpse of The Wing took his mind away.

The door swung to a sprawling reception foyer, with a white granite tile floor on which a woman clicked high heels. Spiral staircases flanked, all in creamy, fancy stone, trimmed with swirls of gold. In the middle the Nordic woman arrived, tall and slanted on her hip, hair tied in a bun. Before her, a tripod of mahogany. In her ear and before her lip, a felt earpiece and microphone bulb, respectively.

They stepped in, Pete lost, the Larper stomping.

"Welcome to the East Wing." The woman nodded at them in turn. "My name is Ilene." The sound of her heel reverberated through the suddenly silent receiving chamber and Pete turned over to realize Tyler'd settled his temper tantrum. There was a powerful presence here.

"You are welcome to walk about at will, but I'm here to recommend a room in case you want the best experience."

"We're good," blinked the Larper, half crawling as he rubbed his boner. He patted Pete's arm using the hand he'd just been rubbing himself with. Pete reviled. Jesus. This guy. "We'll do what you say."

Ilene reviewed her clipboard.

"Right now the Card Room is in a pretty good state for receiving." She licked her fingertip to point. "It's right around, up the left staircase, down the hall, third door on the right. All the doors here have locks but," she ranged her hand around to a multitude of inconspicuously mounted CCTV cameras in virtually every corner, and under lamp bells in the middle of virtually every hall, "you'll be monitored here. You'll find you'll mostly be buzzed in." She fluttered her eyebrows and grinned blankly. "You'll hardly notice the locks."

Ilene paused from her rehearsed introduction to give Pete and the other guy a studied glance, each in turn.

"You, Tyler, I remember. You're a regular. And you . . .?" She turned to Pete, then to her clipboard. "Are new. Welcome." She extended her tiny hand. Pete politely shook it. "There are a few simple rules. My apologies, Tyler, for the repetition.

"We have a lot of events but they're mostly preplanned so the social rooms—the bowling alley, the dance floor, ballrooms—are closed except for scheduled open house-style events. I think you people say this, yes? 'Open house'? The second floor is available twenty-four seven: cards, which is my recommendation, the casino . . ."

"Casino?" Pete blurted out, flabbergasted. "There's another casino?"

"Mr. Kingpin is a wealthy and generous man," Ilene recited, with honest confidence that it was true. "He has spared no expense."

She licked her lips and re-gathered herself.

"All Mr. Kingpin's casinos have both resort and national tables, in a variety of worldwide currencies. But you should know," she gave Pete a special look here, "that the resort currency is, well, let's say it's king. Newcomers question its worth. Veterans hold it over the real thing. I would focus on its accumulation if you enjoy your visit. Often, boys like yourself," she swiveled her eyes to give Pete a cryptic wink, "find a lifelong home here."

Her mouth sank stern.

"There's no violence. No restraint. Anyone you interact with must be able to retreat from you freely and immediately without notice. This is the main rule of the East Wing—"

"The Prime Directive, if you will," the Larper interjected with a snort.

"Yes," Ilene patronized. "The prime directive."

"It's Halloween tonight." Tyler's enthusiasm somehow redoubled again. "Is it going to be as big a blowout as last year?"

"Bigger. We've still got the rave and the costume party." She stole a wink at Tyler that Pete almost missed. "But we've added a haunted house. I hear Mr. Kingpin spent nearly five million dollars on it." Strange that such a beautiful and clearly connected woman was telling Tyler secrets, stewed Pete; stranger still that she was telling them in Pete's presence.

"Sweet!" Tyler clapped, irritatingly loudly, then rubbed his palms hard enough that a twig between them would have started a fire. "I wanna be a zombie." His eyes went wide. "Play some pranks!"

"Well, you should ask." She consulted her notes. "They start recruiting at seven. If you're still in the Wing, they'll let you know where to go. Given your history, I think you're the sort of volunteer they're looking for."

"And what about me?" inquired Pete.

"You're new, which is why we've teamed you up with a veteran." Aside, "Which is also why you're not going in with your larper buddies this time, Tyler. I've been told to tell you you're one of our best volunteers. Kingpin's top men are aware of you, and value your contribution. I'm sure Mr. Kingpin himself would consider it a personal favor if you took a little while today to help Mr. Pigman here learn the ropes."

"Sure thing." Tyler snorted, putting Pete in mind of coke-heads. He gave Pete a wink. "Let's get started, mate."