Boxcars (6)

"Boxcars." Baggs said. "The boy rolled Boxcars!" The old guy stood up from his chair, his face contorted in disbelief.

Steven saw this as his cue: "Yep. Good ole bloody fuckin boxcars! Yes, Jason has the ability to roll a fucking twelve. Now let us go you piece of shit pervert!"

The room fell quiet, but "pervert" remained echoing in the chamber. The men backed away from the board and look at me and Steven. Now, I'll admit. I think I pissed myself a little bit. These guys were staring at us the same way a starving butcher stares at a hog. The way a zombie would stare at a defenseless fucking baby. The way a pedophile would stare at -- well, you get the idea, right?

"St. Charles, Baltic, take care of our guest's friend." Mr. Baggs said, almost underneath his breath. He sat in his chair and dusted the lapels on his suit as two of his cronies rose. Mr. Baltic and Mr. St. Charles reached into their suit jackets and pulled out identical knives: they were as crooked as the men's teeth. The began to move toward us.

Steven couldn't see what was about to happen, since he was tied behind me. Luckily for him though, I screamed enough for the both of us. "No! What the fuck do you think you're doing?! It was just a fucking joke! It's a goddamned game! What the hell is wrong with you!?"

The two men passed me, to get to Steven. I could feel their knives working, tearing, ripping behind me. Baltic and St. Charles cut his ropes, and grabbed his arms. Steven kicked the chair he was sitting in to the floor. I could hear him struggling with the men behind me; I could only watch the men in front of me and the board before us. Mr. Baggs writhed in his seat with delight.

The struggle ended with a loud slam -- a deafening metal-on-steel collision. I could hear one of the two men behind me locking the door. Steven's cries for help could barely be heard through the steel door.

I'm guessing that the room he was locked in was a lot like this one that you and I are in: pitch black, silent, and humid as fucking Georgia. They're not trying to kill us though. That, I know. They didn't kill Steven then. They won't kill us now. So much for wishful thinking -- right?

Now, where was I?

There I sat, bound to a chair, facing eight deranged men. I did what any reasonable man would do:

I prayed to God that Steven rolled doubles or had a Get Out Of Jail Free Card.