This choice: The need someone at the Roulette Wheels • Go Back...Chapter #3The need someone at the Roulette Wheels by: Unknown NEXT SPIN
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By the time I'd climbed up the steps to the human-geared podium at the table, the holographic timer'd just materialized up above the brass roulette model at the end, having counted off the very first few seconds.
Were it not for the acrylic dome shielding away the spinning pit of color below, the table would've teetered over a twenty-something foot drop into the basin for the Fate's hand Roulette. Spanning for almost a hundred feet wide, the wheel paid its debt in tenfold for the insane hype that any commercial for the casino could've given its property, going by the murky crowds of gamblers huddled around its tables, whose displays hung along the rim and above in the balconies like some giant, sinful candelabra. Without the ball rolling around, the wheel calmly spun around on its own, winding the crank for the next game as the antsier guests elbowed against one another to place their bets.
Down the rest of the table, a grid plotted by brass gilding laid the surface down with trapdoors, one for every spot on the wheel. All of the seats were empty, being at the last table of the day to be booted up, but the iconic red glow of the display quickly worked its magic on a few head that turned my way as they strolled past. One from a particularly pink owner gave me much more time, pausing from her pace before turning her monolith of a body around and jaywalking against the flow of the other guests.
The thirty foot range wasn't something to sneeze at from the guests, nor something to really gawk over, but I found myself transfixed by the sheer level of obesity she was imprisoned by. Her stomach was huge, of course, but would've still looked wide for somebody five or ten feet taller, yet she didn't even bother renting out a belly cart after it'd long oozed out past her belt line and over her legs' entire length, plopped down along some dozen feet of carpet beyond her feet with only a layer of smooth feathers to protect her from serious rug burn. Her nightdress was a piece made of pure spandex dozens of belt sizes too small to look like anything other than a leotard, but her light pink hair was freshly combed, styled into a wealthy-looking jane with dark red dyes along the tips.
I couldn't even fully comprehend what species she was till she was close enough for me to see a black tipped beak poking out from a pair of cheeks that almost completely fleshed out all of the roundness of her entire face, which was pointed high above a boa of pudge around her neck whose topmost rolls were wedged by the straps of her "dress'" neck.
Then again, flamingos tended to have such skinny legs, even as hefty as those we'd seen come by, but hers ballooned out some inches beyond the dozens of feet that pushed the curves of her belly apart, smushing together with an extreme pressure.
Her blue eyes were cocked in a mix of surprise and disdain for the tiny little human running her table, but her face was weaved more by what I sensed was a look of hunger that never left her mind, partly thanks to an empty-bellied groan from her stomach that made her wince.
"What is a human doing in a place like this?" She asked with a musky russian accent.
"Our policies and kindness towards guests extends to any and all species, Ma'am. Would you like to play on this table?"
Her confusion didn't leave, but with a snort she stepped on up, zoning in on a seat at the end that could cater to her monstrous butt's width. Her fingers pinched into a dragon's hoard of chips that filled her cleavage, scrounging around until she plucked out a few gold "thousand"-ers and smacked them down on a square, melding them together in a tidy stack.
"23 Black, six thousand." I read out, punching the numbers into the podium.
Another rumble ran through her stomach, and she drew out even more chips to stack on another square, like she'd expected the game to buy her a filet mignon.
"5 red, eight thousand."
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