Yahtzee

October 15, 2011

The game did not go well for Arturo. His luck was bad generally, this much he had always known. But it was never bad like this - and never, ever, gambling on the ship. The only loaded dice on board - until tonight - were his. “Santa Maria,” he muttered as another drunken die wobbled toward the “1” he badly needed, finally toppling over to “4”, wiping him out.

He suspected the new kid, the smartass from Napoli. But the kid wasn’t here. Arturo surveyed the table. His best friend, Antonio, was as deep in the shit as he was. The fat cook was not only too stupid to cheat, but the pigeon - every other week - at these games for at least a year now. That left the Lt. Commander. Could that bastard and the kid be in it together? Taking a sailor-sized swig of Campari for courage, Arturo swore to himself that he’d find out what was going on, at his game, on his ship, at his Yahtzee board, and settle it. Tonight.

Photo by Wyatt Ding Batty.