The casino smelled like Kevin's Gramma Gertie before she died of lung cancer—like the slap of new pinochle cards as they're shuffled; like the puff of the last cigarette in a pack of Marlboros; like a woman who bet on God instead of chemotherapy and lost.

Kevin sat at the blackjack table, blood already thrilling through his veins. The dealer sent two cards across the table and they slid to a stop right in front of him. A jack of spades, a four of hearts.

"Hit me."

A ten of diamonds.

"You bust. House wins."

Kevin played again. This time, a six of clubs and a seven of hearts.

"Hit me."

"You bust. House wins."

He played again:

"Hit me."

"You bust. House wins."

And again:

"Hit me."

"You bust. House wins."

And again:

"Hit me."

"You bust. House wins."

He played until he bet his house, his children's college fund, his wedding ring. He lost them all.

A crowd had gathered around Kevin's table, the bystanders pressing forward to get a glimpse of the man who had been wildly shouting and cursing, "I'll bet my goddamn mortgage! I'll win this time!" and "Bring it on, you cheat! There's no way the house can win again! Basic odds!" and finally a quiet whimper, "My wedding ring. It's all I've got. God take pity on me, help me win this hand. Please."

Cards traversed the infinite distance from the dealer's hand to Kevin's. He looked at them and silently motioned for the dealer to send him another card.

A king. 23.

"You bust. House wins."

"No! No! You cheated!"

"Maybe. But you've accused me of that for hours, sir. Didn't stop you from betting more."

Kevin stood shakily, bracing himself against me—the writer of this story—for I could not watch Kevin suffer this indignity alone. I had stood at his side for the entire night, wincing in pain as he continued to ratchet up his bets. But there was nothing I could do to stop him; I could only tell that he did not stop until now.

Kevin slumped out of the casino, delirious with the gravity of his losses. When we got to his car, we found casino attendants attaching a boot to each of the wheels.

"Hey, that's my car! You can't do that!"

One of the attendants turned to us, and pity flashed across his eyes before he said, "I'm sorry, sir. This isn't your car anymore."

Suddenly Kevin grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me to the asphalt, and he lowered his face to mine, so close that I could smell his Gramma Gertie on him, so close that I could see the slight crease in his brow that distinguishes a man blinded by rage from a man broken by it.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why?

"Life's not like the Mahabharata, Kev. Sometimes, when you lose something, you can't get it back. I'm sorry."

He left me then, and in a stiff stupor he walked across the parking lot, across the dark highway, across an empty field, into a shadowed forest, and I'm not sure if he's ever stopped walking.

Author's note: This story is based on the experience of the Pandavas with the first two dice games. I didn't include them (Kevin) leaving and coming back and losing again, since I felt like that would add unnecessary explanation to a modern adaptation. Kevin doesn't have a way to suddenly recoup all he's lost—that's part of the point. And I think his utter loss—his loneliness contrasted with the companionship of the Pandavas—gives the story more dramatic weight. Again, I used myself, the narrator, as a character. I love to write metafiction and see how the arrival of the storyteller impacts the characters, what the characters would want to ask the storyteller if they got a chance. An important thing to note about that is that when I write myself into the stories as narrator/writer, I am not giving myself any power to change the outcome. It's kinda like predestination. I suppose I'm like a journalist, recording what happens and unable to alter the world like a fiction writer would supposedly have the power to do. And yes, in this instance I am the fiction writer, but I'm choosing not to exercise my full power. That makes sense. I think. It made sense to me, and that's what's important. Maybe. Let me know if I'm crazy.

Bibliography: Narayan, R.K. The Mahabharata.

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