Rover draws pensively on his stubby cigar, the tip glowing red below his dealer's hat. He paws nonchalantly at the scotch and water he has been nursing for the last half hour. Despite the tower of chips in front of him, he's either in trouble now, or trying to play the rest of the table for suckers. His tail is no longer wagging, though, and you suspect that the scotch may be getting the better of him. He can't mass more than about 30 kilos, and he's been putting them away tonight. You push all in, figuring that even if you lose it all, at least you'll get some sleep before you need to get back to the MARSpace. Elva the cleaning lady folds, as does Isaac Asimov and that boy that you kissed in fourth grade. Wait...don't go....where is everyone going?
Notes
1st place (out of 24) in the 15th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.