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 (Disclaimer: you're about to go on an acid trip. I warned you.)

Have you ever lost anything, so vital, so precious? 

Something so close to you that losing it throws your entire world out of balance.

It feels like a piece of you has been lifted, taken away, never to be seen again.

There was a time. . . I lost something, once.

Not only was it l o s t, no. Worse. 

It was T A K E N. 

Sit down, my potential tenant and-or tax client.

Pour a cup of perfectly p i p i n g  hot cocoa, and I will begin.

-

To think once, he thought he could bet it all.

The accounting life is not an easy one. 

It comes with a life of worry. 

A life of problems.

Even worse, a life of math.

Even on the most abnormal occasions, Bean Vladimir P. Esquire, feared no god, nor demons, nor tax auditor. He dabbled not only in a life of landlording and finances, but counting in other venues more promiscuous and notorious to the underground of society. 

That was where Bean met . . . HIM .

Across the wicked oval table the man they titled as “Mr. Dealer” shuffled the beloved rectangles in his hand like he was expertly tossing a newborn child. The man was clad in white like a snowman (that could somehow shuffle the beloved rectangles), adorning a small black bowtie that pronounced his status as the dealer man. 

Bean’s shifty beedy eyes panned around the table he towered over, small hands clacking on the table’s edge like a typewriter as he viewed the participants. It had been a short while of exchanges, and the clever beast had properly surveyed his competition.

One man seated at the table looked like Daniel Craig’s older brother’s younger brother. He had piercing blue eyes and a suit tailored to fit like a glove. His furrowed brow wandered from player to player.

Another woman wore a fuscia blazer. She also wore extravagantly floral-brimmed pink hat with a silk ribbon around its base. Bean considered perhaps devouring it after the next hand.

Then, there was HIM. 

Mr. Noodles.

Mr. Noodles the C a n o o d l e r.

Bean had heard stories of the infamous canoodling scoundrel.

The gentleman at the table in question adorned a long trench coat. A bowler hat graced his head. The stranger’s eyes stared distantly in two directions while l o n g fingers waited in front of the chips that were dealt in front of him. 

The accountant’s nostrils quivered. 

Bean’s clicky clacking on the wood ceased. 

It was time to wager the first colorful plastic medallions that Bean assumed were different flavors.

The blue eyed man was the first to put in his chips.

The pink lady followed.

Bean himself tossed his own blueberry-flavored medallions onto the table. 

The final stranger with the taloned fingers, Mr. Noodles, rolled the chips to the center.

The dealer handed out the cards upside down to the table after a long, drawn out moment. 

Bean’s tiny claws reached for his own rectangles and turned them over carefully. They were black. Each of them had tiny symbols on them… Ah yes, p e r f e c t. Each player did the same respectively, and the time to wager was upon them again. 

More color discs went clicky clacky into the center as the second wager was made.

Call. 

Call.

Call, Bean wagered. I should call her.

…Raise.

The accountant’s black marble eyes bore down on Mr. Noodles across from him. The canoodler bobbled his spined head to and fro, showing off his big and broad brows like the other players should behold his magnificence. Many more chips rolled into the pot.

What was his prerogative?

What did he taste like?

Why did his eyes have so many shapes in them?

Where did he buy that rollerskate holding up his tail? 

(Three waitresses had tripped on it already)

Around the table, the selected cards were discarded and re-dealt. 

The dealer cleared their throat like they were some big special special-man and tapped on the center space to begin the next bet.The accountant sneered with G L E E at how many red cards there were in his hand. 

(He liked the strawberry flavored cards.)

Bean watched the dealer’s look of utter dismay when the discarded cards were folded up and disappeared down the accountant’s throat. 

Another wager was made, funded by Agnes' last rent check. More clicky clacky of the fantastical plastic chips that Bean planned on stuffing in the woman’s pink hat, and snacking on later. The accountant watched the pink lady and blue eyed man with disinterest. It was the stranger across the way that earned his beedy-eyed stare. 

But then . . .

Bean watched as the r e p t i l i a n card player was brazen enough to toss in an extravagant wager before the round had even begun. Oh how he distrusted those gangly toes that lifted off the table, scratched the top of his head, and LITTERED the poker table surface with several sheds of his scales left on the surface.

Fold, the pink lady with her delectable hat decided.

Call, the blue eyed man remained, looking at the dealer confusedly for what chips to put down.

Mr. Noodle’s constantly protruding tongue mocked those at the table repeatedly. 

A bodily sacrifice had been wagered.

Bean knew what he had to do.

“R A I S E,” Bean’s voice screeched.

Without another word he reached back with his teeth, gripped ahold of his Right Wing, and released it with a bubblegum-sounding ‘P O P’.

The wing was dropped on the table, sending any remaining poker chips clattering and rolling across the felt surface. 

Mr. Noodle’s head did a slow turn toward Bean and tangerine eyes stared. 

Ah yes, Bean. The accountant. That, admittedly, was all Mr. Noodles knew from the creature’s shouting so.

The dealer looked to and fro, distantly shaking his head toward security that had come at the screeching sound. 

No, he thought. 

The game must be finished. 

Then he could go take his smoke break and perhaps walk out on the low-paying casino job.

The blue eyed man turned his hand. It was a standard hand, a three-of-a-kind. It seems he had underestimated the two. 

Bean laid his hand of cards down with a dramatic PLAP. 

A STRAIGHT FLUSH.

OR…

It could have been, if he hadn’t taken up the mission of collecting red cards instead.

He was certain he had the most red cards.

Mr. Noodles blinked. His head bobbed. Long gangly french-fry-shaped claws turned over his cards.

A FOUR OF A KIND. Four kings, all RED, nonetheless.

The Accountant’s jaw slowly dropped like the creaky door swinging open.

His vision BLURRED.

The room spun.

Suddenly, all went black . . .

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( How do you even end a blog like this? I mean, this thing is a mess. 

Here’s my satirical entry for what is a meme character that has been taken too far.

Why are you still reading?

Didn’t I say it’s over? 

Bean’s fine by the way.

He’s still an accountant.

He doesn’t gamble anymore.

He still lives in Agnes’ apartment.

Which r e m i n d s me… rent is due.  )