Nymphomation(7)
4c. The game being sacrosanct, there shall be no favourites.
4d. Mister Million’s identity will remain secret, in perpetuity.
Play to win
The city of chances, domino dancing. Daisy Love, with her latest only bone tight in her fingers; Jazir Malik, with his five new spicy chances. Both of them watching in awe, as the dots on their bones were slowly settling down with synchronicity.
Game on. Cookie Luck’s body, falling and folding.
‘Come on, my beauty!’ shouted Jaz to the faraway dancer. ‘Make me a happy man.’
‘The lady really can’t hear you, Jaz,’ said Daisy.
‘You wanna bet? You know there’s some more-than-lucky bleeders out there, who just can’t stop off from winning. They are the chosen ones, and I wanna be one of them bleeders. Come on, my Lady Fortuna! Come tumbling towards me!’
‘Nobody’s chosen in the bones, Jaz. It’s all down to chance, remember.’
‘So that’s why you only choose a single bone?’
‘Five is no more lucky than one, Jaz, with such desperate odds. It’s the gambler’s fallacy. Surely you’ve learned that?’
‘For the likes of us, maybe. But wouldn’t it be nice to be more than lucky? You ready for a slice of the good garlic yet?’ Jaz was cutting some wickedness from his latest Friday-night special. ‘No thanks.’
Jaz Malik swallowed at least four slices. ‘Wow! That’s juicy! Really, Daze, you’ve gotta give in someday.’
‘I’ve got assignments.’
‘Bloody students!’ Nine o’clock chimes, and at last…’Game on!’ chants Tommy Tumbler. ‘Play to win.’
‘Game on!’ chants a bleary Jaz. And at a long last…
That’s the way! That’s the way!
That’s the way the cookie crumbles! —Blurbflies
A four! A blank! A four and a blank. The stars of Cookie fall into the shape of a four-and-a-blank bone: one dot on each nipple, two more on her kidneys, nothing below the belt. Four pips of chaos, finally found on a field of sexy black. And all over the city, that exact moment of surrender, countless punters banged down their losing bones in frustration. And Daisy Love and Jaz Malik, both of them also losers. Nothing but mismatches.
Dead bones.
‘Fuck it!’ said Jaz. ‘Fuck that losing.’
Game over. Manchester sighs, a spectral breath.
‘Somebody, somewhere,’ called out Tommy Tumbler from the city’s screens, ‘just won themselves ten million lovelies! Remember, my friends, my losers, next week is another game. Another chance to win. Purchase in advance.’
Jaz switched off the TV in disgust. ‘Can I have that kiss you promised me now?’ he asked. ‘Just for some comfort?’
‘I didn’t promise.’
‘You did. Last week. You said maybe next week.’
‘I meant going to the club, maybe next week. Not a kiss.’
‘OK. This is next week. I’ll meet you tomorrow night, ten o’clock. We’ll go down the Snake Lounge. Frank Scenario will be singing.’ Jazir tipped his trilby.
‘You’re still into that neo-cool thing?’ asked Daisy. ‘Isn’t he a little old to be a pop star?’
‘He’s not a pop star. He’s lived, has our Francis. The living comes out in the songs. Anyway, he’s singing tomorrow. You up for it?’
‘Assignments. Sorry.’
‘Assignments, sorry! That’s all it is with you, Daze. One of these days…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Look, I’m sorry for going on about your dead dad last week. I know how much it means, to be unappreciated. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘What? What’s wrong now?’
‘Nothing much.’ He was already leaving.
‘Jaz, please—’
‘Never say it’s OK that your dad has died. That’s all.’
‘I never did. You said—’
‘I’m gone.’
Play to win
Jazir left Daisy alone and descended into the curry pit. He snatched his plum-coloured velvet waiter’s jacket from his locker and wrapped it around himself, even as his father was calling from the kitchen, where in the world had he been all that evening! Jaz ignored the call, ignored also the stupid smiles of his younger brothers. He burst through the swing doors, into the Golden Samosa’s floor show and circus. The place was Friday-night jammed. Jaz spotted a group of trash-white students on table five, waiting aggressively for somebody brown to take their order. He hurried over, digging his notepad from the jacket’s pocket. Shit! How he hated wearing this plum-velvet Sixties gear, but it was his dad’s idea of smart. ‘Have you been making your choosing, kind sirs?’ Jaz asked the table, in his best put-upon English-Asian.