 |
| Name: |
Harmless Jack |
| Theme Song: |
Lady Luck Blues - Bessie Smith |
Harmless Jack acquired his name in
irony. For over a decade he travelled the United States,
frequenting casinos and card tables, steadily increasing
his money. As is the way among professional gamblers,
and those who provide them with a living, word began
to spread. Sitting down at a table with him was a
sure way of coming away far poorer. An accomplished
liar, astute statistician and fine actor, he assumed
whatever persona he needed, counted the cards and
played the odds, deriving his thrill not from the
money he won, but the people he beat. Inevitably,
he found himself getting off a Greyhound bus at New
London. A few unassuming men were waiting there for
him.
The owners of the New London casinos knew how to run
a business and were well practised at turning what
looked like a disaster into a triumph. They quietly
took Jack to one side, and made him a very simple
offer: work for us, or we’ll kill you. Already
finding it increasingly difficult to find a seat at
any game, Jack smiled and accepted. He’d already
beaten them, so he figured it was time to join them.
Besides, there was something about the people he found
himself talking to that put him on edge, gave him
the impression that the one word they’d missed
off the end of their simple offer was, ‘eventually’.
So Jack used his skills on the other side of the table,
playing the punters instead of the house. His skill
in his chosen art made it easy for him to spot other
practitioners, and saw to it that their winning streaks
became losing ones.
Over several months, he slipped happily into his new
role, the wolf amongst the sheep, playing the same
games that he had come to love so much. Inevitably,
knowing a good investment when he saw one, the manager
of the Iron Mountain decided that it was time to promote
Jack. Jack lost his life that night, and woke up the
next night with a whole new one.
When Jack is seen, it’s walking between the
tables on the Mountain, casting his eyes over the
games and occasionally whispering a few brief words
to the dealer. When he’s not, well, he could
just as easily be the person scooping the chips to
his chest at your table as the man trying to drown
his losses at the bar. The house always wins, and
when it doesn’t, normally it’s Jack.
To look at, he is an unremarkable man somewhere
in his early thirties, his short black hair well kept
and his casual suit clean, if a little crumpled. Those
who notice him rarely remember him, as he seems to
lack any sort of unusual characteristic their memories
can hold on to. He’s just . . . average.
|
