Russian Roulette - original (date unknown; unfinished)
If there were any girls in the room, the scene could be taken for a simple game of Spin the Bottle. Hardly a fitting game for six grown men, because men shouldn’t be playing spin the bottle, girls in the room or no.
But this wasn't a simple adolescent's game, played with giggles and immature poking fun of who had to kiss who (Tommy always flushed red when it landed on Mary, and Nicole hated how the boys giggled at her when it landed on Susie and Chris nearly threw a fit when he realized he had to kiss Mark), with dim lights and supposedly romantic music playing in the background.
This was serious. The object in the center of the table wasn't an empty beer - or soda, as so many kids used but refused to admit it - but instead a pearl-handled revolver. And in that revolver was one single bullet.
This was no game. This was life or death for those six men seated around the small card table. A classic beauty, really, that table, from 16th century France, not a place were you play cards or make plans to blow your brains out, if, by happenstance, the bullet lands on you. But these men paid no heed to the table, for most of them had grown up around such priceless pieces of furniture (okay, so only one did, but the other five usually pretended that they had lead the same life that one man had, and therefore, their stoic expressions had never reacted to the antique table). And after tonight, it wouldn't matter.
Russian Roulette. A game played usually only by stupid, drunk men who don't realize exactly what they're getting into, or a game played when you're on the edge and there was no way to climb down or take a step back.
These six men all fell into the latter position. Life had taken a turn, for the worse, obviously, and the next day, the very mansion where they were all hoping to die, but only knowing one of them would, was scheduled to be taken in by the IRS.
Oh yes, these men were all American (not by birth, though, except one, the one who had "made" it the best, and the one who was falling the hardest), and had fully enjoyed their status among the upper class, until today. After all, who would not love spending their nights with beautiful women on their arms, expensive drinks in their hands, and Gucci suits marking who they were? When a simple watch cost them more than some families made in an entire year (or two, or three years, at that), what was there not to enjoy?
The fall. That's what you didn't love. You hated it. Even if you hadn't been bred to this life, of antiques gracing every room of your 20 plus room mansion, of Mercedes' and limo's and beautiful women and hotel stays where the staff fawned over you, you grew accustomed.
And now, luxury was no longer theirs. First was the only American born in the room, Cole Hadley. He'd struggled for years to get where he was, and before this fall, he could have bought and sold all of the others in the room. They all knew that, too.
He was the one to speak first, his voice gruff, totally unlike the smooth, diplomatic speech he’d perfected in the boardroom. He picked up the shot glass next to his elbow and slammed the Russian vodka back. It was a fitting tribute to the game they were playing.
"Someone spin the gun."
Without waiting for anyone to take initiative, he reached for it, his callus-free fingers closing around the barrel and spinning it.
The person it landed on swallowed deeply as he reached for it. A tall, skinny man, blonde hair cut perfectly, and contacts shading his naturally rather dull blue eyes to a more vibrant hue, Colin Sinclair was nothing like most of the business moguls in the room, and that could be detected in the uncomfortable way he fingered his collar and shifted in the chair. Or maybe blame the tension in the air. Honestly, though, that was because he wasn't a greedy, ruthless business man. But he had a genius that had come in handy more than once, with the stock market, and that was probably the only reason why he was in the very room with these men.
The Canadian could be blamed for the fall they had all suffered, if you wanted to be a sniveling baby and blame it on one person and make it easier for the rest. But none of them were like that. Even if they were used to the easy life, they’d all had it tough, and welcomed challenges.
Sinclair's finger wrapped around the trigger and he squeezed his eyes closed as he brought the revolver to his temple. His lips were moving, no sounds actually escaping him, although lip reading would reveal that he was mumbling "God, please". Whether his prayers to a God he hadn't believed in for the greater majority of his forty years were for the bullet to be hitting him or not, we'll never know.
His finger squeezed the trigger and a hollow "click" filled the room. A sigh escaped the man, one of either relief or regret. He calmly opened his eyes, following Hadley's earlier motions in slamming back the shot of Vodka he had. Setting the revolver back in the center of the table, he spun it again.
It landed on no one this time, and the six looked at each other, at a loss for what to do.
Sinclair poured more vodka into his shot glass, swallowing it down quickly. It seemed he was determined that if he wasn't going to die by the gun's bullet, he'd give himself alcohol poisoning. He stared at the two men the gun pointed to, seeing them but not, merely lost in his own thoughts.
An uneasy silence hung over the room, as David Michaels and Jordan Ashton stared at each other, wondering who was going to pick up the gun, which of them had the right to. Michaels was the elder of the two, probably the oldest of the six in the room, although it wasn't by far that he was older than any of them. In his late forties, he could pass for ten years younger, something women would always envy. He still had a full head of dark hair, and his brown eyes were still as sharp as ever. He was the most diplomatic of the men in the room, the most skilled in handling people and manipulating
But this wasn't a simple adolescent's game, played with giggles and immature poking fun of who had to kiss who (Tommy always flushed red when it landed on Mary, and Nicole hated how the boys giggled at her when it landed on Susie and Chris nearly threw a fit when he realized he had to kiss Mark), with dim lights and supposedly romantic music playing in the background.
This was serious. The object in the center of the table wasn't an empty beer - or soda, as so many kids used but refused to admit it - but instead a pearl-handled revolver. And in that revolver was one single bullet.
This was no game. This was life or death for those six men seated around the small card table. A classic beauty, really, that table, from 16th century France, not a place were you play cards or make plans to blow your brains out, if, by happenstance, the bullet lands on you. But these men paid no heed to the table, for most of them had grown up around such priceless pieces of furniture (okay, so only one did, but the other five usually pretended that they had lead the same life that one man had, and therefore, their stoic expressions had never reacted to the antique table). And after tonight, it wouldn't matter.
Russian Roulette. A game played usually only by stupid, drunk men who don't realize exactly what they're getting into, or a game played when you're on the edge and there was no way to climb down or take a step back.
These six men all fell into the latter position. Life had taken a turn, for the worse, obviously, and the next day, the very mansion where they were all hoping to die, but only knowing one of them would, was scheduled to be taken in by the IRS.
Oh yes, these men were all American (not by birth, though, except one, the one who had "made" it the best, and the one who was falling the hardest), and had fully enjoyed their status among the upper class, until today. After all, who would not love spending their nights with beautiful women on their arms, expensive drinks in their hands, and Gucci suits marking who they were? When a simple watch cost them more than some families made in an entire year (or two, or three years, at that), what was there not to enjoy?
The fall. That's what you didn't love. You hated it. Even if you hadn't been bred to this life, of antiques gracing every room of your 20 plus room mansion, of Mercedes' and limo's and beautiful women and hotel stays where the staff fawned over you, you grew accustomed.
And now, luxury was no longer theirs. First was the only American born in the room, Cole Hadley. He'd struggled for years to get where he was, and before this fall, he could have bought and sold all of the others in the room. They all knew that, too.
He was the one to speak first, his voice gruff, totally unlike the smooth, diplomatic speech he’d perfected in the boardroom. He picked up the shot glass next to his elbow and slammed the Russian vodka back. It was a fitting tribute to the game they were playing.
"Someone spin the gun."
Without waiting for anyone to take initiative, he reached for it, his callus-free fingers closing around the barrel and spinning it.
The person it landed on swallowed deeply as he reached for it. A tall, skinny man, blonde hair cut perfectly, and contacts shading his naturally rather dull blue eyes to a more vibrant hue, Colin Sinclair was nothing like most of the business moguls in the room, and that could be detected in the uncomfortable way he fingered his collar and shifted in the chair. Or maybe blame the tension in the air. Honestly, though, that was because he wasn't a greedy, ruthless business man. But he had a genius that had come in handy more than once, with the stock market, and that was probably the only reason why he was in the very room with these men.
The Canadian could be blamed for the fall they had all suffered, if you wanted to be a sniveling baby and blame it on one person and make it easier for the rest. But none of them were like that. Even if they were used to the easy life, they’d all had it tough, and welcomed challenges.
Sinclair's finger wrapped around the trigger and he squeezed his eyes closed as he brought the revolver to his temple. His lips were moving, no sounds actually escaping him, although lip reading would reveal that he was mumbling "God, please". Whether his prayers to a God he hadn't believed in for the greater majority of his forty years were for the bullet to be hitting him or not, we'll never know.
His finger squeezed the trigger and a hollow "click" filled the room. A sigh escaped the man, one of either relief or regret. He calmly opened his eyes, following Hadley's earlier motions in slamming back the shot of Vodka he had. Setting the revolver back in the center of the table, he spun it again.
It landed on no one this time, and the six looked at each other, at a loss for what to do.
Sinclair poured more vodka into his shot glass, swallowing it down quickly. It seemed he was determined that if he wasn't going to die by the gun's bullet, he'd give himself alcohol poisoning. He stared at the two men the gun pointed to, seeing them but not, merely lost in his own thoughts.
An uneasy silence hung over the room, as David Michaels and Jordan Ashton stared at each other, wondering who was going to pick up the gun, which of them had the right to. Michaels was the elder of the two, probably the oldest of the six in the room, although it wasn't by far that he was older than any of them. In his late forties, he could pass for ten years younger, something women would always envy. He still had a full head of dark hair, and his brown eyes were still as sharp as ever. He was the most diplomatic of the men in the room, the most skilled in handling people and manipulating