Arthur, A Casino's Best Friend.

The plush carpet, a dizzying swirl of crimson and gold, muffled the clatter of chips and the incessant whir of slot machines. Arthur, a man whose tie strained against his burgeoning midsection, surveyed the casino floor like a general assessing a battlefield. He’d arrived with a crisp wad of hundreds, a small fortune burning a hole in his pocket, and a vague notion that Lady Luck was overdue for a visit.

He bypassed the poker tables, where sharp-eyed players calculated odds and bluffed with practiced ease. Too much thinking. He ignored the roulette wheel, its hypnotic spin a blur of numbers and potential losses. He spotted a blackjack table with a $10 minimum, a comfortable threshold for his impulsive nature.

"Perfect," he muttered, sliding into an empty seat. He slapped a few hundred-dollar bills onto the felt. "Buy me in."

The dealer, a woman with eyes that had seen more late nights than sunrises, exchanged the bills for a stack of chips. "Good luck, sir."

Arthur barely registered her words. His attention was already diverted by the cocktail waitress, a vision in a shimmering dress, balancing a tray of colorful drinks. "Whiskey, neat," he ordered, his voice a little too loud.

He played with a reckless abandon, doubling down on hunches, splitting tens against dealer sixes, and hitting stiff hands with a devil-may-care grin. Each loss was a minor setback, easily rectified with another round of chips. Each win, a fleeting justification for his haphazard approach.

"Another round," he’d bellow to the waitress, his voice slurring slightly, the whiskey and the flashing lights blurring his judgment.

Across the table, a man with a calm demeanor and a steadily growing chip stack seemed to be having a much better night. Arthur noticed the man’s careful bets, how he’d sometimes let smaller bets ride, and then suddenly raise his stakes when the dealer seemed weak. Arthur thought to himself, “He is just getting lucky.” Little did he know, the man was practicing what he called “Risk Leveraging”, and was adjusting his bets based on the flow of the game, and the dealers up card.

"You gotta live a little, buddy," Arthur slurred, slapping down a large bet. "Risk it for a biscuit."

The man offered a polite nod, and continued his calculated play.

Hours melted away, marked by the steady depletion of Arthur's chip stack. The initial thrill of each win had long since faded, replaced by a growing sense of unease. The whiskey had amplified his impulsive tendencies, turning each decision into a gamble he couldn’t afford.

He watched as his chips dwindled, the colorful stacks shrinking like melting ice. The dealer’s impassive face, the clatter of the chips, the distant hum of the slot machines – it all began to feel like a mocking symphony.

Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he pushed his remaining chips forward. "Cash me out," he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

The dealer counted the chips, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. "That'll be $340, sir."

Arthur stared at the meager stack of bills, a fraction of what he’d walked in with. He’d barely made a dent in the casino’s coffers, yet he felt as if he’d been robbed.

He stumbled away from the table, the bright lights now a painful glare. The casino, once a playground of possibility, now felt like a predatory beast, its flashing lights and enticing sounds a trap for the unwary. He’d come looking for a quick thrill, a fleeting escape from reality, and he’d found only a stark reminder of his own lack of control.

He walked out into the cool night air, the neon glow of the casino casting long, distorted shadows. The wad of cash in his pocket was a distant memory. The only thing that remained was the hollow echo of his losses, a testament to the casino's cold, calculating advantage. The cocktail waitress waved from a window as he walked away, and he could not tell if it was a goodbye or a silent invitation to return.