Tommy looked back to his father, sitting at the head of the table, immaculate in his dark suit, the only pops of color a lavender tie and matching pocket square, tucked and folded so crisply it looked like it could draw blood. Tommy shook his head, then gave his father a comic, exaggerated stare.
“Sorry, Pop. Like seeing a teacher at a restaurant. Took a second to compute when I walked in.”
Porks helped him with an awkward smile. Jo looked warily from father to son and back again, reading their micro expressions for signs of impending violence. Nine stared straight down at the tabletop, like he was waiting for the executioner’s axe.
“Take a seat,” said Don Fugue.
“You’re in my chair,” joked Tommy.
“Oh,
forgive me,” said Don Fugue, standing with mock contrition. “Force of habit. You see, I never sit with my back to a door. I always want to keep an eye out for threats. But I guess that
doesn’t apply here, right?”
Tommy didn’t like this at all. His father’s drop-ins were rare, but not unheard of. It was the cold smiles, the ambiguous speech, the subtle mockery.
His father was playing with him. Teasing him. Like a cat with a mouse.
Or testing the fences like a velociraptor in Jurassic Park.
Moments ago, Tommy had felt like a shroud had settled around his soul. Now, he felt like he had touched a live wire. The depression lifted instantly, replaced with the electric current of fear coursing through his body. Fight-or-flight.
He took his usual seat, tried not to show his fear.
“I wanted to see my investment in person,” said Don Fugue. “A million and a half for this?”
He looked around at the littered game table: soda cans, half-eaten bags of chips, stats sheets, dice, slips of scribbled-on paper, and beta versions of 3D-printed miniatures of the characters. “Not much to it.”
Another slight. At the party celebrating the game, Tommy had never seen his father so proud of him. In the wild fear that galloped through his chest like a band of horses, a tiny fire started. He was angry. He was tired of ambushes. And after all the work he had put in, and the danger and heartbreak and loss, he didn’t appreciate anyone running down One Thousand Blades of Tergivers.
Not even his father.
“Maybe you just don’t get it.”
Tommy half expected his father to launch across the table.
“So, deal me in.”
Tommy cleared his throat. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“No cards?”
“Not how you’re thinking.”
Don Fugue thought on this, nodded. He pointed at one of the mini-figs.
“Are the Star Wars figures required?”
Tommy took a breath. Explaining, once again, that every action figure or miniature was not Star Wars–related was a battle for another time. Big Al came of age when it was that or G.I. Joe.
“They’re called mini-figs. But nothing is required. All you really need is a good imagination and a set of dice.” He touched his temples and then held his hands aloft. “
Theater of the mind.”
“I’m not a theater kind of guy.”
“The figures help you orient yourself. Where you are in relation to the rest of your party . . . It helps to calculate distances for spells. Combat can be difficult to picture.”
“For some.” Big Al picked up a mini-fig, held it up to the diminished light, and examined it. “Can you sell them?”
“One can.”
“Can
you?”
Porks chuckled like a good little boy. The pimp would always be on his father’s side, not matter what.
“It could be a potential revenue stream. We haven’t gotten there yet.”
“I thought this game was about imagination. . . .”
Jo offered a wan smile, like she’d swallowed something that didn’t agree with her, then looked over at SuperChenz, the don’s bodyguard, who stood in the corner, as immovable and immutable as the Rockies.
“Anyway,” continued Big Al, reaching into his dark jacket, “I didn’t bring a figure. Will this do?”
Big Al placed a 9 millimeter pistol on the table.
Porks stopped grinning. Tommy fought not to glance at Nine to gauge his reaction. It would be a tell, a sign of guilt. His father was trying to intimidate them. The only course of action Tommy
saw was to pretend it wasn’t working.
“That’s not permitted.”
“That’s the funny thing about guns: They don’t ask permission.” His father laughed amiably. He looked at the other players, saw they were not laughing along. “Wait, is he for real?”
“They’re not in charge,” said Tommy. “I am.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m the lead storyteller. I’m the GM. I run the game.”
“You may run the game, but I own the table.”
“My game, my rules.”
Big Al pursed his lips. He nodded slowly, appearing to consider this.
“Storyteller,” he said finally, “I have a story. A gangster and a priest walk into the woods at night. The priest turns to the gangster and says, ‘I don’t like this. I don’t like the woods. I’m afraid of the dark.’ And the gangster turns to him and says, ‘How do you think I feel? I have to walk out of here alone.’ ”
When no one at the table laughed, Don Fugue slammed his palm on the table. The mini-figs danced. The empty soda cans toppled. The players jumped.
“Lighten up,” he bellowed. “It’s a joke! It’s funny, right?”
Still, no one laughed. The new player fixed his gaze on Tommy, but the smile had left his face.
“Guess you had to be there.”
Tommy glanced at Jo. She met his gaze, which was as much as an acknowledgment as she could offer. Alongside the stampede of fear, the small wildfire of anger grew.
Tommy fought to keep his voice steady and calm. Firm yet respectful. Cheerful even.
“This a fantasy game, Pop. Whoever you are does not matter. Whatever you’ve done does not matter. Because at this table—in my game—you can be whoever you want, do whatever you want. You can even be a hero.”
Tommy’s father smirked.
“But it’s hard to imagine you’re a cleric battling a horde of monsters when there’s a real piece on the table. It kind of shatters the illusion, locks everyone up. No disrespect.”
“Don’t get constipated on my account.” The don gestured toward the weapon. “Go ahead.”
Tommy, holding eye contact with his father, reached for the gun. Big Al smiled as Tommy removed it and set it on the floor beside him.
“What now?” Big Al smiled derisively. He had mastered saying a lot with very little. Those two simple words were both a question and a taunt.
Tommy reached back across the table and placed a d20 of the same gunmetal black color as the pistol in front of his father.
“Roll for initiative.”
Copyright © 2026 by Bill Schweigart. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
