So, they step up to plate, they set their figurines on Go, and to advance, to receive the extra lives he possesses and they desire, they have to sacrifice. For every dollar, for every moment of time and energy spent from themselves or stolen from other players, he hands to them that extra life and they get to move up one measly space. From an overhead view, it doesn’t look like much—maybe an inch or two. But to them, it’s miles. So they’ll keep sacrificing and inching forward and he’ll keep handing life over to them with a dark smile, knowing that they don’t realize to take is to lose so much more.

And once the game is ready to remove a player, no amount of money or care in the world can force the player to continue. To buy into just one more round.

And everyone loses, one way or another. Everyone gets knocked off the board.

It always comes to an end. And in the end, there are no winners.

Well, except for me, of course. And that’s another thing you never understood, John.

I’m the only one who can win.

Victor stands and paces back and forth along the length of his mahogany desk, his fingers gliding across the luxurious wood. The receiver continues to spit out Mrs. Goldman’s now grating voice. He can almost feel her saliva splatter across his cheek. He tries not to explode in turn.

“Yes, yes, Mrs. Goldman. I’m listening.”

He stops, loops his finger through a drawer ring, and pulls it open. Inside are four syringes, all pregnant with his blood.

The extra lives.

He picks each one up and turns to his fireplace. He points the needles toward the yellow flames and presses down on the plungers, emptying them. The fire licks the sides of the brick in a fit, curls and blooms into an unnatural shade of neon red.

“Once again, Mrs. Goldman, I understand your situation. However, I simply do not have the resources to help you at this time. I am afraid I am truly of no good use to you in your current predicament. I really do hope the best for you and your little Mr. Goldman. I suggest you attend to him with what time you have left. Now, have a good day.”

He hangs up the phone and empties the last syringe into the fireplace. The last glow of red bursts before the flames return to a pale yellow.

Benevolently denying was a fun exercise at first, but now this is growing tiresome.

He picks back up the receiver and dials into his voicemail.

“Hello. This is Doctor Victor Crohn. I am currently out of office. I will answer pressing inquiries upon my return.”

He ends the message and saves it.

That’ll be enough.