ࡱ> ikh7 EbjbjUU 7|7|Al4     ,L~$t  ##;8^x "!  N0~F F  DON'T CHEAT AT CARDS He sat in the small windowless room and stared. Stared at the piece of clean white A4 paper on the small dark wooden table that stood in front of him. The piece of paper they said would save his life. Save it, and perhaps change it irrevocably. All he had to do was sign on the dotted line... THE QUEUE He had an appointment. But... The long, bendy queue to the cashiers' positions was indeed very long, and very bendy. The bank's new system of "Customer Queue Co-ordination" wasn't working at all. It had been a much better system in the past before all this palaver. Separate queues for separate requirements. No waiting for hours then. You could just go up to the receptionist and state your business if you had an appointment with someone and you would be whisked away immediately and ushered into an annexe, away from the crowd. Now it was like the bloody Post Office. Now you had to wait and queue with everyone else before you could even get a word in edgeways to anyone. The cashiers' tills had seemed a long way away from where Aaron Remick was standing. A very long way away. As if things weren't bad enough, there was apparently only two cashpoint machines in operation on this particular day and so there were huge queues for those behind Aaron too. This perfectly joyous queuing experience was topped off by the fact that Aaron was forced to endure the gale-force winds that accompanied every opening of the main door immediately behind him as people rushed in and out of the bank to avoid the torrential rain that seemed to plague him wherever he went. Marvellous. What it was to be an Englishman in his own country in the middle of December. He should have been born a hundred years ago. When you could at least escape to some relatively warm part of the Empire... Snapping out of this haze of melancholy thought, he checked his watch. Five minutes had passed since he had entered the bank and the cashiers still seemed no closer than before. He looked down again at one of the letters in his hand. For the hundredth time that day. Dear Mr. Remick, Account: 1463565 Remick. A.G. Overdraft limit 1000.00. Your account is now 1118.64 overdrawn without our agreement, and I am enclosing an interim statement so that you can check your balance. Please contact me straightaway as I am considering returning any further items unpaid. Threats followed, and there was an incomprehensible squiggle masquerading as the Manager's signature on the bottom of the page. A pointless attempt at personalisation since everyone, but everyone, knew that the letter, right down to that "signature" was entirely computer produced. Aaron thought it was actually quite a reasonable sort of letter. For a bank. Its tone wasn't as sarcastic as some others he had received lately and it could have been a lot worse. But he didn't like what it had to say. And he didn't really have time to sort it out right now. He had to see the gas board people in half an hour and they were not going to be very sympathetic to him if he was late on top of everything else. Judging by the length of this queue, he was going to be very late indeed. His hand went into the pocket of his raincoat. His long fingers curled around the small box that they found there. A packet of cards. Playing cards. His weakness. Gambling. And it seemed that he was just down on his luck. A losing streak to top them all. He didn't know what he was going to do. He didn't know what he was going to say. He had lost his job, his wife had walked out on him taking the kids, but leaving a hungry, noisy dog and two cats, and he could barely afford to feed the four of them, let alone pay the mortgage or reimburse the sodding bank. It was just another name on his list of debtors. Just another set of threatening, nasty, vitriolic letters to go with all the other sets. Bastard bloody parasites. * * He read the piece of paper over and over again. He had a big decision to make. To sign or not to sign? What to do? He reached into the pocket containing the playing cards and shakily withdrew the smooth packet. The cards made all his decisions for him these days. Even though they were the cause of the problem. THE WAITING ROOM He had explained to the staff until he was blue in the face. He had shouted, he had waved his fists in the air, he had made something of a scene, and he wasn't sorry for doing so. He had an appointment. He had it in writing. He was here to see the Manager. He had come in to town specifically to see the Manager (although this was not strictly true, it sounded good) and, in a fit of pique he had informed the poor bank employee in front of him that he was not in the least bit happy about having to queue for so long, only to be told that the Manager was out of the office for the day. This was very poor form in his eyes and he let it be known that he thought it so. Very loudly, to everyone in the building. Eventually, the bank staff had conceded that there was obviously a mistake of some kind with regards to Aaron's appointment and so someone took him upstairs and into one of the private "conference" rooms where, they had said, someone would be along to see him shortly. He was given a cup of tea and a biscuit and he waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. He read the other document he had in his hand. Again. Dear Mr. Remick, Account: 1463565 Remick. A.G. With regards to our previous letter and our conversation of today, we are pleased to confirm that an appointment has been made for you to meet with Mr. Reeve, the Branch Manager in one week's time from the date of this letter at 11:00 AM. We trust that the meeting will be helpful and that we can assist you in your current financial problems. Ha!! That would be the day. How could "The Friendly Bank" help him when they couldn't even organise a meeting properly? No doubt they would put this down to computer error. Hang on, no. The letter was actually signed by a person this time, a proper person. Maybe that was where the problem lay? Maybe the Manager had computer hardware stuffed so far up his arse, things began to break down when mere humans tried to interfere? Aaron began to laugh at this, gently at first, then almost hysterically as the image overwhelmed his mind, then gaspingly as pieces of biscuit lodged themselves in his throat. He nearly choked, spraying biscuit crumbs all over the small room. He calmed down as someone else entered the room. THE DECISION Well. Here he was. Aaron Remick - gambler. They had had quite a go at him. Basically, and not to put too fine a point on it, he was in shit street. "Robbing Peter to pay Paul". Apparently, that was what he had been doing. Shuffling his bills. According to the Deputy Manager (who was of course too busy to see him really, but, as he had made such a scene...) he had been playing a game with his money in a desperate bid to keep his head above water and he had failed miserably, upsetting everyone financially connected with him. She had basically accused him of cheating at cards. Or rather cheating with cards. Credit cards. He found that quite amusing considering that it had been another variety of cards that had gotten him into the problem in the first place. His hand unconsciously massaged the shiny rectangular packet in his coat pocket. He had been shuffling his credit cards to pay off the companies he owed money too (including the other credit card companies), borrowing far too much money from the bank and now he was stuck. All of his cards had been revoked, three summonses were on the way to him in the post, he was three months behind with his mortgage, the bank weren't happy with him for being so overdrawn with no prospect of repayment, he still had a loan with them outstanding as well and, to cap it all, he now had an enormous bill from his Solicitor to pay as he had been refused Legal Aid to assist him in the protracted divorce proceedings. This consequently meant that his bitch of an ex-wife would now strip half of his assets from him and the bank was extremely nervous. No wonder they had been sending him nasty letters. This was not the way to play cards. He had to admit, they had a point. But they also had a solution. A solution so big it sent tears of joy running down his cheeks and shivers of fear racing down his spine because it was so...unusual. The Deputy Manager and her assistant had left him alone after the meeting. Alone in the room with only a piece of paper for company. A piece of paper that (they said) could decide his future. A future created with the assistance of a very special deal offered to only a select few people. ALL YOUR CURRENT DEBT PROBLEMS SOLVED IN ONE GO!! GUARANTEED IMMUNITY FROM LEGAL ACTION IF YOU SIGN HERE!! That was what it said. In large happy-looking letters. And the Deputy Manager had elaborated. If he signed the piece of paper in front of him, the bank would pay all his debts, sort out all his legal problems and assist him in any way they could. They would write-off his loan, his overdraft and the cost of any outstanding cheques still floating about uncashed. They would meet it all. He had scoffed at first. What was in it for the bank? What was the catch? Without beating around the bush, they told him what the "catch" was. In return for the bank paying his current outstanding bills and bailing him out of the situation he was in, he was not allowed to borrow any more money from them at any point in the future. He could keep his account by all means, but he must keep it in the black, it must never once go back into the red. Furthermore, by signing this document, he would enter into an agreement with the bank whereby his every possession and asset would be forfeited to them on the occasion of his death. He would be signing a last Will and Testament with the bank named as the only beneficiary. They would get it all. Should he sign it? He pondered long and deep on the problem. They had told him to take his time over this big decision, and he did. In earnest. He was desperate right now. In his confused, frightened state of mind, he was minded to sign anything, but reason kept him away from the pen. Should he sign it? Sure he was down right now, but he wouldn't always be in this position would he? There would come a time in the future when he would be in a position of control again wouldn't there? Maybe not in five years, maybe not even in ten, but someday it would happen. Obviously the bank thought so too since they were investing in him. Hoping that he would make good again one day so that they could reap the "profits" when he... Died. Should he sign it? This other, minor catch of not borrowing any actual cash from the bank ever again was just to ensure that they didn't have to bail him out again. He could always open other accounts, get other loans from other banks if he needed cash quickly. As far as his own, current bank were concerned, this was a one-off settlement. In their eyes it was a long-term investment where they would spend a small fortune on him to collect...whenever. He was almost selling his soul. But he really should sign it. The bank must be expecting to make a substantial amount of money or they would not countenance such a deal. Would they? He really should sign it. He was in dire straits right now. Hang on a minute though. Wouldn't he be denying his children of their inheritance when he did pass on? They would get nothing from him when he died. His entire estate would go to the bank. If he ever remarried, his wife would be homeless. Maybe he could secrete some small sums away, a little at a time, to create a small nest egg for her for that time when he wouldn't be there to look after her? Maybe he could buck the system entirely and have everything put in her name? Maybe not, he didn't want the possibility of being left without anything to arise ever again. She might leave him beforehand like that other... He really should sign it. There was bound to be a way out of it wasn't there? If he did get successful again, maybe the bank would let him buy his way out of the contract again? Sure, it might cost a hefty packet, but they would make on the deal. Surely they would agree? He really should sign it. He read the piece of paper over and over again. He had a big decision to make. To sign or not to sign? What to do? He reached into the pocket containing the playing cards and shakily withdrew the smooth packet. The cards made all his decisions for him these days. Even though they were the cause of the problem. He lay the cards out, face down on the wooden table. It was ironic, he thought to himself, that one set of cards (the set that had gotten him into debt) should be the salvation, or at least the deciders, as far as another set of cards, his Credit cards, went. He looked at the red patterned backs of the shiny pieces of card. He made the decision. If he drew a picture card, he would sign. Otherwise, he wouldn't. He drew an Ace. The Ace of Diamonds. He swore under his breath to himself. Because he really had wanted to sign the paper. Dammit, an Ace was a picture card wasn't it? Sure it was. What else could it be if not? He agonised as he looked at the card. He finally convinced himself of what he wanted to hear. He cheated. He was selfish. He signed the paper. With a flourish of his fountain pen. Unnoticed by him, a small red light began flashing in the corner of the ceiling. The light was slung next to a tiny video camera, another piece of electronic equipment unseen by Aaron. There. All his problems were solved. For now at least. Everyone would get off his back and he would be sitting pretty. Maybe his bad-streak of luck was just ending? A warm glow of satisfaction spread through his frame. All his problems were sorted. He read the paper again. He wished he hadn't almost straight away. A small print clause caught his eye. One he hadn't seen before in his previous, hastier read-throughs. How could he have missed it? Well, it wasn't particularly prominent. This was no doubt deliberate, but he was sure he had read everything...? 1 (d) iii If, at any point, the bank decides that repayment or recovery on death is not a profitable, viable, possible or desirable option, it reserves the right to take whatever action it sees fit to recover it's outlay at any time before the said event. He suddenly felt cold. The bank could decide to terminate the contract at any point, leaving him with a debt even bigger than before. They wouldn't do that would they? Had he fallen into a trap of spiralling costs? Had he jumped out of the frying pan into hell itself? The bank could basically hold an axe over his had for eternity!! He pondered for a while. He hadn't given in the paper yet. But he had signed it. He could rip it up. He tried. He couldn't do it. It wasn't paper, it was metal. Some kind of micro-thin metal substance. And there was a funny smell in the air. Thick, sickly. A chemical smell. Sort of thing you might get when passing a factory perhaps... There were no factories around for a hundred miles at least. And there was no window in the small room. There was a hissing sound in the room now and the smell was acrid, choking. A yellow mist was pouring out of vents in the ceiling. He began to cough. ...whatever action it sees fit. He knew what was happening. He should have expected it. He should have been more wary. The ink from his signature was barely dry on the paper/metal. They hadn't wasted any time. His possessions, and his life, would soon be forfeit and the bank would make a tidy killing with what they could sell. Once he was dead, all his other bills would be null and void. The bank wouldn't have to pay them. They could also easily absorb the (comparatively) minimal loss created by his overdraft and his loan and they would still come up smiling at the end of the day. No lost interest building up over the years, no waiting with bated breath for him to die so they could recoup their money. No, they could make their money now. He was dead as soon as he had signed the form. What a fool he had been. ...whatever action it sees fit. He fell to the floor gasping for breath, looking up at the small camera in the corner of the room's ceiling. Noticing it for the first time. The video camera turned slowly to watch him die in agony. The red light flashed constantly. He should have expected this. But in a way he was glad. The gas entered his lungs and clogged up his arteries with poison. Cyanide. END Andrew John Summersgill 05/07/09/94 BL6 '>&&&&;<@@CDEEEEEEȽ56>*CJOJQJ56CJOJQJ6CJOJQJ 6OJQJ5>*CJOJQJ CJOJQJ56B*CJ0OJQJphHIABLMdelmghijL M % & $a$$a$E&   4 5 6 G H f c d /0z{"#$a$CD^_cij%&'89WX$a$$a$XIJ]^67 ($)$M$N$q$$a$$a$q$r$%%%%<&=&>&p&&&& ' '((** + +$+%+8+9+H,I,\,],$a$$a$],....".#.////00000000I3J3d3e3^4_4y4z4446$a$6677\7]7778899::::;;;<<<>>??????$a$?@@@@@@@@$A%ACCCCCDDDDDE E:E;E~EEEE$a$EEEEEEEE$a$$a$. 00P. A!"#$n%. 00P. A!"#$n%. 00P. 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