(I've chosen "The Most Dangerous Game" as my inspirational text. Read it here, or enjoy the Simspons version.)
Dmitri was secured to the chair: arms, legs restrained; belt looped through the slats at the back. A bandanna gag prevented him from answering.
“Or is it just roulette in Mother Russia?” Peters added.
“Here’s how we play.” Conway showed Dmitri the .44 Magnum. “Revolver.”
Peters put a bullet in one chamber, narrating as he did so.
“Spin the cylinder, pull the trigger.” Conway spun, but didn’t pull. “Click,” he said, instead.
“You know your role in this, Dmitri?”
Conway put his mouth up to their prisoner’s ear. “You’re the Russian.”
Dmitri thrashed his head, rammed it into Conway’s mouth.
Conway mopped at his chin. “May I go first?”
“Please,” Peters said.
Both men placed a stack of twenties on the green felt-covered sidetable. “Five-hundred dollars a round,” Peters said. “If we go six rounds—” Dmitri raised his eyebrows expectantly. “—we place another bullet in the cylinder, the stakes double.” Dmitri slumped in his chair.
“We were inspired by the story “The Most Dangerous Game.” Click.
Conway gave the hand-cannon to Peters; both placed more money on the table. “Of course, this is less dangerous.” Click. “For the Zaroffs, at least.”
Dmitri thrashed his whole body, toppling the chair.
“Remember that one chap, halfway dodged the bullet at the last millisecond.”
“Took him four days to die.”
“Messy.” They righted the chair. Dmitri crumpled in resignation.
Peters eventually won four grand.
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