House Casino, the most exclusive Casino in Las Vegas is located not on the strip, but rather, in an unnamed and frankly, little known area of Las Vegas. From there, House runs the largest gambling operation in these united states. Catering almost solely to La Cosa Nostra and its mafioso’s. Amongst certain circles, it is said that House cannot be beat. That they have a license to print money. That no matter how much you win, House will never go bust. Some say it is ran by the Illuminati. Some say the federal government. Others still say it is all just a front for a God to launder money. 

House runs the lottery, and has been known to generously distribute tickets to some of the more well known faces in this thing of ours. House runs the dice. House runs every game of chance in every city from the City of Angels to The Big Apple. Sure, every now and then someone with more money than sense might pay house for the pleasure of cutting their own slice of the pie. But once they die, or once they go bust, House is there to pick back up from where it left off. Only one hundred and twenty million dollars richer for its troubles. 

It is here, that our holy protagonist Wheeler currently finds himself, half a billion dollars in the green. Beating house. The dice falling almost always in his favour. The pretty women either side of him grinning at the prospect of the fun that would be had with all that money. Afterall… what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, doesn’t it?

Then suddenly. One loss. Followed in quick succession by another, bigger loss. Then another. Then another. The chips which Wheeler had hoarded quickly diminishing.

Suddenly, that half a billion dollars in Wheelers pocket becomes closer to a hundred million. A seven time losing streak. It had to be his turn to win. One hundred million dollars goes on a tops bet. Wheeler would have to win. He needed to. He rolls the dice. A five and a six. No way would House beat that.

The dealer rolls. The dice clattering onto the table. Wheeler looks at the dealers thrown dice. He sees, to his disbelief, a dozen little pips, face up. Two sixes.
He. Had. Lost.

He had lost everything. Dejected, he stands from his seat. He stalks from the Casino floor. And just as he is about to leave, he sees some lucky soul cashing in a few hundred thousand dollars worth of chips. Wheeler follows him out into the Vegas streets. Maybe he wasn’t such a lucky soul afterall.

(Thirty minutes later)

Having regained some fraction of his wealth and having taken out his wrath on the poor, unlucky soul who knew to stop whilst he was ahead, Wheeler finds himself sat at the bar of some rundown, old western saloon themed place. He wasn’t rich anymore, but he certainly wouldn't starve. He thinks to himself, as he knocks back another glass of neat scotch. That Bastard house. How dare they.

How. Dare. They?

J Michael Haller, Attorney at Law for La Cosa Nostra, and Secret Godfather in Southside, Chicago, was never much of a gambler. Well that was a lie, his gambling den was primarily the courtrooms of the United States, Having now sat and passed the Bar exam in New York, Illinois, Michigan and California, and his chips were the freedom of the legion of mafioso that he represented. No gambling den any where could compare to that thrill, to pit your wits against the DA, and tilt the odds in your favour so that Twelve Angry men would find your client Not Guilty, or the judge would dismiss the case without prejudice. It still didn't mean that he didn't like the odd flutter. And so he would often find himself in House Casino, under the watchful gaze of Toby-, and more often than not he'd leave with his pocket book considerably lighter than when he entered. He'd pulled a little back, but this month alone he knew he was 4 million in the hole, and that was just cash. House also traded in credits, a kind of pseudo currency, completely untraceable with a value of 400-525k each on any given day. Mickey knew exactly how many credits he had lost this year alone, and he could have bought Alaska for less. And then there was House Lottery. For as long as he could remember, someone had been slipping him around $2 million a week in lottery tickets, and he had never once won. In fact as far back as his family journals went, his family had never won the lottery. Sure, just like the Premium Bonds, big winners were announced every week, but Mickey had never met one of these big winners, had never known one of them, and that stank.

Truth be told the whole thing stank. House, just won, no one it seemed ever beat house, or if they did, the draw of untold wealth dragged them back until House had sucked the money back, plus interest, just to be sure. It had created in him a pathological need to beat house. House was that one DA that he could never win against, that one DA who would never let his client walk. There were no deals to be done, no pleas to be made, no due process to fail. But there had to be a way. Ever case was winnable, ever dog had its day, and Mickey was determined that his day would be soon.

"See you in court, Counsellor." He said to no one in particular, as he left 33k up for a change. It may have been a small win, but it was a win nonetheless, and proof if proof were needed that just occasionally, House could be beaten. As he walked to his car her thought of a quote from Macbeth, his favourite Shakespearian play. "But ’tis strange; And oftentimes to win us to our harm. The instruments of darkness tell us truths. Win us with honest trifles, to betray us in deepest consequence." Surely this dark train of thought could lead to his downfall, see him betrayed in deepest consequence? But yet, something had to be done.

Stefan wasn't a stranger to the casino, neither was he a stranger to becoming bankrupt and having to borrow money off his friend Grace to bet to redeem himself to get back to a stage where he was stable again.  However today was different today was the day that Stefan was finally going to bankrupt the casino, he'd figured it out while watching the roulette wheel if it hits red or black 3 times in a row, you had to put all of your money on the opposite as there was no way it would hit the same colour four times in a row. With this in mind he put on his best clothes, a navy blue suit and trousers, black shoes and a light blue tie with a white shirt, this was the outfit which was going to help him become a millionaire finally.

It was approximately 7pm and it was time to go out and earn his money, he straightened up his tie walked down to House Casino he'd been a regular here for a while, especially on the dice table but the dice table was where he'd lost his money so roulette was going to be where he gained his money back, he started off small to test his theory, doing $10 bets on black or red, as soon as the streak hit 3 in a row, he'd make sure to switch to the other for $100. As planned it hit red after 3 blacks, Stefan was $170 up, so he tried his theory again 5 minutes later the wheel went on a red, red, red streak this was his time to shine, $100 dollars on black. Yet again black landed, ironically on number 13 unlucky for some but not for Stefan this time around.

As the night progressed Stefan was $5000 up from using his theory, he was untouchable, getting more and more confident in his theory he started to drink and trust in it, forgetting that there was a 49% chance of it landing on either colour and that for the last few runs he'd been lucky with his odds, this is when it all went wrong for him.

1:30 AM, Stefan as for the rest of the night was watching the wheel, instead of doing $10 bets to watch the table he was doing $100, watching for his magical trend to work, here it came, black, black black, he knew it was his time to shine, he placed all of his money on red, all of his $100,000,000 which he had been saving up for months after the success of his own casino, surely he knew from his own business that this isn't how it worked? apparently not. Moving all $100,000,00 onto red he watched the ball start to spin around the table, he sat in his chair cockily waiting for it to hit red, and that's the moment his eyes started to wonder, he saw the ball dropping and it hit red 26, he let out a cheer, but as he started to cheer the ball popped out of 26 and landed in 0 Green.

Shaking he couldn't believe it, he'd lost all the money which he'd saved up to buy his next business, ashamed of what he did he walked out of the casino and went to the local run down bar which was about the only place he was able to afford drinks, he had $5 to his name, he sat at the bar and said to the barman "I'll have the cheapest beer you have please" as the barman passed him the drink he said "Put it on a tab please" and took a sip out of his pint.

Heston was looking to open a new oyster bar and grill but was ten fucking grand short. Looking over the plans yet again looking for a way to save a few pennies here and there "No I need perfection" 

The plans got folded and put back in the drawer "Maybe I will go and win some easy money at the casino I have had great luck there recently" Heston changed from his chef whites to a black tuxedo with a gold bow tie and booked a taxi cab to arrive at 8pm sharp. The taxi ride was forgettable at best, The cabbie regaled stories of which didn't interest the chef. All the chef could think about was winning big and being able to change the restaurant plans to make it bigger and better. Heston kept looking at the briefcase which contained two hundred and forty thousand dollars, "Would be nice to double up tonight maybe book a holiday for me and the sous chef" 

Arriving at the casino Heston looked at the neon signs it was pretty garish but it attracted a crowd. Walking inside Heston changed all of his money into chips and suddenly realised he had no idea what game he was going to play. Taking a wonder around the casino looking at all the tables in action Heston was drawn to the blackjack table. Sitting next to a man with a large stack of chips in front of him Heston placed all of his chips in front of himself. Heston placed a 100 dollar chip to indicate he wanted to be dealt in his first two cards were both kings so Heston decided to split them and bet on his first hand the first was dealt a queen for twenty so Heston sticks the next card on the other king is an ace for a natural twenty one. Both hands win and Heston collect his chips smiling to himself he thinks "This is easy"

The waitress brings around trays of drinks and having the night off from the kitchen Heston decides to partake in a few being a "high roller" had its perks. After a couple of hours Heston is up nearly six thousand dollars but by this time the booze was starting to take effect the poor chefs ability to make rational decisions was gone Heston starts outrageously betting and hitting when he should stand. Once up six thousand Heston is now down nearly one hundred thousand. Taking his chips off the table Heston thinks silly thoughts "Maybe I should stick it all on red on the roulette table red is my favourite colour double or nothing" 

Heston stacks all of his chips on red one hundred and twenty five thousand the patrons are told "No more bets" the wheel is spun and the ball is launched. The ball seems to take forever to slow down it starts bouncing between numbers "Please please please be red"  The ball lands in a red and bounces into a black and stays there "Fuck fuck fuck!"

Heston looks at the table in disbelief he doesn't even grab his briefcase and just walks out of the casino and into the alleyway to throw up. After settling his stomach a little with the sudden evacuation of its contents Heston walks towards the only other place that was lit up a little old western styled saloon 

Sitting down at the bar Heston takes out the last twenty dollars he has left and orders a beer and a whiskey chaser 

Wheeler, having decided to purchase the full bottle of scotch that he had been knocking back, pours himself another drink. He eyes the two men who had came in and sat at the bar after him. He recognised both. Stefan was the first. If Wheeler remembered rightly, he was an underboss, the right hand man, of the notorious Las Vegas godfather NoahRugs. The second, far from home, was Heston. The Don, or Crew leader, of a family operating out of Philadelphia. Being an underboss for Bacon himself, Wheeler mused that this was like a mafia commission coming together. Just in the most run down bar in Las Vegas as opposed to the fancy, five star restaurants that they usually frequented. Neither had seemed to notice him as of yet. Or if they had, they hadn’t greeted him yet. They both looked pretty damn glum if Wheeler was honest.

”You both look almost as shitty as i feel.” Wheeler says, in an attempt at startling them both out of whatever terrible fugue state they had both found themselves in. Seeing as they were both in this forgotten part of town, Wheeler could only assume they’d limped here from the devilish House Casino as well. Judging by the sombre mood they both looked to be in, he could only assume that House had robbed them blind too.

”Don’t tell me that bastard House left you both on the bones of your ass as well?”

Wheeler holds up the bottle he is nursing. Offering them both a refill.

Mickey had sat in the car for what had seemed like an age, almost exactly 1 and a half packets of Morleys^TM to be precise. He was too angry to drive, well drive safely, it was times like this that he regretted not having a driver 24/7. He got out of the car and slammed the door in frustration before lighting another cigarette... his last. He looked around, and could see the dimly lit neon sign of a dive bar. Mickey walked towards the bar, perhaps they would have cigarettes and a drink, not likely to be Middleton or Macallan, but there was bound to be something, anything palatable. As he pushed open the door and the nauseating smell of stale sweat, stale smoke and staler beer assaulted his nostrils, he was glad he had never practiced in Las Vegas, he was less likely to meet an old client, and this was the kind of shithole he was likely to meet his clients in. It had been a while since he had been anywhere as low brow as this, if you excluded the morgue.

Walking up to the bar he took a look behind the counter while he waited for the Bartender to notice him. He was too engrossed in checking the Job Vacancy section of the paper. No Malt whisky of any Kind, no Cognac, certainly no Irish Whiskey. Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, ahhhh Canadian Club, not a great drink, but certainly drinkable compared to Tennessee Sour Mash. Finally the barman noticed him and put down his paper. Picking up a well soiled bar towel he approached Mickey and just nodded his head, no greeting, not even a grunt. 

"Canadian Club, make it a double, and two packets of Morleys^TM." The barman simply nodded again and grabbed a glass and the bottle of Whiskey. Mickey slapped a 20 on the bar and turned to survey the room. Truly the dregs of society, the sad, the low, the unwashed, the broken. Las Vegas was a city of excess, a city that could chew and man up and spit him out spent. A city were people went to 'live life' and often winded up dead. And then his eyes were drawn to the other end of the Bar. Three men, better dressed than the rest... not, not better dressed, Mafioso generally had the style of the bastard offspring of a Cézanne and a Seurat​​​​​​​, like a rainbow had vomited in a paint store. No, not better dressed, but certainly better attired, for one, they didn't stink of piss and alcohol, yet. He of course recognised them instantly, Wheeler, the former RHM of The Butchershop, Don Heston, leader of The Kitchen, and Stefan, the cross-eyed RHM of Collusion. Not exactly the people you expected to meet in a shit hole like this, but then who was he to judge standing in the same shithole. The tree of them were staring at him open mouthed. Mickey simply raised a glass to them in return.

When the local casinos weren't owned by fellow mobsters, they were instead monopolized under a single enterprise: House. House Dice. House Blackjack. House Poker. House Roulette. Whatever you fancied, whatever you decided to try your luck on, House would always be there waiting for you.

As mysterious as the ordeal was, what was concerning was the uncanny ability for House to suck you back to his tables, regardless if you walked away a rich man or one living off the dirt. Every time you returned to those chip-filled tables, you would be taunted with moments of success, only for House to (literally) pull an Ace out of his pocket, nudge the ball out of your selected color, or even screw you over just for the heck of it with a little dice roll. You'd be surprised how many people have lost their minds over the lunacy of the matter. Only certain people were able to slip past the unfairness of House, and rob them blind just as they had done to regular people. But what made House different was their uncanny ability to just...replenish their losses, at any time. Be it a few thousand dollars or a billion, House always found a way to avoid ending the day in black; whether it was snatching more money from others, rigging a certain bet against the players, or something more...heinous. Otherworldly. There was no telling what went on behind those closed doors. It all seemed a little...mythological.

PlagueGuy had been drawn back following a quick burst of confidence. There was one game that could be won, with just a little strategy. One that wasn't completely rigged against you, one that could be won with a little outside help.

Blackjack.

After House had snatched up his earnings with his staple "Dice" games, PlagueGuy returned to the casino some few hours before midnight. He simply slid a check over to the chip cashier, and was given a voucher for a very, VERY hefty sum of chips. He trudged his way over to the blackjack tables, picking one out that sported five people. Of the players sitting at the ovular table, a shorter, burly man threw down his useless pair of nines to the dealers' Ace-King hand and stormed away from the table. PlagueGuy slid into his seat and pushed forward the voucher towards the dealer.

As hands were played and the night dragged on, the fellow players at the table one-by-one busted their earnings. They were never much help to begin with. And yet, PlagueGuy still remained virtually even with his money. Whenever he'd lose, he'd win it back. Whenever he won, he'd lose it on the next hand. So far, the strategy had kept him afloat, but it was time to shake things up.

He studied the dealer and his deck closely as the cards were dealt. This table dealt cards prior to ones ante, and only allowed players to see their cards once the chips were on the table. No insurance bets.

PlagueGuy eyed his cards, and then the cards of the dealer closer. He'd been watching them closely the whole time. This was an older deck in use, one he could stare at. And then, he spotted it, a small, nearly insignificant bend in the non-shown card over on the dealers' side.

He smirked, then put forward a measly $20 chip on the table, not even bothering to pick up his own cards. The dealer played his hand, flipping over said card, revealing it to be an Ace. PlagueGuy pushed forward the $20 chip and his own cards, flipping over one for good measure and just to double check. That 8 would have gotten nowhere. He then chuckled as he slid over the entirety of his chip pile for the next bet. While not too massive, the values of the plastic would say otherwise. An ungodly amount of money in that pile. The dealer dealt the cards, and as PlagueGuy picked them up, a massive smile formed underneath his mask. He'd gotten that little bent Ace card himself, and with it, a cozy Queen to complete the natural blackjack. All he needed was to beat the dealer, who had otherwise shown a ten on his own hand. It never mattered; the dealer simply smiled and flipped over a three. He'd beaten House at his own game.

Following a chat with the chip cashier, and a quick round of drinks for anyone who remained at the casino bar, PlagueGuy had been feeling rather proud of himself and his own strategy as he took a swig of another shot of whiskey. This one tasted a bit...spicier, but he decided to ponder that thought later as a well-dressed man, styled head-to-toe in all white, came out from behind a back room and took a seat next to him.

"Hey there, friend! Looks like someone struck gold with our 21 tables. Congratulations!"

PlagueGuy knew better.

"Want a drink? Fuck off. Coming straight to me expecting like I'd do anything for you, psh. What the fuck do you want?"

The man simply chuckled.

"No need for the tough act, friend! I simply just wanted to introduce you, or perhaps re-introduce you, to our nifty little slot section. Nothing crazy, your stacks won't be touched...at least if you decide to play it small."

"Yeah, and on that note, I think it's time I start heading back-"

PlagueGuy was cut off before he could finish. Normally, he'd sock these types of people in the nose and walk away, but for some reason, he couldn't muster the strength to raise a fist.

"Oh, just give it a try. They're brand new ones. We had to throw out the whole section after the county went dry and cut our income, but now that they've re-opened the bars around here, we figured it was time to bring back the good ol' slot machines. None of those old and janky manual ones either. These ones are fresh off the factory, electric, mechanical, and easy as hell to operate. Just pop in a coin, pull a lever, and win big! Here, I'll show you to them!"

PlagueGuy was suddenly on his feet moving. He didn't know where, but he was definitely being ushered somewhere else. He blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes, before being quickly sat down in a small chair facing a massive computerized machine of sorts. A large, red-tipped lever faced him on his right, as flashing lights, numbers, and random symbols were laid out in front of him.

"Looks like you need some help getting started. Here, let me he-"

The bastard reached into PlagueGuy's own pockets before he smacked them away and gave the man a hard stare. He figured he'd just sit and play a round or two, just to get them off his shoulder before getting the hell out of there. He fished out a few pennies and nickels and slid them into the machine, and upon pulling the lever, the pairs of numbers and symbols rapidly spun together, before stopping consecutively one-by-one until all of them had stopped. None of them matched, as he so figured, and nothing came out of the machine either.

"Aww, too bad. Guess you better try again!"

And so he spun. Again. And again. And when he did finally win, he never noticed. PlagueGuy's eyes continued to grow more and more weary, and whatever nonsense the man in white spat out just turned into unintelligible background noise. He pulled the lever. The numbers and symbols spun. He pulled the lever. The numbers and symbols spun again. And as he kept pulling, and as they kept spinning, his mind could only think of what was spiked in his drink as his eyes shut completely, his head slanted forward, and his body gave out. He collapsed into the machine and fell onto the ground.

- - -

PlagueGuy slowly opened his eyes some lengthy time later, face-down on a filthy patch of alleyway cement. He quickly scrambled to his feet as he discovered out he had no idea where he was as he looked around in a circle. His money was gone. So was anything else he had on him. At least they left his hat.

So much for winning.

He stumbled out onto the street, clutching his forehead as a massive migraine rippled down throughout his body. He slowly pulled himself along the sidewalk, keeping himself on his feet by grabbing onto the brick walls of the nearby buildings, until the brick suddenly transformed itself into a doorway, one that he fell into. The smell of alcohol hit his nose as he looked up into the insides of a bar. Not a fancy bar, not even a bar for casuals; instead, it was a bar for low-level scum, or hideouts, or those who had lost it all. From how he currently looked, he'd fit in perfectly.

As he pulled himself to his feet, he couldn't help but be surprised to see other higher-level mobsters sitting around in the dump of a lounge. A fellow Vegas friend, and a hand to the godfather of Paradise, Stefan sat buried in his arms at the table, while another right hand, Wheeler, was sitting and talking to, hell, the Godfather of South Side. Lincoln_Lawyer was here!?

Heston also sat at the table, in the midst of drinking a beer. He too was looking rather disheveled as he brought up the glass for another swig.

The time for talking would have to come later. PlagueGuy needed this headache to stop. He lifted himself into one of the only booths, and the concerned bartender quickly brought over a water. He sat himself upward, grimacing as a now-evident bruise in his side started to throb. He guessed he should've seen it coming.

The conversation had progressed rapidly in the time it took for Lincoln_Lawyer and Plagueguy to enter the bar. Stefan had lost millions to roulette. Heston himself had lost a hefty sum, between the Blackjack table and the wheel and Wheeler? He’d lost almost everything to dice. Understandably, anger was rumbling between the three men. A dangerous thing to happen between members of this thing of ours.  

How, exactly, could they make their money back? Knocking over a post office wouldn’t cut it. Robbing a bank, they might make back a fraction of what they lost, but it was risky. Kidnapping a politician? Easy enough to do in theory, but there was never any guarantee that it’d pay and even if it did, there’d be too much heat on them afterwards. No. They needed something big. Something that’d leave them set for life. Allow them to retire and sip cocktails on a beach. Allow them to never have to work again. Maybe even to go legit.

As Stefan and Heston brainstormed ideas between them, and Wheeler watched Lincoln_Lawyer approach the bar, it dawned on Wheeler what they had to do. House robbed them. They would rob house. Indicating to Lincoln to approach, Wheeler began to share his wild, wild idea.

It had felt like Mickey had stood around for a day and a half waiting for one of the others to comment on Wheeler's plan, but in reality it had only been a couple of seconds, but it was obvious that none of them were planning to comment. Stefan was currently drooling into the complimentary peanuts, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing as they smelled of cigarette ash and stale urine and had probably been sitting on the table since Harry Truman came to power. Heston, with a alight vomit stain on his shirt, was a bit glassy eyed after downing 3 pints and Whiskey Chasers on an empty stomach, and was mumbling something about cooking, '2 gallons of Ephedrine, 1 gallon of iodine, and 0.5 gallons of red phosphorus are mixed in a plastic container, and methamphetamine oil is precipitated into another plastic container through a connecting tube. The oil is heated, to a temperature of 67 degrees to produce highly pure d-methamphetamine.' No mention of pea foam, but no doubt the recipe of Soggy Air or something equally fancy. PlagueGuy was just rubbing his temples and and moaning softly in between mouthfuls of water.

Wheeler's speech had been a little slurred, and there had been some outlandish ideas surfacing, such as stealing M41 Tanks and Sikorsky H-19 Helicopters to escape in. But through all the bullshit and the grandiose statements, there was a kernel of an idea, a little ball of something that if you tugged at and teased at in the right way would develop into a workable plan, a truly awe inspiring thing of beauty. Could they pull it off? Could they rob house and pull of the heist of the century? A Helicopter might not be a bad idea mind you, no doubt walking out the front door may prove difficult if they trip the alarms or were discovered. Not to mention the volume of cash. You see, People don't really comprehend how much space cash takes up. The average joe on the street might have a couple of hundred bucks if he's lucky, easily fits in a wallet. A minor drug dealer might have a few hundred thousand, which could be hidden in a sock drawer, or in a suitcase. Casinos use Hundred Dollar bills for moving large amounts of money. If you are using $100 bills, you need 10,000 of them to get to $1,000,000. The weight is 22 pounds. The size is length and width of a $100 bill is 2.61 inches wide and 6.14 inches long, .0043 inches thick and weigh 1 gram. For 10,000 bills that is 43 inches in height. Its enough to fill a briefcase... a 22lb briefcase. After that its all about scalability. 100 million, weighs 2200 lbs or about 1 metric Tonne. 1 billion with a small b, not the mad Billion that the Brits use, well now we're up to the 10 tonne range. If stacked on top of each other in a single stack, they'd be 3583 feet tall, almost 3 times the height of the Empire State Building. It would take up almost 15 cubic yards, or basically a pallet of money, 7.5 feet long, by 7.5 feet wide, by 7.5 feet high. They needed to clear at least 6 billion, 1 pallet each and one for costs, so that was 6 pallets of money, weighing 60 tonnes, taking up 15 feet by 22.5 feet by 7.5 feet, or about the size of the average families living room... the logistics would take a while to resolve.

PlagueGuy leaned forward; the headache ripping through his skull had finally started to fade. He slid his feet out of the booth, grimacing at the welt in his side, before standing up from the table and joining the group at the bar.

"House decided to start playing rough. That just means we'll need to start playing rougher in return."

He pondered where he'd find the stored money stashed away by House. It was rather convenient PlagueGuy was running a crew in Vegas, but the only source they had was that House's stores were somewhere in Vegas' Strip. The heart of the city. Even after asking around, or eyeing up the streets day after day after day, not a sign of them was to be found.

Then, an idea popped into his mind.

"House owns all the non-Mafia related casinos across the country. Each one is trademarked last I checked, something like the "Lucky 7s Casino". We should hit up the Las Vegas one, snoop around the place and figure out where its manager is at. Any of their upper structure would do, as long as we find someone who knows where they unload their money. Plus, we could snatch up some cash on the side, or raid their vault first for a taste of what we'd be looking for when we go for the real deal."

He kept thinking further.

"If this whole mess really otherwise can't be comprehended, as if it truly is godlike or some shit, or House controls each casino on their own, that's where the other plan could come to fruition: Hijacking one of their cash delivery trucks. If we interfere with the delivery system, we can figure out where they take those armored cars and meet the fuckers there. That can also help with our escape; ain't no bullets getting through those and it can store a huge amount of dough. We'd probably have to disguise ourselves."

PlagueGuy groaned at the pain in his side. He'd probably have to get that checked out. The bartender seemed aware of his troubles and slid over a bottle of vodka to help mend the aching.

Heston took a swig of his drink and smiled at the plans beginning to form "I guess we could just kidnap the manager of one of the casinos I have a nice basement we can take him to and errrrrrrm well ask him a question of two if not maybe a knife in the right place may help" Heston grinned at the thought 

Ordering another bottle of whiskey for the "Table" Heston thought more on how he could help and looked around for more insperation

PlagueGuy nodded at the decided plan.

"Sounds like it's settled then. Now, if we want any chance at their vault though, something to help stave off our current losses for a bit, we'll have to do the interrogation there on the spot. Lock 'em in a room all alone and beat the vault code and, of course, the location of House's stash. Squeeze it out of 'em."

He turned his head towards the rest of the group.

"I did some scouting of the Vegas casino. It's rather poor on security and has two back entrances, one near their staff rooms and the other outside near their dumpsters. The door is in-between two of them."

PlagueGuy pointed a finger at Wheeler first.

"You'd be fit coming in the front entrance and directing some attention away from the staff rooms and down from the second floor. That's where Heston and I can come in through the back and sweep out whatever is back there. We'll want to look for the manager. If he isn't there, we can double-check their second floor, where they have their break room. He's bound to be in either of those areas. Stefan, you can join Wheeler at the front entrance and scope around for their vault, maybe play a lost drunk and knock the hell out of whoever tries to direct you out. Maybe snag a few disguises too."

PlagueGuy smiled as he shifted himself over to take a swig of the vodka.

"And Lincoln_Lawyer...I'll give you the honor of beating some sense in the manager. Maybe persuade him too...give us a step in the right direction, if you know what I mean. Surely he'd want to offer his best gamblers the greatest experience possible, right?"

He waited for the others to respond.

The plan was coming together nicely. Maybe he had gotten a little carried away with his original plan. I mean, taking over a nuclear missile silo and using it to threaten the entirety of Las Vegas just to get into a casino vault may have been a little overboard. Using tanks to get the money out unimpeded would be a stroke of genius, were it not for the fact that they wouldn’t be getting away from anyone in them. And stealing a cargo ship was all well and good, but none of them had the slightest idea how to sail a cargo ship. No. This way would probably be better.

”So… All you want me to do is be a distraction?”

Looking thoughtful he pauses before grinning, ear to ear.

”I can do that!”

Mickey Paled a little bit, this sounded a little bit more involved than he had thought, he wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, he'd just never had to beat the shit out of someone before. Sure he had metaphorically given someone a pasting in the courtroom, but that was different from actually giving someone a beat down. Still, sometimes you had to do what needed to be done. 

"I'm still a little concerned about this plan. Getting a location for the count room is one thing, but this is a Manager for House we're talking about, and Squishy and Toby- are bound to notice if he just doesn't show up to work. So we'll need to find out his rota, when is his rest day, take him when he clocks off shift the day before hand otherwise we'll be royally fucked. Also the amount of money we're talking about comes in at 60 tons, you do realise that? 60 fucking tons. we'll need at least a dozen Mack NO 7+1⁄2-ton 6x6 trucks just to move that, which means we'll need a bigger crew. The money is stored on Pallets of $500 million per pallet, so that's 12 pallets, one per truck, weighing 5 tons each. How are we moving a 5 ton pallet? Only Forklift capable of moving 5 ton in a single lift is the Sherman Ford Field Forklift. So you'll need probably two of those. Don't want to move the pallets themselves and break the cash into bags, you can cut the trucks down to 8, but that's gonna take 1000 120lb bags, breaking down the pallets and carrying out 1000 120 bags is gonna take time, time we won't have."

Mickey poured another Canadian Club and lit a Morely^TM before taking a deep haul and letting it out slow.

"I don't want it to sound like I'm shitting on your plan PlagueGuy, but we need a finished plan. This is fucking Squishy we're talking about. One sniff of what we're up to, one hint of what we've done and he will make us disappear quicker than you can say Jean Spangler, and I don't know about you guys, but I want to live a long a glorious life, not end up as plant food for Larrea tridentata."

Clearly nervous, Mickey took another haul of his cigarette before downing the whiskey.

PlagueGuy ran his hands through his face in frustration, before leaning back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling.

"Fuck. I know. You're right. Dying over something probably out of our control would not be a fun way to wind up, especially after how far the lot of us have gotten. Wouldn't look good for ourselves...that's for sure."

He looked over at the group. A group that had all met a similar fate, a group disgraced beyond regular repair. A group without motivation or true desire, one that had everything snatched away from them in an instant. One that was buried in their drink, stowing away at piss-poor quality example of a bar, where every other degenerate and scumbag often wound up.

This wasn't them. This couldn't be them. This wasn't who they were, far from it in fact. He wasn't going to just stand by and let them all resign to their fate. He sat forward in the chair.

When you hit rock bottom, the only other way to go is up.

"But we can't look at it that way. We don't even know how much money is in that vault, or whether it'll be strictly pallets of cash. It might even hold solid gold. It might hold other commodities. But if there's one thing I can assume, it's that no basic casino vault would just be hoarding billions and billions of dollars. That's House's job; all these casinos need to do is hog enough money when someone wins big. Plus, they know they'll get that money back sooner or later. They might not even have to hold standard casino vault amounts. We should figure out what they do with their profits at the end of the day; whether they ship it off to House or keep it for the next day."

"The other matter to focus on is we aren't trying to clear the whole damn vault out in its entirety! We only need enough to cover what House took from us now, or at least enough to get us back on track. The heist that sets us out for life is House himself; not by bothering with his side-casinos. This is to give us an idea of what we want to look for first, get some money back in our pockets, and get us out of this shithole."

PlagueGuy decided to change around the plan.

"What I suppose we'll want to do is scope out the vault first. Hell, we could even incorporate that as our way of getting in, and move on from there. Set up a deposit or disguise ourselves as a worker and find our way inside. The casino layout is rather standard."

"Remember, they aren't expecting a heist of this standing to happen to them. Why would they? Nobody else who has been robbed blind would ever think of returning the favor; it's usually too mentally shattering...and yet, here we are. Planning exactly that."

A burst of confidence spread over his person.

"We're different. We're smart enough to know what we're doing. It took massive risks to put us where we are now, just as it will take a massive risk to get this done. Think of the positives out of this. The negatives will only discourage you."

"I think it's about time House was given a taste of its own medicine. They wouldn't expect something like this to happen. That's exactly why the time so strike is now."