Swarles stood at the end of a long green fabric-covered table inside an eerily quiet casino. It was a Tuesday morning, and he hadn't slept well the previous night. He had hundred dollars in his pocket and no plan for a return trip home yet. The restlessness was wearing on him. 

"Well? Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you going to play?" The Stickman questioned him. 

According to the small metal sign on the table, the stakes were low at only a dollar a roll. The Stickman had several dice in front of him, ready to be pushed to a shooter. He was quickly growing unsettled at Swarles' indecision. Swarles waved him off. 

"No, I shouldn't. I haven't booked my flight back to Chicago, and I just need to nap. Once I get some shut-eye, everything will be much easier," Swarles said unconvincingly. 

"What do you mean easier? All you do is throw the dice. Don't you know the game?"

"I'm sorry, what game are you even talking about? I usually stick to Blackjack only. The cocktail waitresses all know me by name now. That's how often I'm over there."

"Yeah, that won't help you here, buddy. The name of the game is Craps. You pick up two dice and toss 'em to the other side of the table. Easiest bet in the house. Place a buck on the pass line. You throw a 7 or 11 and double your money. You roll a 2, 3, or 12, and you lose. Any other number? Well, we'll cover that when you get that far. No need to sweat just yet. I'll even call out the numbers, so you don't have to do any math. How's that sound?"

Swarles pondered the Stickman's proposition. That would be a lot easier than calculating 21 repeatedly. Counting cards was usually a tried-and-true method but required significant energy and focus. Neither of which could be accounted for at the moment. His resistance to a new form of gambling was quickly fleeting. 

"Screw it. Teach me the game as we go. How bad can it be?" Swarles asked as he placed his hundred dollars on the table. The Stickman retrieved the cash and passed over neat stacks of one-dollar chips. Swarles took a singular chip and put it on the Pass Line. The Stickman finally cracked a smile and slid 6 dice in front of Swarles.

"Dice comin' out! New shooter!" the Stickman shouted for the rest of the casino to hear. Not that there were any onlookers. It must've been a habit by now. "Pick 2, and I'll take the rest back. All you have to do is make sure both of those dice hit the far wall, and we'll be on our way to getting you paid. Then you can tip me with your winnings! I'm sure you're a natural," he said with a wink. 

Swarles took a deep breath in, clutched the dice in his hand, and tossed them with some force. The dice landed solidly and bounced sharply off the pyramid-lined back wall. They danced around slightly before landing.

"SEVEN! We have a winner!" The Stickman shouted as he gently placed a chip next to Swarles' original bet. "What'd I tell ya? Easy!" 

Swarles' heart rate started to jump. What an incredible rush. Just like that, he doubled his money in a few seconds. 

"That was awesome! Let's go again," Swarles responded. Eager to recapture that joy as the Stickman passed the dice. Grabbing them and chucking them with similar speed, he couldn't wait to hear that magic sound again.

"YO-ELEVEN! Look how easy this is. You threw those dice so fast, you didn't even pick up your winnings. Lucky you!" The Stickman proclaimed as he stacked two chips next to the original. "Don't forget, I work on tips."

"Yeah, yeah," Swarles tossed him a chip from the stack and left the other four on the Pass Line. "At this rate, I'll be able to afford a first-class ticket back home." 

"Thanks for tip! Let's keep the streak going..." 

Swarles quickly learned more about the game's intricacies as the day passed. Once the dice landed on a different number, this became the Point. The Pass Line then became a race to hit the Point before rolling a 7 or sevening out for slang. It was easy enough to follow the gameplay, and Swarles was re-energized. But as expeditiously as the wins came, the losses began to arrive even faster. Swarles had almost doubled his money, his mental goal for the day as the victories flowed. But a few bad bounces left him with a decision to make. He could walk away with an excellent $140 sitting in front of him, or he could hope his luck improves. With no bet on the table, the Stickman tapped the wooden stick on the felt.

"What's it gonna be, buddy? Are we gonna keep making money, or are you gonna chicken out?" the Stickman quipped. 

"I'm not done yet," said Swarles as he gave in to the peer pressure and lobbed another chip towards the Pass Line. Grabbing the dice and tossing, he gripped the handrail with anticipation. 

"Craps!" the Stickman's voice rang out. 

Adding another dollar, Swarles threw again.

"Craps!" 

Swarles glared at the table. He flung three chips out this time. Picking up the dice and throwing with vigor.

"Craps!"

"You've got to be kidding me."

Five more chips down.

"Craps!"

Five chips again.

"Craps!"

Ten chips out defiantly. 

"Craps!"

Fifteen chips out.

"Craps!"

Twenty.

"Craps!"

Twenty-five.

"Craps!"

FIFTY.

"Craps!"

Swarles stared in disbelief as a measly five chips sat in front of him. What had he just done? How was that possible? What on earth was he going to do now? What would his boss Jarrick think? How the hell was he going to get him? 

He grabbed the chips and left the table. It felt like he was in a daze. His heart was racing again, but not from excitement. His breathing became labored. Struggling to exit the casino, he collapsed near the slots. 

Swarles awoke to a small crowd of employees gathered around him. Back on the floor, staring up at the bright lights on the ceiling, he couldn't remember how or why he was in this position. He felt faint and a slight bit dizzy. His eyes were straining to focus on the nearest face.

"Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me? What's your name?" a blurry face in the crowd asks. 

"My name...? Swarley. I mean, Swarles. My friends all call me Swarley. What's going on?"

"You passed out a few minutes ago. We were trying to get you up again. The Stickman over here saw you take a tumble on your way out. He alerted the pit boss, the medical staff, and security. We're here to help in any way that we can. How are you feeling?" 

"Not great, that's for damn sure. I don't even remember what happened," Swarles grimaced. 

He tried sitting up, mildly successfully, before laying back down. Still light-headed, it seemed. 

"No need to rush. We'll get you some water. Maybe some juice will help too. Got a preference?"

"Ugh. Orange juice and water, please."

As the waitress sprinted off to retrieve the drinks, he turned to face the Stickman. He recognized that face from somewhere... then it all came rushing back. The improbable streak of craps. Holy shit. Eleven in a row? Those dice would haunt his dreams for a while. 

"Here, sweetie, drink these. It should help," the waitress said after a suspiciously swift return. "I hope you feel better real soon."

Swarles pounded both drinks and finally managed to get back on his feet. He straightened out his suit and tie before surveying the scene. Yep, it had all come back now. Five bucks in his pocket and no plans to get home. Thankfully, his gun was still on his person as he discreetly tapped the hiding spot. "Well, that should help," Swarles thought. 

"Thank you all for your assistance. I'm feeling terrific now. No need for any hospital visits today. I think I'll just be on my way," Swarles addressed the onlookers. "I'll be better now that I've had a nap," he joked with a wink. 

The small group began to disperse. There was nothing more to be seen here.

"Hey, Stickman! Please let me buy you a drink. It's the least I can do for potentially saving my life. You deserve it!" 

Swarles led the Stickman through the casino to the nearest exit feeling a bit chipper now that his target was completely unsuspecting now. 

The crowd's buzz in the bar's background made it difficult for Swarles to focus on the words of the Stickman. He could see that his lips were moving, and he was fully engaged in telling his life's exciting (to him) details. His eyes lit up as he told tales of world-renowned celebrities that had visited the casino, drunk bachelorette parties from out of town, and even professional athletes. But nothing could shake Swarles from the mental fog. A rare pause from the Stickman jolted Swarles from the haze. 

"You sure you're alright, Swarles? You took quite the spill, and it hasn't been that long. You've barely touched your drink," the Stickman said observantly. 

Swarles waved him off while reaching for his Old Fashioned. He stared at it briefly before taking a swig. Rotating the glass around in his hand and watching the ice cubes spin around before responding.

"I'm fiiine," he retorted, not fully believing his own words. "I'm still just thinking about that unlucky streak, Stickman."

"You know my name's not actually Stickman, it's..."

Swarles was off in his own world again. The Stickman's name was unimportant. He had already been briefed on everything there was to know about him. Where he worked, who he had been spending time with, where he spent his free time, and even his drink of choice (a Dry Manhattan with extra olives). Why Illuminatiated wanted him dead wasn't even significant, but Swarles knew he had a job and a promise to keep. With the Stickman adequately filled with booze, at least enough to let his guard down, Swarles knew the time was right. 

"Whatever you say, Stickman. Hey, why don't we take this show on the road? I know a terrific cabaret down the street and have a friend working security tonight. She'll let us in, no cover, and the girls are all smoke shows. I'm telling you, you wouldn't believe what they consider cover-ups. I've got a running tab. And the Champagne Room? To die for. Come on, the first round is on me," Swarles said while polishing off his drink.

The Stickman was enjoying himself at the bar and thought he might have a chance with the bartender tonight. He laughed and shook his head, since Swarles didn't even acknowledge his name comment. But the promise of free entrance, more drinks, and half-naked girls was too much to pass up. He downed his drink before waving goodbye to his crush, then wobbled towards the door. Swarles checked to ensure nothing was left behind before following him into the night sky. 

"Right this way! It shouldn't be too bad of a walk. Follow me," Swarles reassured. 

Walking a couple of blocks before turning off into a dimly-lit alleyway, Swarles suddenly stopped. 

"Sorry, too much liquid courage tonight. I gotta piss like a racehorse. Keep heading that way," Swarles pointed ahead, "and I'll catch up to you." 

He turned to face the brick wall as the Stickman continued his stroll. Unbeknownst to him, Swarles drew his pistol and quickly spun on the silencer with ease. It had almost become too natural at this point. He aimed at the back of the Stickman's head and pulled the trigger twice. A couple of muffled shots and a gentle thud broke the silence. Swarles walked up, removed the wallet stuffed with tips from earlier, and pocketed his pistol.  

"Goodbye, Stickman. Rest in peace, and thanks for your generosity," Swarles said while stuffing his pockets with the haul. 

He glanced at the license before discarding the now empty wallet. He chuckled, "Oh yeah, that was his name," before quickly departing the crime scene. Swarles ducked into the nearest casino, where he was greeted with the bright lights and welcoming bustle of excited patrons. Finding the closest Craps table, he waltzed up with renewed vigor. 

"I'm feeling lucky tonight, folks," Swarles exclaimed, slapping down his newfound riches. "Give me the dice!"

He smiled as a familiar phrase rang out for the casino-goers to hear:

"New shooter comin' out!"