The Assassin Betting Pool
TUMB 04/11
Brownstone, wanting to insure a future for Shay and Alison in the event of his death by the assassins, goes to Tyler and makes a deal to set up a new betting pool on the action with the assassins, as follows:
Brownstone goes to Black Sun Bar. gets Tyler’s usual greeting (Why are you ruining my day by bringing your ugly ass into my bar?”) “Before you said you didn’t want to press your luck by starting another betting pool, but what if I told you that I could stack the odds in your favor and help make you a shit-ton of money?” The repeat of Brownstone Ass-kicking Day is coming real damn soon, but this time I’ve got a better handle on it. A lot less highway shit will be involved. I don’t want to help your ass. I want to help my ass. You’re just a tool to help with that. I want twenty-five percent of the house take. I’ll also place some bets on myself anonymously. I’ll send people this way to bet, too.” “I don’t know if I could sleep at night knowing I helped you make that much money, even if I make a lot of money too. I really, really fucking hate you, you know.” “This might be your last chance to make money off someone trying to kill me, you know. Because after I waste these fuckers and destroy the Harriken bigwigs no one’s gonna bet against me again. If these assholes want to bet on me dying, I don’t mind letting you know when I’ve taken out an assassin or two. I don’t plan on dying, so I’m stacking the deck heavily in my favor with all the tools I can get my hands on.” “But what if you still get killed? From what I’ve heard there are some seriously dangerous assholes coming for you.” “Then I’m out the survival money, but I still want the twenty-five percent of the house take to go to a trust for someone who needs it. I’ll send you the secure routing and account information. Gonna make this real clear. The trust money is for someone special. I don’t mind you talking shit about me, but you don’t say shit about her. Fucking ever. If you do, I will bring the pain. Understand, fucker? “If I die,” the bounty hunter continued, glaring down at Tyler, “and that money doesn’t go to the trust, two people will come looking for you, including a killer and another person who might even be worse. Consider that my insurance policy, asshole.”“None of this shit means I like you, Brownstone. If anything, I hate you more than ever.”“This isn’t about you liking me. It’s about both of us making money, prick.”
TUMB 04/13 Tyler calling it the Great Brownstone Chase II. Brownstone brings Tyler a list of the assassins whom he will be fighting. "This shit is perfect!“It means we can get higher odds on your survival. I was worried people would all assume you would live, but with this kind of firepower coming after you, people are going to flock to the ‘Brownstone Killed’ bets. Plus, now we can add all sorts of bets about who kills you. You still going to call me when you take them out, right? I can really goose the bets that way. Oh, Brownstone? One last thing.If you want anyone to place bets over the phone, make sure they start with ‘Happy Brownstone’s Death Day."
A few hours later every manner of scumbag and gambling addict filled the Black Sun, drinking, eating, and placing bets. The money was already flowing in, and none of the big action had even started yet. Everyone wanted to get in on making money off Brownstone’s death. It was hard to blame them. Despite the gathering of LA’s most ethically and morally questionable people outside of the local politicians, Tyler didn’t worry about trouble. As long as he kept the alcohol and the bets flowing, the fun of the event and everyone’s mutual hatred of Brownstone would keep the peace. Tyler gets a big bet by phone. “I want to place bets against the killers, all pro-Brownstone, and then an overall bet on Brownstone, with all this over in less than two weeks. I don’t want to drop physical cash. Give me a crypto wallet address. I’m guessing you’re smart enough to have crypto betting set up.” “Yeah,but I’m only accepting Trollcoin, Bitcoin, or Ether. " The call is ended, with no bet placed.
Lieutenant Hall (AEC)comes to the bar, approves of what is going on, and announces, “Listen up, scumbags,” the AET officer yelled. “We know what’s going on here, but the LAPD has better shit to do than worry when criminals take money from other criminals. You want to bet on that asshole Brownstone dying? Be my guest. Consider this an unofficial endorsement.” She pointed to herself. “Me and my friends are going to drink a little just to keep an eye on things, but as far as we’re concerned this is damned Switzerland. Neutral ground, and we’re not going to worry about anyone while they are here.” She narrowed her eyes. “In exchange, you won’t cause trouble, because if you do I’m going to call up all my AET friends, and we’ll deliver the kind of pain that makes Brownstone’s shit look like preschool.” Cops guaranteeing the safety of my place, and AET at that? Fuck, this is turning out even better than I’d planned. Oh, Brownstone, you think you’re big shit, but all you’re doing is turning me into big shit. Eventually you’ll be begging to kiss my ass.
