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05/12/11(Thu)22:03 No.14908339
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 "You don't have to do this, man!"
But Larry barely heard the protests coming from his dearest, closest friend, who he knew only by his street name of Dustee-Cheez. He had his hands cupped, shaking together, rolling that twenty-sided polyhedron of fate which would decide if his character lived or died. He wasn't Larry right now. Larry wasn't in. He was Nat-Twenty, he who only rolls crits, seducer of fat-assed elf sluts and conquerer of the many dungeon's of Compton's east side.
He couldn't fail. Too much was at stake.
"Let the man roll his dice, Dustee," said the shadowy pile of girth standing opposite Nat at his card table, just on the other side of the street light. They knew him only as the Dungeon Masta, holder of enough loots to set them both up for life, but the odds were always in his favor. He let out a weezing chuckle, watching Nat sweat. Nat met his gaze for only a brief second at this, before looking away. DM's reputation preceded him - he had a short temper, and was known to pack heat under one or both of his swollen man-titties.
Nat closed his eyes, bit his lip, and threw his die sideways - all the Playas threw sideways - and prayed the old-English "PELOR" tattoo on his rock-hard abs would curry enough favor with the gods of dice to see him through.
The die dashed across the table, its transparent green surfaces flickering like demon's fire in the streetlight. Nat watched with baited breath as the die slowed.
7...
17...
10...
8...
Twenty. |
