Smillew Scrabble Club
Betrayed By Scrabble
On a path to destruction or redemption?
Archibald Anderschmitt sat alone in his tweed smoking jacket, wondering how he could tell his children the truth.
“Pants. First, I need to put on pants,” he mumbled, lacking enthusiasm. He staggered into the living room to where three generations of his family gathered for their Boxing Day traditions.
Archibald, the eldest living member of the Anderschmitt clan, surveyed the room. Five children and fourteen grandchildren scurried around the vast living room of his Tudor estate. He eyed Charity, his eldest daughter, as she chased 10-month-old twins crawling across the perfectly waxed oaken floor.
“Keep those legos away from the twins!” She shouted at her husband, Charles. Charles mumbled an unrecognizable response from the sofa, half-asleep, watching a mediocre hockey game on the flat screen above the fireplace.
Arch scanned the room and saw everyone he expected except the man next to 16-year-old Bella, his rebellious granddaughter. “The man, no boy, next to her must be her new boyfriend,” he mused. “I guess I have to include him too,” stifling his gallows humor laugh.
“Dad?” awoke Arch from his brief revelry. “Dad? Don’t just stand there. Join us. It’s almost time to open presents,” said his impatient daughter Kimberly.
Hesitating, he found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like when he ate peanuts and needed Grace to stab him with an Epipen.
“Oh, Grace. I would never have gotten into this pit if you were still alive.” His thoughts betrayed the hopelessness he felt confronting his family.
The older children looked up from their phones, sensing a change in the room’s atmosphere. What was so joyful and full of holiday spirit seemed to leech away into the winter winds outside.
“I have a confession to make,” he said.
The last words came out as a suppressed cough. The room quieted, and Charity poked the slouching Charles in the ribs. The retort on Charles’s lips died as he saw his wife mouth the words, “It’s important.”
The attention was back on the family patriarch, who feared to speak and cursed himself for his lack of courage.
“It’s gone. It’s all gone,” his voice barely whispered in the chilly room.
“Grandpa, what’s gone?” Bella spoke to the waiting family.
“Everything. My bank accounts, subsidiary companies, and retirement funds — Erased. Our land, this house, Bella, and even your college fund is gone. We are broke.”
Shocked reactions cascaded throughout the room and manifested into chaos. Charity gasped. Kimberly slapped the coffee table, inadvertently tossing more legos at the younger children. The twins’ crying started slowly and gained momentum like a WW2-era air raid siren.
Charles jumped out of his seat on the sofa. “You lying old penis-infested douche-mop! I need that money! In all my years of putting up with a sanctimonious muskrat feces of a father-in-law, I never guessed you would screw over your entire family.”
Shocked at her husband’s venomous outburst, Charity slapped him.
“What Charles meant to say is, ‘What happened? Where did all the money go?’”
The seconds slagged by, adding pulsating tension to every adult in the room. Arch finally spoke.
“Scrabble. It was High-Stakes Scrabble.” He said with his hand raised, forestalling questions.
The story
Ever since Grace died, I’ve felt so alone. The spark of life was missing its secret sauce. Then one day, at my lowest of lows, I had a visitor. My trusted confidant and lifelong sage of wisdom Grimsby Hackney invited me on a spiritual pilgrimage.
He took me to this Buddhist Temple deep in the interior of Laos. We walked by the pious monks, and one of them winked at me. Grim pulled a business card out of his pocket with only one word.
O X Y P H E N B U T A Z O N E
The monk smiled when he saw the card and pulled some creeping vines apart, revealing a trap door. Grim and I descended wooden stairs caked in the dusk, and he answered my unspoken query.
“It’s a 15-letter word that results in 1778 points if you play it in Scrabble. And yes, where we are going, it matters.” ¹
“If you say so,” I mumbled, unconvinced.
The descending stairs ended in a cave of rough-hewn granite. I’m still unsure if we walked through that cave for hours or minutes. Reaching the cave’s conclusion, I heard the sounds of machinery.
My eyes adjusted to the light and saw a glorious casino hidden from the rest of the world.
“What in the unholy sweet mother of pickles is this place?” I said louder than intended.
“Welcome to our den of debauchery,” a horned figure in a red tuxedo spoke in a singsong voice.
We have a game of chance for every vice,
and will not rest until we entice. ²
My eyes adjusted to the bright lights that were such a stark difference from the dimness of the cave. I peered around the room and saw the traditional games. Blackjack, Roulette, Texas Hold Em Poker. Then it got weird.
Is that Monopoly? Risk? Mousetrap?
I squinted and saw two elderly Asian men in fine suits placing bets on orangutans playing Jenga.
Four young women in cocktail dresses gathered around a Plinko board twice the size of the original from the Price is Right. I looked closer and saw the pegs were made of human thumbs, not wood.
There was an entire room dedicated to predicting how many farts per minute an acne-covered high school boy would deal after eating a gas station burrito. I cringed in that room, remembering my childhood pox scars.
Whispers in the light. The acne room lost color and sound as my muse called me from across the gambling paradise. It called to me. It knew my name. It owned my soul.
S C R A B B L E
As I walked towards the golden tiles, Grim stifled his “I told you so” smirk.
“You know me better than I know myself, Grim. I should have never doubted you.”
Around the table were Vin Diesel, Elon Musk, Katy Perry, and Elvis.
“Elvis? Give me the flu and launch a dozen snot rockets! You’re Elvis F’in Presley.”
“If I had a nickel for every time I hear those exact words,” chuckled Elvis.
I stared at the single empty chair as the stars picked their tiles.
“It’s just a friendly gentlemen’s game,” Elvis said without preamble. Katy rolled her eyes at his dated remark.
We played into the night and throughout the next day. I don’t remember when I started to lose money. But I couldn’t stop. The farther I fell behind, the more alive I felt. It was like Redbull, piss, and tabasco sauce all flooded my veins, fighting for pulmonary supremacy.
Fearing collapse but feeling confident of winning, I had one word left to play. I raided my bank accounts and called my lawyer, stockbroker, realtor, and every person who had some semblance of control over my finances.
There was surprisingly good cell reception for a demonic underground cave casino in a Laotian jungle.
Money in hand, I played my last tiles with a triple letter AND double-word score.
V O C I F E R O U S L Y
“203 Points. Chew on that, you over-indulged billionaires.” ³
I reached for the winnings, and Katy Pery jabbed her stiletto heel between my fingers, drawing a trickle of blood. She gestured to the sly smile Elvis made no effort to contain.
I saw him place an O, followed by an X and a Y. When he put the P, all the tabasco urine energy fueling my trance congealed into the gooey pork-fat napalm of mayonnaise.
O X Y P H E N B U T A Z O N E
I lost every ounce of wealth and financial security our family had hoarded for 150 years.
Scrabble, my demon muse, you betrayed me!
The lesson I learned from that knife twist of fate? Never trust Grimsby Hackney in an underground cave casino of sin. And never respond to a Scrabble-themed writing challenge from Smillew Rahcuef.
Footnotes:
¹ How to Get Oxyphenbutazone. Scrabble aficionado Sam Chenoweth explains how he and a fellow master’s student achieved the highest-scoring word. https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB119222230854957639
² Poem points earned. ✅
³ Some uber-nerd is googling how many points in Scrabble for the word vociferously right now. Is it you?
Want more Scrabble Challenge stories? Here’s one from Malky McEwan
Or this Scrabble poem from Linda Osipow ~ Crazy, Almost Old Farm Wife
Or this gem from Cristina Cattai
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