His imagination captured by the twin enticements of free liquor and petit fours, Woodpecker-Smythe sidled up to the Casino Lisboa bar. He ordered two drinks, a lemon squash and a gin & tonic .. for laters.
He honestly didn’t think Lady M would mind although it was physically challenging juggling two drinks, three Bacon-Wrapped Tiger Prawns on Skewers and a suitcase full of cash (in this case French Francs, the galactic standard gambling currency.)
Lady Marzipan had fronted the Lord two hundred thousand Francs in hopes of gaining a 20-fold increase - this profit to be applied to acquisition of another fiendish Q-device.
However, this was of little import to Woodpecker-Smythe at the present as he was generally oblivious to such machinations. In fact matters such as high-stakes gambling for world domination at the most intriguing casino in the known world rarely troubled the mind of Woodpecker-Smythe. His neurons fired lazily, often languidly between underachieving synapses more interested in acquiring tasty appetizers to fuel his self-important boasting .
At any rate, W-S soon found himself at the standard baccarat table with a conveniently empty seat. Oddly, some of his fellow players looked familiar. To his right, a sinister Mediterranean type who could have been Dr. Emilo Mixo’s double but with thinner lapels. To his left another individual who looked a lot like the Rakshasa hunter less the robes of office and cross-bow. As per usual, two other wealthy, expendable, otherwise non-descript players sat opposite him for dramatic effect.
W-S surveyed his competition and determined that his best strategy was to play ‘the somewhat clueless upper class British nob. Of course, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch.
“I say, anyone got change for five bob?” W-S announced as he clumsily spilled lemon squash and tiger sauce all over the "girlfriend" of a previously described expendable player, “I’ve still got to ante up!”
Meanwhile, half-way to the Sandwich Isles, the Commodore was dealing with an insurrection by a passenger aboard his ship – the self styled “Smartest Man in Lady Hamilton’s Idea Factory & Advisory Firm.”
He honestly didn’t think Lady M would mind although it was physically challenging juggling two drinks, three Bacon-Wrapped Tiger Prawns on Skewers and a suitcase full of cash (in this case French Francs, the galactic standard gambling currency.)
Lady Marzipan had fronted the Lord two hundred thousand Francs in hopes of gaining a 20-fold increase - this profit to be applied to acquisition of another fiendish Q-device.
However, this was of little import to Woodpecker-Smythe at the present as he was generally oblivious to such machinations. In fact matters such as high-stakes gambling for world domination at the most intriguing casino in the known world rarely troubled the mind of Woodpecker-Smythe. His neurons fired lazily, often languidly between underachieving synapses more interested in acquiring tasty appetizers to fuel his self-important boasting .
At any rate, W-S soon found himself at the standard baccarat table with a conveniently empty seat. Oddly, some of his fellow players looked familiar. To his right, a sinister Mediterranean type who could have been Dr. Emilo Mixo’s double but with thinner lapels. To his left another individual who looked a lot like the Rakshasa hunter less the robes of office and cross-bow. As per usual, two other wealthy, expendable, otherwise non-descript players sat opposite him for dramatic effect.
W-S surveyed his competition and determined that his best strategy was to play ‘the somewhat clueless upper class British nob. Of course, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch.
“I say, anyone got change for five bob?” W-S announced as he clumsily spilled lemon squash and tiger sauce all over the "girlfriend" of a previously described expendable player, “I’ve still got to ante up!”
Meanwhile, half-way to the Sandwich Isles, the Commodore was dealing with an insurrection by a passenger aboard his ship – the self styled “Smartest Man in Lady Hamilton’s Idea Factory & Advisory Firm.”
