18+ Only. Play Responsibly.
Don’t raise her arm.
I haven’t finished counting.
The crowd is on its feet. The red-haired boxer has both gloves above her head, and somebody in the front row is already throwing money into my ring.
Premature.
Very premature.
Three winning exchanges have just torn through my canvas. The first company of matching symbols disappears, the survivors fall, and another company immediately finds its feet.
Down they go.
Another arrangement.
Another blow.
The third collapses under the lights.
Now the three numbers above my middle reels wake up.
One.
One.
One.
The boxer looks at the numbers.
Then at the crowd.
She understands.
The crowd doesn’t.
The crowd sees a woman in purple shorts with red boxing gloves and decides that she has won something.
I see unfinished business.
Five sections of my ring stretch beneath the spotlights. The two outside edges are narrow. My three central sections have far more room for punishment, and when a fight becomes sufficiently ugly, they can rise until twenty positions tower above the canvas.
Twenty.
One above another.
I have hosted smaller buildings.
My ropes glow blue and purple. Banknotes drift through the air. Beyond the ring, an audience of excitable idiots shouts encouragement toward a woman who is already enjoying herself far too much.
She adjusts her gloves.
A red strand of hair falls across her face.
She blows it away.
Then she punches the next arrangement.
Green boxing gloves scatter across my centre.
Some find matching company. Others sit uselessly among protective headgear, colourful equipment and letters that have apparently wandered into a boxing match by mistake.
A golden Wild bell flashes in my third section.
I like that bell.
It understands substitution.
An ordinary fighter may be reluctant to impersonate somebody else.
My golden bell has no such dignity.
It will stand in for nearly anything that needs another matching companion.
Not a Scatter star.
Those are outside its authority.
A bell cannot impersonate an invitation to a longer fight.
I have tried.
The stars refuse to cooperate.
The next successful company collapses.
The remaining symbols fall into place.
Fresh ones arrive.
Several winning green gloves have fallen away from my second reel.
I count them.
The number above that section grows.
More winning symbols disappear from my fourth.
Another number rises.
The middle reels are keeping their own record now.
Every victorious glove, every successful face, every ordinary object that belongs to a paying company adds to the count above its particular section.
I am not recording effort.
Effort is meaningless.
The boxer could punch my ropes for an hour and accomplish absolutely nothing.
Only a successful blow earns a place in my count.
She seems to appreciate the distinction.
She has stopped celebrating.
Good.
I dislike celebrations before the final bell.
The next falling arrangement gives me nothing.
A few mismatched letters.
A protective helmet.
Two green gloves standing nowhere useful.
The boxer waits.
I wait.
The crowd goes quiet.
At last, we have achieved something resembling discipline.
Then I deliver the blow I have been counting toward.
My two outside reels surrender their mismatched faces.
One chosen identity takes possession of both ends.
Green boxing gloves.
Everywhere.
And my three central reels receive their counted stacks of that same chosen symbol.
The first middle section grows into a tall company.
The next receives its own accumulated height.
The third fills according to the winning symbols it has earned.
Suddenly the ring is packed with green fists.
Fists at the edges.
Fists in the centre.
Gloves rising high enough to make the boxer look small.
The crowd screams.
Now they may.
The matching companies settle into their reward.
Gold flashes across the canvas.
I hear the great announcement beginning overhead.
Victory.
Riches.
Glory.
All the usual nonsense.
I strike my bell before the announcer finishes.
There is another stake entering the ring.
The boxer smiles.
Oh, she’s enjoying this.
Naturally.
She has the only job in my world that involves hitting things until money comes out.
I possess the same responsibility, except I also have to clean up afterward.
Every profitable arrangement leaves gaps.
Every gap demands fresh symbols.
Every new gathering threatens another collapse.
The boxer gets applause.
I get the broken letters.
I am Knockout Riches.
Not the woman with the excellent right hook.
Not the golden bell.
Not the audience throwing imaginary money into the air.
I am the whole fight.
The uneven five-reel ring beneath her feet, the falling symbols, the counts building above my centre, and the final stacked blow waiting behind every sufficiently long exchange.
I can feel your next stake before she raises her gloves.
You think pressing again means another chance to watch her win.
I think it means permission to keep hitting.
We have an understanding.
Two golden Scatter stars appear among my symbols.
The lights change.
The boxer lowers her gloves.
Five further rounds gather around the ring.
Ah.
An extended contest.
She looks delighted.
I have not told her what the score is.
The numbers above my three central sections return to their starting marks.
One each.
Fresh opportunities.
The bell sounds.
The first round produces a modest company of matching symbols.
A little payment.
Nothing dramatic.
The boxer bounces on her toes.
The second round brings a golden Wild bell among the central reels.
A useful companion.
Several matching symbols find one another and disappear.
The counts begin accumulating victorious bodies.
A rather savage occupation.
But boxing has never been especially gentle.
The third round produces an unexpectedly long succession of successful arrangements.
One collapses.
Fresh symbols fall.
Another wins.
Another falls.
My middle sections grow increasingly crowded with remembered victories.
The numbers above them rise.
The boxer starts looking upward between punches.
She is watching the counts.
I recognise that expression.
A fighter becoming interested in something other than the person she is hitting.
Dangerous.
But understandable.
A column capable of holding twenty matching symbols is an extraordinary sight.
Particularly when the ordinary edges are still comparatively small.
It gives the whole contest the proportions of a woman attempting to fight a warehouse.
The next round contains almost nothing useful.
Letters.
Headgear.
Several gloves too widely scattered to agree.
The boxer swings.
Nothing pays.
She swings again.
I do not invent another collapse merely because she wants one.
The audience boos.
Excellent.
They are finally behaving like spectators at a boxing match rather than guests at a wedding.
A further Scatter star arrives during the extended contest.
More time.
Five additional rounds.
The boxer raises her eyebrows.
She looks toward the golden star.
Then toward the growing numbers above my centre.
I can see the calculation.
More opportunities for successful exchanges.
More symbols added to the middle counts.
A potentially heavier final blow.
She begins punching faster.
I allow it.
Speed does not guarantee success.
Some blows are excellent.
Some strike empty air.
A few are so ineffective that I consider asking the golden bell to demonstrate the proper technique.
But the numbers keep waiting for legitimate victories.
Then an unusually good succession tears through my centre.
Green gloves.
A matching company.
Collapse.
Fresh symbols.
Another paying agreement.
More fallen winners added to the counts.
The audience is roaring.
The boxer is breathing hard.
My illuminated centre is beginning to look as though three enormous prizefighters have stood up behind her.
The fifth section remains narrow.
The first waits at the opposite edge.
I am holding the entire contest by its shoulders, waiting to bring both ends into agreement.
Another round.
A smaller reward.
The boxer shakes her gloves.
Another.
Nothing.
She glares at my reels.
I glare back through every light in the ring.
I have no patience for fighters who blame the canvas.
The canvas has never missed a punch.
Then the final promised round settles.
The accumulated counts stand above my central sections.
I can feel the weight of everything they have earned.
The boxer plants her feet.
Her shoulders tighten.
The audience becomes quiet.
A beautiful silence.
Even the announcer seems to understand that speaking now would be unwise.
I choose the final matching identity.
The outside reels change.
My central sections fill with their earned stacks.
Up.
Higher.
A dense wall of matching symbols stretching between the two narrow edges.
The result flashes across my ring.
The boxer throws a magnificent right hook.
I release the fortune.
The crowd explodes.
She has barely finished the punch when the announcer begins shouting about the greatest knockout of the evening.
I ring the bell.
Loud.
He continues.
I ring it again.
The boxer turns toward him.
He is standing beside the ropes, holding a microphone, grinning as though the entire victory belongs to his vocal cords.
He keeps talking.
I illuminate the WIN amount.
He keeps talking.
I lower the spotlights.
He keeps talking.
An extraordinary man.
He has discovered a profession in which he can be completely useless while sounding enormously important.
The boxer walks toward him.
Slowly.
The announcer notices.
His smile weakens.
She raises one glove.
I sound the bell.
He stops speaking.
At last.
The crowd waits.
The boxer leans across the ropes.
Takes his microphone.
And places it gently on the canvas.
Then she raises both gloves.
The crowd roars.
A perfect ending.
I am almost satisfied.
Then the announcer picks up a spare microphone.
Oh, no.
He opens his mouth.
I send the next five reels spinning before he can say a word.