Errata: Objective, part one

"I am going to beat you so bad, your entire existence will revolve around sucking my dick."
With Bryce's constant smack talk and screechy generic punk echoing in his ears, Tim tried to maintain his focus and remember what was going on. He had the Fire Hazard and the Secondary and they were making good money, enough to keep him afloat for five more turns, maybe even more. Bryce couldn't hack that, not with his current habit. It was just a matter of waiting him out.
"As the days bleed into months bleed into years, you will forget there was a time before my wang."
Christ. He tried not to crack a grin. Okay, so patience would win out. But Bryce definitely had a plan - Bryce always did - and if he lost his club this turn, he wouldn't survive long enough to put it into action. So if he, Tim, hired an Arsonist, it could end here and now.
Bryce's eyes glinted in the dim light, continuing in his best David Attenborough: "Sociologists and anthropologists will be baffled by your inability to engage with any environment that does not contain my balls."
Fuck's sake. Tim snorted, and went for it. He dropped the five bucks and took the Arsonist from uncontrolled. A goth girl at the next table looked over, squinted at their game and made an inaudible comment that set her whole table laughing and hooting.
"Wonder what they'll say about this?" Tim asked innocently as he dropped the character card and tapped Bryce's sole source of income with his finger.
"Wise up." said Bryce, flipping a Security from his hand. Well, shit. "Did you seriously forget I bought that?"
"Fuck you." said Tim, shuffling through his hand again and again as if a helpful card would materialize if he looked hard enough.
Bryce returned to his narrating tone. "Eventually, the decision will be made to return you to the only environment in which you can be truly happy. The Enya soundtrack will swell as you are once again re-introduced to my knob. It will be a tearful, slobbery reunion..."
"Jesus Christ, have you been rehearsing this or is it improv? Because it's simultaneously impressive and pathetic either way."
"Just play the game. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can meet your new boss."
Tim sighed and knocked. Looking up, he saw that Jess had walked in and was sauntering over to their table in a lace-bedecked dress she had described as "the colour of menstrual blood".
"... My penis." finished Bryce, drawing his cards, taking his income and immediately spending it and more on his habit. By the time he was done, only a single money-chit remained in his bank.
"Hey guys, how goes the struggle?" asked Jess,
"About to end." cut in Bryce before Tim could explain the triumphs and trials of the past twenty minutes. He played a Shooting on the Fire Hazard, no income next turn, barely glancing at Tim to confirm there was no counter. He then played a Blackmail to use Tim's own discarded Arsonist against him, destroying the Secondary. Grinning like the card art of the Arsonist, he took in Tim's sole neutered club with a sweep of his arm. "Four bucks bank, no income, a five-buck habit. I think that's game."
Tim crumpled into his chair. "I would have had him, you know. If I hadn't bought that Arsonist." Jess, who was looking over the wreckage of the game like the entrails of a sacrificed animal, made a cartoonishly sympathetic face. "Aww, muffin."
"Don't give him any sympathy, doll. You forgot I bought that Security, and you got hosed by it." As he spoke, Bryce scooped the cards off the table, already reshuffling them.
"Ugh, no thanks, I've been brutalized enough for one night. I think I'll go dance. You can teach Jess how to play."
Jess sprang back as if she'd touched a hot stove. "Ohohoh no,, no way. You guys can play games here if that's your thing, but I'm here to have normal-people fun. Speaking of which..." Her voice turned to honey as she took Tim's arm and marched him away. "Buy a girl a drink?"
Tim rolled his eyes. "I think at this point I've bought you more drinks than I've ever bought myself."
"Come onnnnnn..." Jess set her weight into his arm, steering him towards the bar.