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I could ram it down Snarkwing's throat. Sideways. He'd come home with Branston, Threelegs, the Tiki Tack Man and a keg the night before last, and he'd known damn fine she had to be up early on World Challenge Day. She'd thought she could sleep through anything after the Tyrannian Wars, but the Korbat war drums, even the blood-freezing shrieks of the Northern pterodactyls, paled next to "Frigging In The Rigging: Drunken Eyrie Karaoke Mix With Steel Drums At 3am". I could wedge Cheesegobbler's wardrobe doors shut so he can't wear that eyebleeding Tiki Tack print shirt again. I could beat Fernypoo round the head till her brains ooze out of her ears. I could...
She caught herself. The ring of grinning Tyrannians were waiting for her to make a move. I've got to win the fucking thing first. The slack-jawed Techo to her left had played - oh shit - three aces. She slowly picked up the centre stack. The long habit of self-discipline did not allow frustration, fury or the hint of despair to show in her face or the set of her wings, but she felt the tightening behind her temples as the Mynci hooted in wordless triumph and the Kacheek did his little "you lose!" dance. It had made her want to pull his large intestine out through his nose the first time, and that had been several hours ago.
The dealer began laboriously to count out the cards again. She closed her eyes and allowed herself a brief mental picture. Green baize. Clinking ice cubes in drinks that weren't made of dung. The rattle of Kalora's carved wooden bracelets. Soft shaded light glinting off sharp white teeth... damn him. There'd been no smile on his face when he challenged her - he never smiled - but she'd seen it, all the same. She'd certainly not see it if she went back to him without having won at least once.
She gritted her beak, and picked up her cards for the fourth time.
