He’d been set up, of course, gulled into thinking he was as good, if not better, than the other players present. Afterwards he wondered if his drink had been laced with dope—spiked. He knew what it felt like to be drunk on champagne, but this had been different. It had been as if his free will had been removed, almost as if he were a puppet and someone else was inhabiting his brain, pulling his strings, forcing him to keep on playing. The evening developed a sour undertone and he realized that he was in the company of a pack of hyenas masquerading in evening dress and preying exclusively on
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