TW: Gambling, Tobacco, Alcoholism, strong language 

Andrew sat at the table in the apartment above the bakery, staring down at his cards. The hand was down to two, him and a gentleman who came to his establishment with a cart... Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He did not look at the man for a long time, the tension was thick in the air. And then he finally decided to take the risk. He looked to the other man and muttered, "I ain't got anything else I can bet..." His words were slurred from drink, the smell of smoke and spirits hanging in the air around them.

"Come on, mate, ye just gotta let go. Why don't ye fold if ye ain't gonna bet?" That was the voice of a portly fellow, the man's jowls fluttering with excitement almost.

The other man, a rather short and wiry fellow sat there twirling his moustache with his beady eyes giving the side eye. Andrew had a good hand and could win, but he had bet every last bank note on his person and he just didn't want to take the hit. "Aye, I could fold, but c'mon, I got a new wife and I wanna do somethin' fer her, ain't been easy fer the lass," muttered the baker.

"Well, wot ye waitin' fer, lad?" The wiry fellow prodded at Andrew questionably. Andrew grunted, poured a few fingers of the fine Irish Whiskey he had been given by a customer before his bakery started to take a hit from the downward spiral of his guilt.

"Alright! Fine... I'll bet me bakery, I ain't got anythin' else!" He looked over to the other player.

How did he get into this mess? He had been sort of keeping himself busy with nothing. He wasn't selling his mixtures any longer, and he had had some money saved up. But he took almost none of it with him when he ended up in this place. He had done well enough but now, he'd put almost everything he'd taken on the table to lure in the winnings from the others.

His hand was unbeatable. It was so good, he was proud of himself. Instead of getting giddy, he'd covered his mouth and eyed it as one would look at an unsolvable problem. Just stare and tilt the head as if seeing it at a new angle would bring a solution. Pony's eyes avoided the other men except in small glances.

Then after this long, almost suffocating wait, this baker spoke. He was betting everything while trying to guilt Pony into folding so he could help his wife. Too bad for this stranger.

The red haired man couldn't give a damn about his problems or his wife. He smiled almost splitting his face. "Alright, you're on. I bet my horse and cart. Now show your cards."

He tossed down the hand, beautiful cards in descending order with matching suits.

For Andrew, the life got sucked out of him. He threw down his hand, he gaped in disbelief. God damn it! Without a word, the tall man stalked down to the room he used as his office.

He came upstairs again and numb fingers dropped a stack of papers. He signed his bakery over to the winner, wrote a letter as such, and another for his solicitor.

Rose was going to hate him.

Andrew took the half empty decanter of whisky and guzzled some of the contents down. "All years, bloke. I'd hand me wife over too, but she burns the damn bread. Ye ain't gonna like'er cooking..." He kind of snorted and sat almost bonelessly in the chair he had vacated.

"Ye own the name, the ingredients, the product, the cases, this table... Conrashulashions..." And then he sobbed a little and palmed his forehead. "She'll jush hate me more, oh well."