Fatherland: Croupier-Dissonance

A Story by Abishai100

A dark-city run by invader-colonial Martians nevertheless 'boasts' underground speakeasy hubs in which one affable idealist serves as an Earthling-downs croupier of sorts.

A dystopia portrait for Friday night drawn from the themes/imagery of Alex Proyas works, which I think you'll like (and thanks for reading!),

DISCLAIMER: This work of creative fiction/fanfiction offers no ties to any representative person(s)/body (e.g., Facebook) and all images/references used herein comprise a purely 'personal' expression for social art (for 'open' interpretation).

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Meet Mr. Amlan Satan, an affable and even whimsical late 21st-Century croupier in an underworld dive speakeasy casino-games pub basement surrounded by a darkened city of overlord Martians controlling the Earth-realm with a special mezzanine grips of iron and labor-production demands that drove capitalism-minded humans into a force-state of simplified self-serving grouping for criminal activity for basic survival (Facebook-like).

CROUPIER (Mr. Amlan Satan): Good to have you here in our speakeasy, pal!
HUMAN CUSTOMER (Poker-Star): You're in quite an eve head-gear for IQ.
CROUPIER: Well, let's say we human ants need some breathing for pillow!
CUSTOMER: Thanx for the simple adverb statement; it's a dark city of IQ.
CROUPIER: You're quite the small-famed speakeasy poker-fellow, pal!
CUSTOMER: Thanx...I need this sort of escapism from those Martians.
CROUPIER: They're certainly evil...rumor has it they're threatening games.
CUSTOMER: Of course they are; those Martian overlords turn-over all fun.
CROUPIER: Even poker, pal (damn!).
CUSTOMER: That's why I run here in the dark, post-midnight (for fun).
CROUPIER: Well, let's see how your fare turns with our other patrons here!
CUSTOMER: Good reading and chat, Croupier...maybe hope floats (for ads).
CROUPIER: Ha, like old-Earth realm paintings of survivor-jam.
CUSTOMER: Something (cool).

It really was a dark city of invisible arms of sometimes intolerable claustrophobia, and it was the iron-grip mezzanines of those damned Martians who simply took-over Earth-realm and created rings of production and labor and spirit-attrition that drove once-capitalist humans into states of bureaucracy-numbness and reactionary underworld half-invisible criminality. It made Mr. Amlan Satan, the protagonist 'antihero' croupier of this sad story into something of a human race celebrity, for endurance of this erected image (or illusion?) of special axes of jewelry (for leviathan/uncertainty).