Chris Threadgill strode, tall and self-assured, to the check-in counter at Seattle Tacoma International Airport. He set down his laptop in front of him, and eased the shoulder strap off of his stuffed garment bag. The small, thin woman looked up at him with dark, appraising eyes. Chris noticed she had a tattoo on her wrist.

"Hi, can I help you?" she said briskly.

"Hello," said Threadgill. He handed her his driver's license. "I'm flying ticketless," he told her. According to the nametag pinned to her navy blazer, her name was Renee.

"Okay, Mister Threadgill, let's have a look..." Renee kept one eye on the computer screen and one eye on him. Chris flipped the twin blonde cowlicks back in place on the sides of his head and smirked at her.

"Found it," she said. "Round-trip, to Phoenix, Arizona, aisle seat?"

"Actually," Chris said, "can you put me on an exit row? These legs." He smirked again and made presenting motions with his hands in the direction of his legs, but they stopped right at his midriff, with his fingers pointing straight at his crotch.

She noticed. "I'll see what I can do for you."

"Thanks," he said.

This time, she looked at nothing but the screen as she made changes in the system. Chris smirked again. It was a professional habit that he had picked up from years of schmoozing on the West Coast. The trademark Threadgill smirk was what landed him his current job.

The printer rattled, and spat out his boarding pass. Renee origamied his flight information into a specially slotted envelope and handed it off to Threadgill. "You're all set, Mr. Threadgill," she said.

"Thanks, Renee," he said, re-shouldering his laptop computer. "You'll still be here when I get back, right?"

She grinned. "Count on it."

Threadgill made it through the metal detectors and screeners without incident, which was great, because in his money belt under his pants, he had stashed three ounces of marijuana. Usually, Threadgill never carried when he was on business, but this particular trip made getting stoned a necessity.

He walked through the crowds at Sea-Tac International, fighting like a salmon going upstream, as he made his way to Concourse C. Gate 9. The waiting area was half-full.

He sat down on the molded plastic seats and took out a sheaf of papers from the side pocket of his laptop case.

The top sheet was his personal checklist of things to do while in Tempe, Arizona. It was a lot of work, but thankfully, Threadgill would only be coordinating that work. The problem was, he would be dealing with and depending on a lot of hostile people to get it done.

He was already practicing his sympathetic tone of voice. Hey, look, frankly, if it were up to me, you guys could stay here. I'm a traditionalist. I'm sure if you check your records, you'll find my character still in your national rankings from twelve years ago. Were it up to me, we'd make this place a gaming shrine.

Best not to lay it on too thick, he decided. But that line of thought got him going again, and he felt the anger rising up in his stomach. He was the head of sales for MageWorks Game Company, a three-year-old company that produced the hottest collectible trading card game in the United States for the past eighteen months. And, like most three-year olds, MageWorks was a real brat.

When Chris Threadgill had first applied for a job, two and a half years ago, they needed someone who could schmooze the distributors and the retailers and politely shove cases of Battle Quest down everyone's throat, and do it in such a way that they would thank him for it. They saw, inside of ten minutes, that Threadgill was that guy, and they gave him a large check and stock options. "Stock options," he had muttered. "For a game of Old Maid with dragons and elves on the cards." Now, his stock was worth well over a hundred thousand dollars. He ran a staff of ten, and reported only to the head of operations and the CEO. For a twenty-eight year old single guy from Seattle, it was a good job.

And all he really had to do was schmooze the people. It was easy, he found out, easier than he ever thought it would be. He just talked to them. All of the women were flattered, and all of the men looked up to him. Threadgill was tall, thin, and attractive. He was the physical opposite of ninety percent of the people he sold the Battle Quest card game to. But he treated every single one of them like they were the King of Siam.

It was his talent. He had a natural charm about him, a certain charisma that people picked up on. Talking was always easy for him as a result, and sometimes, Chris would deliberately say asinine things or spout egregious bullshit, just to see if a woman would call him on it. No one ever did.

Threadgill's personal opinion about his success in the gaming industry was that these people viewed him as either exotic, or that he represented the beautiful people that these nerds looked up to in high school. Regardless, it was that shining personality and ability to spread bullshit paper-thin that singled him out for the job of organizing the Gamesmen, Ltd. move.

Twenty years ago, Gamesmen, Ltd. was the MGC of its time. During the role-playing craze of the early eighties, Gamesmen produced LegendMaster, and it was a smash success in spite of a wave of negative publicity that the game led children to demon-worship and drugs, along with heavy metal music and overprotective parents.

But that was twenty years ago. Now, Gamesmen was in serious financial trouble, thanks to a fickle market and a lack of creative focus. That is, until MageWorks agreed to buy the company and all of its assets (as well as assuming all of the debts, which Threadgill argued they shouldn't do), and brought the company under the MageWorks Gaming Company umbrella. The sale was creatively spun in the trade press to sound like the earnest young company (who owed all of its success to the larger company, golly gee) simply paying back an old friend who was down on his luck and needed a helping hand.

In truth, the CEO of MageWorks wanted nothing more than to revamp the entire company with a role-playing system of his own design, one that had been turned down by Gamesmen, Ltd some eighteen years ago. But only Threadgill knew that. One of the many perils of drinking with the boss.

So, now the Gamesmen offices had to move, lock, stock and barrel, to Spokane, Washington, a feat that took the better part of a year to orchestrate. This included the creative staff, as well, but Threadgill knew damn good and well that over half of them would be fired in six months. However, he couldn't tell them that. Right now, all he could do was smile and offer them bullshit by the bucket. He sighed and stuffed the papers back into his laptop case. It was going to be a long week. Threadgill glanced at his fellow travelers, looking for a woman he could flirt with.