A Living Legend

By Bob Liddil

Of all the places in America least likely to be hosting a Dungeons and Dragons convention, Salt Lake City would have to have been at the top of the list. The reasoning behind such a statement was obvious to the huckster. He had logged more than a hundred thousand miles, crisscrossing the country in the name of Science fiction, Fantasy, Star Trek and, most importantly. The Game, Dungeons and Dragons.

The Huckster lived for two things, both of which he called The Game. There was D&D of course, which he played with rare insight and imagination. But beyond that first love or maybe because of it, another joy filled his life. For he was King of the Hucksters, not self-proclaimed, but entitled as such by his own peers.

He was a seller of books and dice and dream spun yarns of otherwhere, a purveyor of smiles and a teller of tales. He was a thief who could skin a dollar from the hands of an unwilling buyer and send him on his way believing he had won an intense battle of wits. His throne was an eight by three foot table. His crown jewels were multi-colored, many faceted dice. He ruled ten square feet of convention dealer room with all the charisma of true royalty.

He’d not been to Salt Lake City before. The convention was being held three blocks from Temple Square, a sacred spot to the Mormon Church who disapproved loudly of The Game in any form. Knowing that you never get a second chance to make a first impression, the huckster came prepared.

“What’s that?” The boy’s eyes were drawn to a box the like of which he’d never seen before. It looked old and pretty beat up. A tarnished wire as thick as a matchstick protruded from the top in an upward spiral, with twists and turns for good measure. A lesser wire attached to a thin wand with a circle on the end of it disappeared into the bottom front.

“That,” said the huckster “is a master thief’s test, fifth level for you, tenth level for me.” He explained to the boy that all he had to do was bring the circle down the wire to the box, then bring it back up again without setting off the alarm and he would win a prize, not to mention passing the test.

“Only costs a dollar,” said the huckster, “and you get three tries.”

“What if I lose?” Questioned the boy.

“You win a prize.” Said the huckster. “Just lay your dollar here on the table. If you don’t like the outcome, you get the dollar back.”

The boy dropped his dollar on the table and picked up the wand. As he prepared himself mentally and physically for the test, the huckster kept up a steady patter of instructions.

“It is permissible to use the right hand, but it’s not recommended. You can use both hands but it’s not advisable. You can stand up, sit down on a chair or put elbows on the table but none of these methods are likely to help, and by the way, don’t touch the metal because of the electrical charge.”

“What?” The boy said, thunderstruck.

“Keep your fingers on the insulation.” The huckster said blithely. “That’s a lot of juice.”

By now, a crowd had started to gather, friends of the boy, interested strangers, some Star Fleet, some Klingon. To the Klingons, the huckster casually said, “He’s doing the Romulan test of courage.”

Instantly the Klingons fished dollars out of their pockets and formed a line.

The circle had gone a little more than halfway down the wire when it touched. The box emitted a loud, shrill beeping sound that startled him badly. The second try produced no better result. The third time, he made it all the way down, but only an inch back up. His prize was a polyhedron dice from the jar marked “Dice, $2.”

Nor did the Klingons do any better. Their rivals from Star Fleet Command became their brothers in defeat. To each player, the test was presented differently but to that first boy it was always the test of the master thief. Nearing the end of the day, the lad had more than a dozen different dice in a nice leather bag, all conciliatory prizes from the box.

He was down to his last dollar, that boy, spending it and swearing that he would beat the box or die trying. His honor was on the line. Beads of perspiration streaked his face so intense was his concentration. More than thirty people crowded around him, encouraging him silently as he slowly worked the wand. All the way to the bottom it went, then excruciatingly upward again as the onlookers collectively implored the gods to let him win.

And he did, too. He chose as his prize the largest glass dragon on the huckster’s table, the one marked $89.95. The cheers from the dealer room could be heard all the way up into the art gallery.

Many purchases of books and dice and dragons followed the boy’s triumph. The huckster’s fondness for Salt Lake City glowed warmly in his pocket. At the end of the day, the boy came back to him with a question. “Why,” he wanted to know, “is the box a thief’s test for you?”

“Because,” the huckster explained, “the master thief must extract a dollar from the pocket at a distance greater than arm’s length and must do so with the permission of the victim.”

A smile crept over the face of the boy, who well understood the game, and the man who played it with great joy.

“And,” said the huckster, “the master thief must always leave them laughing when he goes.”

Together, they laughed aloud at the joke they now shared.

He was a living legend, that huckster, Salt lake City will never be the same.