It all seemed to have been arranged-Seton sensed this when he opened the door of his house that evening and walked down the hall into the living room. The sounds of violence echoing through the house were enough to warrant Seton to come sprinting, but he knew this scene all too well to quicken his pace. Four people, two large, and now empty coolers of whiskey, and several articles of expensive, antique furniture occupied the living room.
Broken dishes were scattered across every surface. The television was doused by a shattered bottle of wine, but it continued to blare that night’s football championships. His uncle Don had brandished his enormous pocketknife and began drunkenly ripping through the ancient rugs on the floor. So, it was a typical evening during basketball season in the Johnson household, but tonight everything seemed, oddly, a bit too typical.

The knot in the bottom of his stomach, which he had harbored throughout the day, seemed to dive deeper and tie an even tighter knot as he faced his relatives, whom he had never truly meshed with. As he entered the room, taking in the disastrous scene in from of him, his great aunt Madge smiled at him from her spot on the couch, where she sat calmly with a cigar between her toothless gums.

The house was vast and magnificent. Seton’s parents built the house in the midst of their enormous wealth as owners of a popular chain of karaoke-style bakeries across the coast called Shakin’ Bakin’, and everything in it was extravagant.
Even though his parents went from owning a feeble bakery on the east side of the city to owning a dozen, thriving across the east side of the country, they still made time to continue the tradition of inviting their family members over to drink and watch the NBA championships. After a horrific car crash only months before, in which both of his parents were killed, Seton, at only age 19, was left the entire chain of bakeries and the whole extraordinary house for himself.

“The Lakers versus the Suns tonight.” Madge said calmly over the screaming of her grandchildren, Seton’s two older cousins, as they tumbled across the floor.
Danny, the younger of the two, yelled, “NO, HE SHOULDN’T HAVE!” Upon seeing Seton in the doorway, he had turned and swung back his muscular arm dramatically. He punched his brother Eric, hard in the face, which sent him flying behind the antique desk with a thud. Eric reappeared behind the couch moments later. His face was a deep red, but Seton suspected it wasn’t because of the assault, but rather the empty bottle of gin he clutched tightly in his hand.
“Yes he did, and you know it!” Eric spat at Danny, slurring his words. No matter what the subject or how he felt about it, he always took the side opposing Danny. He lunged across the desk at him, and breaking the bottle over his head. “He deserved to be traded! He’s terrible! Maybe even the most pathetic player on the whole team!”
“You take that back! Take it BACK!” Said Danny defiantly. The brothers rolled across the floor exchanging punches and snide comments about Ricky Davis of the Lakers, and how he was traded over to the Celtics right before this intense final round. They stole glances at Seton frequently, almost as if they were hoping he would see them fighting viciously.
Seton turned his attention away from the quarreling of his drunken cousins, to the television his great aunt was watching intently. “Wow, nice shot.” He replied calmly as a player from the Lakers swished a beautiful 3 pointer. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed it in one sip. He poured himself another. “So, what are the bets tonight?”

Great aunt Madge peered over at him, a mischievous gleam in her ancient eyes. “Well, Daniel here has three hundred on the Celtics because of that new Ricky Davis character, and Eric, of course, had to bet against him for the Lakers with four hundred. Don over there,” She said, nodding over at Seton’s uncle, who lay on the rug, staring at Seton and toying with his pocketknife, muttering about free throw statistics and assist percentages. “Refused to bet tonight. Said he didn’t have the money for it. Of course, after several drinks, he put down six hundred for the Celtics. I myself have a pair of fake diamond earrings on the Lakers, but don’t tell any of these drunkards they’re only worth eight dollars.” She shot him a toothless grin and winked.

Seton liked aunt Madge the best during basketball season. During the championships, while the rest of his family preferred to get drunk and destroy Seton’s inherited home, aunt Madge sat calmly in front of the television, intently watching the game. The next morning, she would go around and collect her winnings from her hung over relatives. Year after year, aunt Madge always won.

Seton raised his eyebrows at Madge as she said, “So, what’s your bet? The Lakers are up, but Ricky Davis has been making good time for the Celtics. It could go either way at this point.”

“Well, I don’t see the point in betting anymore,” Said Seton, crossing his arms, “You always win, no matter how good my team is doing.”

“Ah son. Today could be your day,” She said, her eyes gleaming forcefully.

Seton thought to himself, what’s the worst that could happen? “Well alright,” He said. “I’ll make a bet.” It was almost as if the three drunken men were listening to their conversation, for when Seton agreed to bet, they stopped their drunken ramblings and huddled around them. Aunt Madge handed him a glass of whiskey and said, “So what are you betting?”

Seton looked around at each of his relatives. None of them looked nearly as drunk as he had seen them earlier. Their sober eyes penetrated him, and he felt uneasy. Betting had always been fun and games, but these stakes felt higher tonight. He hesitantly downed several glasses of whiskey, thinking that perhaps it was just his nerves after a long day.

As the room began to spin, his cousins closed in on him, and repeated, “So, Seton, what are you betting? How about your nice car? Or this nice couch?”

Seton was never a big drinker, but he took another glass that was handed to him. He slurred his words as he said to Danny, “But you only betted three hundred.”

Danny cocked his head to the side, as Seton’s vision began to blur. “Oh no, little cousin. You must have misheard. I bet three hundred thousand.”

Uncle Don smiled dryly and said, “I bet my sled dogs and my new truck.”

Aunt Marge looked at Seton mischievously and said. “Eric and me bet the summer home in Florida. What are you throwing into the pot, Seton?”

Seton nearly fell out his chair. His cousins held him up by his arms as he mumbled drunkenly, “I… I don’t know.”

Aunt Marge loomed over him and sneered, “Well if you can’t think of anything, how about we make some suggestions. How about… The Shakin’ Bakin’ bakeries?”

Sound and sight grew fuzzy in Seton’s ears and eyes. They stood so close to him, and they held a paper up to him, and somehow he signed it.

Aunt Madge grinned and said smugly, “So, it’s a bet.”

And Aunt Madge always won.