Jack Ryder stood under the awning of a store that had long ago been closed down and boarded up.   He leaned against the door, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his worn out jacket.  He was already soaked to the bone.  The jacket did little to protect him from the biting cold of the night, and even less to keep the rain out.  He suppressed a shiver.<br/><br/>Ryder watched the building across the street.  The rain was pouring down in sheets, making it difficult to see, but he could make out the shuffling figures, looking furtively left and right before knocking on the door.  Another figure would appear, and they would stand there for a moment, then the figure would move aside to let them in.  This is the place, he thought.<br/><br/>He strode purposefully across the street and rapped on the door.  An old gentleman pulled open the door and peered out at Jack.  The man smiled softly, his eyes betraying a hint of sympathy when he looked into Jackâ€™s.  His face was scarred and pockmarked, and Jack could hear his ragged breathing even over the sound of the rain.  â€œItâ€™s a wet night.â€ The haggard old man rasped.  â€œWet and cold.  Youâ€™ll catch your death out here.â€<br/><br/>â€œIt is indeed, although Iâ€™m pretty sure Iâ€™m dead already. â€œ<br/><br/>â€œPerhaps.  Where you headed, son?â€<br/><br/>â€œDown to Hell.  A penny for the boatman.â€  Jack said, pulling a copper coin out of his pocket and dropping it into the manâ€™s outstretched hand.  As he took it, the man noticed Jackâ€™s smallest finger was missing its tip at the first knuckle and gave a sad sigh.<br/><br/>â€œI hope you know how to play the Game.â€ The man said softly as he stepped aside and allowed Jack to enter.  Jack stepped in and started down the stairs as if he hadnâ€™t heard the man, his heavy boots thumping down the spiral wrought iron staircase.  Jack vaguely heard the heavy door slam shut.<br/><br/>Jack, like everyone else who had found themselves descending into Hell, had his reasons for coming here.   He had ventured down once before, more than a decade past, on a dare from one of his friends.  His friend had been lucky at the Table of Flesh, and boasted about his winnings.  Jack had finally sought out the door himself and ventured down.  Hesitant to lose, he made the smallest bet he could, and lost.  He had left that night, horrified, and vowed never to come again.  His life since had been nothing but misery.  His family had long ago abandoned him when he ran off with his lover.  Some days after that night, however, his lover fell ill.  The doctors said nothing short of a miracle could save her, and yet he refused to go back down those stairs.  He would not make a deal with the Devil.<br/><br/>His lover wasted away in front of him, day by day growing weaker and weaker, until one day she could hold on no longer.  Soon after he lost everything and fell into drinking.  His friends slowly drifted away from him, wary of his bad luck as if it were the plague.  Tonight he wanted answers.  He had nothing left but his life, and he had nothing left to live for.  As he descended the final step and stepped into the parlor, no one looked at him.  They were all too wrapped up in their own misery to notice someone elseâ€™s.<br/><br/>He sat down at the Table of Blood.