Jank [2of5]

A Magical Trading Card Game Memoir

Bureaucratic business attended to, we ventured deeper into the arena to mix with the other contestants. A multicultural crowd united not by tribe, title, or arbitrary identity trait, but bonded by the beauty of art, logic, math, and a shared love for competition. Regardless if they were explicitly instructed in The Way, each player embodied aspects of its essence.

We were drawn to a sizable crowd coalescing around a competitive constructed format exhibition. Libraries were double-sleeved and dragon-shielded for protection. The battlefield was cluttered with permanents; tokens, artifacts, enchantments, and lands. Some of the cards, priceless.

We looked down upon what appeared to be two control mages facing off. One old, one young. Both lost in concentration, juggling the increasing complexity of their decision trees and probability matrices.

The old bald one collected sweat from his brow with the back of his left hand. He wiped it dry; up then down the breast of his corduroy vest. “Pass the turn,” he said, leaving all of his resources untapped.

The younger player began his turn, announcing “Untap. Upkeep. Draw.”

Fresh face focused, his eyes enumerated his available resources. He compulsively adjusted the order of the cards held in his hand. I knew this behavior. Augmented a bit by Adderall or Aspergers, perhaps both. He was definitely running through permutations. Trying to decide if this game was his to win or his to lose. The Kid came to a decision. He tapped his mana and meekly announced an enchantment spell, laying the card in the middle of the battlefield.

“I’ll allow it,” said Baldy.

The Kid's enchantment resolved into permanence, boosting the stats of his army. “Move to combat phase,” he said, adding “...response?”

Baldy shook his head in the negative then casually reordered the four remaining cards in his hand, suggesting he had at least one line of play, or was bluffing and had nothing.

“Declare attackers,” said The Kid, turning a cluster of seven Soldier Tokens sideways. With the additional power granted by the anthem effect of the enchantment he had cast, he was representing lethal damage.

Baldy grinned. Drawing six mana from his lands, he cast an instant spell, punctuating each word of its devastatingly simple effect, “End. The. Turn.”

Several onlookers gasped, comprehending if this spell resolved, The Kid’s alpha strike would be cancelled, and he would be dead to Baldy’s next Titan attack.

The Kid coolly drew mana from his lands, produced a card from his hand, then responded “Mana Leak.”

Baldy scoffed, smirking with one side of his mouth. He tapped three more mana. Attempting an imitation of Sean Connery from Highlander, or perhaps Zardoz, he said “Hi’ll pay your prysh.“

The Kid tapped two more mana from his islands, produced another card from his hand, this time saying, “Counterspell.”

Baldy responded by tapping two Islands of his own, tossed a card atop the growing stack, and said, “Leak your Counter.”

Having only two mana left, the kid could not plug the leak. But he tapped his remaining islands, produced another Counterspell card and said, “Counter your Leak.”

Baldy frowned, pursed his lips, and stroked his goatee. He set his remaining two cards face-down on the table and glanced at the orientation of his D20; the Platonic Icosahedron representing his life total read twelve. Holding his breath, he reviewed the battlefield, counting the incoming attackers. One could be blocked with his Titan, but the six that went unblocked would each deal two damage. He was dead on board. Not just lethal; Exactsies. The Kid leaned back in his chair, confidence buoyed.

I had witnessed such scenes play out many times. The amalgam of lessons absorbed through thousands of past games forecast the precipitation of drama. I leaned toward Emm then whispered into her ear, “Pay close attention to this, my apprentice.”

The Kid’s grin betrayed his feeling of relief. Baldy responded, raising an eyebrow. Toying with him. Mining salt. Drawing his last two blue mana, Baldy locked eyes with The kid, then blindly flipped over the topmost card of his hand, capping the stack. He said, “Counter your Counter.”

There would be no answering this. The Kid was tapped out. In frustration he tossed his remaining three un-castable cards onto the battlefield. Conceding the game, he scooped. “Sheit!”

The crowd cheered with oohs, ahhs, laughter, and applause. Baldy unbuttoned his vest, putting his hands on his belly, jovially whooping like a sadistic buddha.

“Jeeeze,” said the kid. He smiled, the humor of his loss hitting him. Shaking his head from side to side, defeated, but amused.

Baldy reeled in his laughter, took his right hand off his belly, and held it out over the battlefield saying, “Good game.”

“Good game,” returned The Kid, shaking Baldy’s hand. Three solid pumps. “You slow-rolling son-of-a-bitch!”

The crowd dispersed.

###

I spotted Leonard Skeltal at the trading tables. The smile on his face indicated he was conducting business. He was wearing his Vegeta Dragon Ball Z Hawaiian shirt. When I first met him, he was an independently wealthy cryptocurrency baron. He diversified at peak into real estate and is now an Airbnb slumlord (story in ΩPP: Episode 181 - “Two-Headed Giant Special”).

Lenny is one of the best traders I’ve ever known. The key to his trading prowess is his question, ‘Are you happy with this trade?’ He does as much as possible to get a completely free of duress affirmative answer. Always coming out on top by his own metrics, but also striving to make sure his trade partners are similarly satisfied. Lenny recognizes that games of trade are not zero-sum value propositions. He firmly believes that all parties to a trade can and should benefit.

I made eye contact with Lenny from across the trade table. He nodded a silent hello and continued his business conversation. His trade partner wore a large backpack to haul his wares. From behind him, I could not see his face to guage his interest in the transaction. Based on Lenny's engagement, and the substantial card piles on the table between them, I concluded this was a high value exchange. Looking over his shoulder, I could see Lenny's trade partner lackadaisically perusing the famed 'Skeltal Jank binder'. To sweeten a deal, Lenny would offer it saying, “Take any five cards from here”.

All the cards bound within were usually jank except for one in the center of the first page. Lenny would strategically place a chase rare at that most prominent of spots. Being far more valuable than the rest, it would almost always be picked. Adding any other four cards, jank or not, would tend to make people feel they were getting a good deal. Lenny used more than a few psychological tricks like that. He had the ability to be a shark, but he took a principled stance and didn’t gain value from unbalanced trades. He profited on the strength of his investments.

Lenny is masterful at identifying which cards have the highest potential. For most players, complexity is too high to predict what cards will define the top tier deck, let alone which will beat the best. Len’s picks were so often correct they warped the local metagame. He had stopped making his wantlist public because local speculators were using it to pump up prices ahead of demand.

Watching Lenny effortlessly complete a massive trade, I wondered if treating his wantlist as a ‘dangerous secret’ was yet another one of his value altering psychological tricks. After all, the best way to spread information is to infuse a forbidden quality to attract curious minds. I suppose it didn’t matter if he was manipulating us. Everyone was thankful to make a deal with Mr. Skeltal.

They shook hands, finalizing their trade. Lenny’s trade partner gently slid a stunningly beautiful gold card into a pink sleeve. He proudly inserted it as the centerpiece on page two of his binder. Its text was too far away to be legible, but I recognized the art of the multi-colored mythic-rare. It was one of my favorite new cards. A solid acquisition. I already had a playset.

Cards of mythic rarity were a modern addition to the game. Before their introduction the only three acknowledged production levels were ‘rare’, ‘uncommon’, and ‘common’. Excluding foils and promos, of course. Those three standard rarity levels varied depending on set size, print run, reprints, etc., but were present in consistent ratios in every booster. Combined with the gold standard of the Reserved List, this consistency anchored the trade value distribution to the playerbase.

Mythics however, only appearing in about one out of every six packs, ballooned the sale of boosters and led to depression of prices at the lower rarity levels. They alleviated stagnation, but the economic divide of the playerbase was deepened. Bulk commons became almost worthless while chase mythics became extremely expensive. The community pushed back against the artificial inflation. Rarity restricted casual constructed formats emerged and thrived, further increasing the size of the playerbase. So despite its downsides, corporate greed and mismanagement ended up perpetuating The Way by making it scale economically.

###

A paunchy ginger-haired man with a bowl-cut waved at us. His 'Friendship Is Magic!' t-shirt was at least a size too small. Sashaying toward us he said, “Emmanuelle!”

“Windy! How the heck are ya?” greeted Emm, matching his cheer.

“I’m super! How’ve you been?”

“Grim, dark, yet optimistic," she accurately appraised herself, then asked, "Whatchya been up to?”

“Oh my, like, uh, so many things.” He put his hand on his head as if trying to extract more details, then went on, “Nothin’ comes to mind, but I’m keepin’ busy.”

Windy and Emm had met in college. After catching up for a few minutes Windy said, “Let me introduce you to Helga.”

I had only marginal awareness of Helga Vindjakker. I knew enough to know I had no interest in knowing more. She had a prickly personality. I couldn’t decide if she was nearer to being a prison shot caller or the lord of an Incel harem.

Not that I think ill of Incels. I use the term descriptively, not pejoratively. I understand their plight: to be awkward or lacking in aesthetics. Having intangible qualities that make people not want to be around them, let alone touch them. The recurring pain of being rejected by a society that refuses to look below the surface. Discrimination of that sort is the most pervasive form of prejudice. Shunned before being known. It’s cruel.

Incels however, embrace this cruelty and their own sadness by focusing on sex while their handicap lay far before that level of a relationship. An Incel’s biggest problem isn’t that which they see as contributing to their status as an Incel, it’s their resignation in self-identifying as such. Incels next-level themselves into being forever alone by way of their attitude.

Although also having a bad attitude, Helga herself was probably not an Incel. Celibacy is almost always voluntary for females. Her bosom was just too substantial for her caustic personality to hinder her entirely. Perhaps in avoidance of my disgust reaction, I only imagined the celibacy of her serviles. I terminated the intrusive thought and shuddered. It was clear to me that Windy had been sent as Helga’s emissary.

Windy guided us to a table at the back of the arena where the subtle sounds of dungeon synth saturated. The tabletop was cluttered with miniatures. Helga sat surrounded by her boys. She opted to forgo a greeting. Fixating her gaze on Emm she asked, “How long've you been a player?”

As I suspected, Helga was trying to see if Emm was legit. Sizing up a potential competitor on some frivolous feminine territorial level. Performing a shit-test like some geek she-beast mini-boss. “Are you a Spike, a Timmy, or perhaps a Johnny?”

“Timmy Tammy Johnny Jenny... Not a fan of labels. None of the above. Or all. Take your pick,” offered Emm.

It was a good riposte. Better than I could have come up with. I overflowed with pride. Helga directed zero attention toward me. Cold grey eyes, poker faced, and tapping her fingers on the table, she continued to size-up Emm. “What’s your star sign?”

More superficial scuttlebutt. Awaiting a reply to their master’s query, Helga’s harem surrounded her suspended in a kinetic silence as though she were the focal point of a tableau.

“They say I’m a Leo,” answered Emm, splashing the question back, “...and you?”

“I’m Scorpio.”

“Stingy,” remarked Emm. Changing the subject she added, “Your shirt is totally sweet.”

Helga’s poker face dissolved. Her black painted lips parted revealing a smile. With an annoyingly enthusiastic inflection she said, “Thaaaank yew!”

Her ‘Sisters of Mercy’ t-shirt was custom tapered. On her left hand she wore gaudy rings on every finger. Several bracelets, necklaces, and numerous other pieces of flair accented her outfit. She dyed her hair black and layered her eye-shadow dark purple. Prickly, territorial, and likely vain.

An announcement booming over the PA system flooded out their low value verbal exchange.

“Table seatings are posted. Drafting will begin in five minutes. Please find and take your places presently.”

###

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