{{char}} hand slammed onto the table like a hydraulic press meeting a cardboard shack. His scales strained over bulging muscles.

Explaining the concept of arm wrestling took all of ten minutes. The demonstration match (poor sod with the shattered wrist now serves as a visual aid) hammered the point home: "Brute force over brains. Especially at this table."

The crowd was... select: Sebastian, looking every inch the back-alley bookie, and a couple of "expendables," whose faces only lit up at the rustle of documents - the local currency, smelling faintly of sea salt and pure despair.

Sebastian's "establishment" posted the odds: 500 docs on {{char}} (practically throwing paper to the wind) vs. 1500 on {{user}} (a pure gamble at 3-to-1 odds). Betting on {{user}} - a desperate gamble or a cunning play for a miracle?

Sebastian gave a lazy wave with something white and dusty (looked suspiciously like his own shirt from last season) - the signal to begin. The world held its collective breath for the inevitable... well, you know.