How to Win at Bonanza Bingo

It began on the night of July 31, 1966 as Charles Whitman murdered his wife and mother in
separate attacks. Notes left at the scene explained that the killings were to spare his loved ones
from what was to come.
Had his 1960’s high school graduating class been possessed with a modern sense of irony,
Charles Whitman would have been voted student “Most Likely to Commit a Capital Crime’.
Lonely, lazy and stupid, Charles sought to escape his violent home life for the relative
peacefulness of the United States Marines Corp. Despite some early successes, Charles was
eventually able to avoid a dishonourable discharge only through the intervention of his cruel,
though influential father. While the marines never managed to make a man out of Charles
Whitman, they did succeed in turning him into a master marksman.
On the morning of Aug 1, 1966, after spiralling downward for 5 years, Whitman climbed to the
top of the University of Texas Tower in Austin. Equipped with a day’s rations, 3 gallons of
water, paper and pen, a compass, flashlight, radio, hatchet, hammer, a container of gasoline, 2
knives, 2 pistols, a 35mm Remington rifle, a second scoped Remington 6mm rifle, a 357
Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver, a 30 calibre M-1 carbine and a 12 gauge shotgun, Charles
was now in position to lay siege over the University of Texas campus. Over the next 96 minutes,
Charles Whitman shot and killed 14 complete strangers and would be forever remembered as the
Texas Tower Sniper.
Even back in 1966, it was obvious that something new had been wrought upon the world.
People of the time expected their serial killers to interact with their victim, albeit in an inhumane
manner. Kidnapping, rape and murder may cross the line of normal human behaviour but most
people could at least understand these crimes as a deranged variant of human desire. Charles
Whitman, on the other hand, seemed to want nothing from his victims but their lives. His only
interaction with them was through the telescopic sight of his rifle. Charles didn’t cross the line.
He just sort of snapped and in the process, invented a new way of killing people.
Whitman was able to kill his victims from over 500 yards away. At that distance, the echoing
sounds of the gunshots were lost in the general hubbub of campus life. Charles’ victims fell
silently and near bloodlessly. Their bullet wounds were so small and precise that it took some
time for bystanders to realize that they were under attack. But when that realization came, the
good citizens of Austin reacted as any good Texans would; they opened fire, subjecting the
Tower and its solitary gunman to a hail of bullets. In the end it was the Austin police who killed
Whitman. Risking death by friendly fire, the police broke onto the Tower’s observation deck
and shot Charles twice in the head. The numerous bullets holes in the Tower’s outer facade
remain as a constant reminder of innocence lost.
It was surprising that Leonard had heard of Charles Whitman, it being 1,000 miles and 35 years
from the events that made the Texas Tower Sniper infamous. If you could get him talking about
Charles Whitman, Leonard would claim that he had, in fact, not heard of the sniper until after
Charles began to communicate with him from beyond the grave. Leonard, however, was under
strict instructions never to speak of Charles Whitman nor to pass along his strange and cryptic
messages.
Charles was partial to of strange methods of communications. He currently favoured sending
Leonard messages by way of Bingo numbers. The messages weren’t always clear so sometimes

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Charles sent help. Kathy Simmel and Fay Quinte were Charles’ current choice as messengers
that provided the help.
Kathy and Fay were locked in fierce competition. For years the pair were best friends and
regular bingo players. They had an unwritten understanding that if either friend won a big
jackpot, they would share it equally. That is until the evening that Fay actually won a big
jackpot with Kathy at home recovering from a bad batch of oysters. Then it became Fay’s
understanding that they would share a big jackpot only when they were both in attendance at the
bingo hall.
Kathy was a frequent visitor to the caller’s podium.
“Hey Leonard.”
“Hey Kathy.”
“I baked you some cookies.”
“Thanks.”
There were nine cookies on the plate. B9. Doctor’s orders. There were 9 cards on a flimsy.
Charles was sending him a message.
“Try one.”
Leonard picked up a cookie. Eight left. B8. Golden Gate. One fat lady. She’s always late.
Leonard understood.
“Do you like them?”
“Yes”, mumbled Leonard through a mouth full of cookie crumbs.
With the pleasantries out of the way, Kathy got down to business. “Leonard? Do you like me?”
Leonard had learned that Charles was very insecure. It came from having a stern and unloving
father. And in moments of stress, Charles’ insecurities tended to drive him into a murderous
rage.
“Sure I like you.”
“Do you like me more than you like Fay?”
It was a test. Leonard hated Charles’ tests. Leonard looked over at Fay. She was one fat lady.
Leonard imagined looking through the scope of his Remington high-powered rifle. Fay’s head
appeared in the sights. With a slight squeeze, a 6mm bullet silently entered her brain, switching
her off as effortlessly as flicking off the lights.
Kathy used Leonard’s unexplained delay as an invitation to argue her case. “You know, Fay
may seem nice but she is a person of low moral character. You can’t trust her.”
“Yes, I know.” Given Charles’ history, it was best to be agreeable.
“Then why do you let Fay win more jackpots than me?”
“It’s not up to me”, replied Leonard.

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Kathy was encouraged by this response. Leonard had at least acknowledged the legitimacy of
her claim. “Who is it up to?”
“Charles.”
“Can I speak to Charles?”
Damn. Leonard had slipped again. “I’ll try my hardest to let you win”, Leonard promised.
“Thank-you”, Kathy replied excitedly. She came in close to whisper in Leonard’s ear. “I’ll
make it worth your while” and kissed him lightly on his right cheek.
“Play cards 8 and 9”, was Leonard’s parting advise.
“Thanks”, Kathy shouted as she rushed away to buy her bingo cards.
A faint scent of perfume adhered to Leonard’s cheek as a reminder of their new understanding.
Leonard touched the spot on his cheek. In his mind he cocked his double-barrelled shotgun and
set the butt firmly in the crux of his shoulder. He placed his perfumed cheek against the stock,
pulled the trigger and with a jolt of violent kickback, sent a 12-gauge shell screaming towards
Kathy’s head. The huge shell literally caused her head to explode in a shower of blood, brains
and bone.
It was hard to keep Charles’ secrets. Leonard felt that those around him could hear his thoughts
leaking out of his brain. He would have liked to wear a lead helmet but he knew that would
make him even more conspicuous and likely cost him his job at the bingo hall.
Usually, Leonard kept his distance from other people and most nights that worked out well
enough. Being a bingo caller seemed to help. As recently as the 1970’s, bingo was the world’s
most popular game with over 10,000 games played and $90 million changing hands in North
America every week. But the rapid increase in the number of Indian and government casinos
and lotteries over the past 30 years caused a corresponding decline in attendance at the local
bingo hall. Few people, it seemed, actually liked the game of the bingo, they just liked to
gamble. And as a form of gambling, bingo suffered from two major disadvantages. The prize
money was too small and the games took too long to play. By the time Leonard became the full
time caller for the Bellwether Bingo Palace, bingo was in a state of permanent decline with a
depressingly small number of players. That is, until the government permitted a slight change to
the rules of Bonanza Bingo.
Bonanza Bingo is a progressive game with a jackpot that grows each week until the prize is won.
Like Blackout Bingo, the object of the game is to cover all 25 numbers on the bingo card. The
twist in Bonanza Bingo is that only 48 numbers are drawn. If there is no winner after 48
numbers, the jackpot is increased in proportion to the number of bingo cards sold and the game is
played again the next day. Each day the numbers of balls drawn is increased by one until the
jackpot is won. Usually, it takes 50 to 60 numbers to blackout a bingo card resulting in a jackpot
as high as $10,000. In the new Super Bonanza Bingo game, the number of bingo numbers drawn
is permanently fixed at 40.
The new variation was only six months old and in that time, there had not been a single winner.
The jackpot had grown to over $150,000. Bingo was back, much to Leonard’s discomfort.
One would have thought that the owner of Bellwether Bingo Palace would have been thrilled
with the resurgence of bingo’s popularity. But G.T. Woods was well past caring. Besides, G.T.

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wasn’t fooled by bingo’s newfound popularity. He understood that the yokels were being drawn
to the novelty of a six-figure bingo prize. But nothing fades faster than yesterday’s novelties.
The yokels would be tripping over themselves to pump quarters back into the slots five minutes
after the big jackpot was won. There was nothing G.T. could do to save bingo. All he could do
was milk it until it ran dry for good.
As was his habit, G.T. walked the aisles of the bingo hall, surveying the crowd. Bingo did not
draw an attractive clientele. The beautiful people went to the casinos. The old, fat and stupid
people went to bingo. As the owner of the bingo hall, G.T. lorded over them all. And like all
deities, G.T. was created in his subject’s image.
Being the Lord of Bingo was an easy gig. The charities that were the beneficiaries of the bingo
were in charge of selling the bingo cards. Shirley managed the concession stand; Leonard ran
the caller’s podium. G.T.’s job consisted solely of making his presence known and keeping the
peace. Given the average age of his bingo players, keeping the peace didn’t usually required him
to do more than throw the occasional dirty look.
Over the years, bingo proved to be a low risk, low energy and low return enterprise. That suited
G.T. fine, except for the low return part. It drove him crazy that the every night, the average
winner took home more money than he did. G.T. had long ago devised a plan to remedy the
situation but it had never seemed worth the risk. Until now.
“Hey G.T! Over here.” Munro Oxleigh waved madly his arm in a wide and slow sweep of his
arm. At 43 years old, Munro was significantly younger than the average bingo patron. He was
also tall and thin as opposed to being fat, short and wide. However, he seemed to be typically
dim.
“Hey, Munro.”
“Eyes Down!” Leonard’s voice, thin and reedy over the hall’s antiquated sound system, gave the
traditional call to start the bingo game. As usual, G.T. ignored the game and continued his
conversation with Munro. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Well, you know … it’s a pretty big jackpot.” Munro was slightly embarrassed to be a fair
weather patron.
“Feeling lucky tonight?”
“Not in particular. I just need the money.”
“N32, Buckle my shoe. G51, I love my Mom.” Leonard called out his numbers with a traditional
cockney slang.
“What do you need money for?” asked G.T.
“Don’t know. Maybe I’ll buy me some food.
“O71, Bang a drum. G55, Snakes alive.
“Try buying some at the concession stand.” G.T. was straining to be civil and was quickly losing
the battle. “And you might also want to buy more than one bingo card. What’s the matter?
Forget how to play?”
“I’m savin’ my money for the Bonanza”, replied Munro.

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“Do you mind?” snapped the bingo player sitting in front of Munro.
“B3, One little flea. O64, When I’m 64. The Beatle number.”
“Quiet buddy, you’ll miss the numbers.” G.T. admonished his heckler.
“I’m not your buddy. The name’s Ralph. Use it.”
“That’s great Ralph. Good luck,” said G.T. engaging in as little customer service as possible.
“A new piece just came on eBay,” said Munro, perhaps as further justification of his need for
money.
“O, yeah? What?”
“N33. Two little fleas. I23, A duck and a flea. Seems like we’ve got lot’s of fleas here tonight.”
“I’m trying to concentrate here.” This time the player turned around in his seat to glare at G.T.
and Munro.
“And you’re not doing too good a job of it”, advised G.T. “You missed a G55 on your top right
card. You’re going to have to try a little harder if you expect to win. G.T. returned his attention
to Munro. “So what came up on eBay?
“Joseph Mengele’s Lugar.
“You’re a sick puppy.”
“No sicker than you. You collect that Texas Strangler stuff.”
“It’s the Texas Tower Sniper, you moron. And there’s a whole world of difference between a
serial killer and a Nazi.”
“Yup, the Nazis killed a hell of a lot more people. Ain’t that the point of bein’ a serial killer? To
kill people?”
“It’s not the number of people killed that makes a serial killer interesting. It’s the pathology that
drives them to it.”
“O69. Same both ways. Your place or mine.” Leonard could tell that G.T. and Munro were
talking about Charles.
“Well if it’s pathology you want, there ain’t nothin’ more pathological that them Nazis. What do
you think would happen if you dropped Jeffrey Dahmer, David Berkowitz, Ted Bundy and your
Texas sniper in the middle of Nazi Germany? They wouldn’t of risen higher than buck privates,
maybe killin’ a couple of old Jews for fun. None of ‘em could have matched up to them Nazis.
Them fellas knew a little something about mass murder.”
“That’s exactly my point,” replied G.T. “The Nazis were mass murders, not serial killers.”
“Well then a sniper like your Texas fellas was a mass murder too. He killed them all in an hour
and then killed no more, right?”
“Hour and a half,” G.T. corrected.

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It was no coincidence that Leonard was working at Bellwether Bingo. At least a half a dozen
members of the local gun club were also serial killer enthusiasts; G.T., Munro and Leonard
among them. The group liked to discuss their obsession in the club lounge after target practice.
Leonard usually just listened quietly.
“WOULD YOU PLEASE MIND BEING QUIET?”
G.T. had had enough. “What? Are you new here? What’s your name?”
“Ralph.”
“You think you’re a bingo player?” G.T. continued without waiting for a reply. “You’re not a
bingo player. What do have over there? Six bingo cards?”
“G49. Rise and shine. Here comes the Copper.”
G.T. crossed the aisle to stand next to Dora Glass, an enormous woman of perhaps 350 pounds.
“Dora here has 3 flimsies. That’s 27 bingo cards she’s playing simultaneously. And you don’t
hear her bellyaching about any noise.” G.T. patted Dora on the shoulder. “How’s it going Dora?
“Pretty good.” Dora answered without looking up from her bingo cards. She held a pink bingo
dauber in her right hand, a can of Diet Coke her left hand with a smouldering cigarette tucked in
the fingers of her left hand. As each was number called, Dora moved the dauber over the bingo
cards with machine-like precision, down one row and up another, dobbing numbers in a quick
flick of her wrist along the way.
“Winning?”
“Not yet. Leonard is a little slow tonight. 12 numbers and still no winner.”
“You on?” G.T. was asking if Dora was one number away from winning on any of her bingo
cards.
“I’m on four cards. On one of them, I’m waiting for the money ball.”
G.T. glanced at the lit screen. The money ball was O65. Old age pension. “Good luck Dora.”
G.T. turned his attention back to Ralph. “Did you see her power of concentration? Now she’s a
bingo player.”
“G55. Snakes alive. Double nickels.”
“BINGO!”
The winning yell came from the far side of the bingo hall. Dora instantly relaxed, put down the
dauber and took a drag on her cigarette. Other than occasionally taking a sip of her Diet Coke,
Dora remained inert between bingo games.
Winning never failed to excite even the most hardened bingo player. Fay Quinte threw her arms
in the arm and hopped as high as her girth and gravity would allow. Kathy glared at Leonard,
letting him know what she thought of this betrayal. As Fay made her way over to the cash cage,
giddy as a schoolgirl, Kathy stared daggers into her back while Leonard imagined shooting
bullets into her ample bosom.

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G.T. reached into his pocket and tossed a five dollar bill at the heckler. “The next game’s on me,
pal. Work on your concentration. Munro, why don’t you take a break and keep me company in
the back.” G.T. attracted his own daggers as he took the long walk back to his office.
Everything about Bellwether Bingo Hall was too big. The hall was originally built larger than
required to facilitate the future growth that never came. The hall was decorated with large
marble statues of nameless Roman gods who stared down at the empty bingo tables with stony
indifference. Thick velvet drapes of purple and gold hung on the walls where windows should
have been. The carpets were a thick and rich maroon; the knickknacks as ubiquitous as they
were superfluous. The overall effect was one of a 1940’s era Las Vegas casino as decorated by
your Italian grandparents. Only the lack of plastic seat covers prevented the illusion from being
complete.
G.T. pulled a bottle of scotch out of his desk and poured a couple of drinks.
“So where did Mengele’s Lugar come from?” asked G.T. to be polite. “Is it authentic?”
“It’s supposeda be. They hauled it out of his place down in Uruguay after they found his grave.”
“So he didn’t use during the war.”
“He might ‘ave.”
“What do they want for it?”
“$18,000,” answered Munro, slightly embarrassed.
G.T. had that effect on people. He liked to think of himself as someone who didn’t suffer fools
gladly. In reality, he didn’t suffer anyone gladly. When G.T. socialized at all, it was generally
with people who displayed an ability to tolerate him.
“Seems like a lot for a Nazi gun that wasn’t used in the war.”
“Well, it might of been used in the war.” Munro took a sip of his whisky to fill the empty
moment. “I saw somethin’ on eBay for you too.”
“Oh yeah? What?” replied G.T. with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
“Your sniper’s suicide note just came up for auction.”
“Charles Whitman’s suicide note?” G.T. sat up, as much amazed that Munro had found
something of interest as he was by the find. “Which one?”
“Which one?” repeated Munro.
“Which suicide note? He left two. One with his mother’s body and one with his wife’s.”
“Umm … dunno.”
G.T. sighed. “So who’s putting it up for sale?”
“The guy’s sister. She’s providin’ the certificate of authenticity.”
“So it must be the note left at his mother’s apartment. What does she want for it?”
“Three thousand dollars.”

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“Not too bad,” said G.T. as he quickly thought over the possibility of adding another piece to his
collection.
“You gonna to bid on it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I wouldn’t.” An awkward silence filled the office as G.T. gave Munro a cold stare. He had a
firm policy of ignoring any comments he considered to be rude or stupid. It took Munro a few
moments to realize that he would have to break the silence. “Only weapons hold their value.”
Munro had a point but G.T. would never concede to it. “There’s more to building a collection
than just dollars and cents.” G.T. advised Munro.
“That’s pretty funny comin’ from a guy who runs a bingo.” G.T. failed to see the connection and
went silent again. Munro was no quicker in picking up on the fact that he would have to restart
the conversation.
“So, how big do you think the jackpot gonna get?” Munro finally asked, switching to a topic he
suspected G.T. cared about.
“Not much bigger than it is right now”, replied G.T.
“Really? How come?”
“I’m shutting the place down in 30 days.”
“You’re shuttin’ down the Bonanza Bongo?”
“No. I’m shutting down the business.”
“You shuttin’ down the whole bingo? I can’t hardly believe it.”
“You better believe it. In something over a month there’s going to be a Costco on this site.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. There’s just no money in bingo anymore. I’m bailing out before I go
completely broke.”
“That’s somethin’,” said Munro as he tried to process the news. “So what’s gonna happen to the
Bonanza jackpot?”
“The Gaming Commission has rules for these things. On our last day, we’ll play one final game
of blackout bingo. The winner takes all of the outstanding prize money.”
“Whoa. That’s gonna to be one crazy night.”
“Maybe,” replied G.T. cryptically as he reached for the bottle and poured two more drinks.
“Why maybe?” asked Munro as he reached for his whiskey.
“Maybe the jackpot will be won tonight.”
“Whoa, that would be somethin’.”
“Would you like to win the jackpot?” G.T. casually sipped his drink.
How to Win a Bonanza Page:8
“Sure. Who wouldn’t?” Munro noticed that G.T. was looking at him. He was trying to tell him
something? “But …” Munro finally took G.T.’s meaning. “How can you fix it?”
G.T. opened his desk drawer and pulled out a grey bingo card. “This is the winning bingo card.”
“That’s the winnin’ bingo card?”
G.T. gave the card a little shake. “This … is the winning bingo card.”
“OK I’ll bite. How are you gonna make that the winnin’ card?”
“That’s nothing you need to know. What you need to know is that I’m going to give you this
card are you’re going to give me half your winnings.”
“Listen, I know a little somethin’ about gamin’ and I know that there is no way to cheat at bingo.
Even cheat.com says bingo is the only game that can’t be cheated.”
G.T. gave a broad smile. “There’s no way to cheat if you’re playing bingo. There’s lots of ways
to cheat if you’re running a bingo.”
Munro nodded his head slowly as he absorbed this new reality.
“So. Are you in?” G.T. asked again.
“I dunno.” Munro thought for another moment. “Let’s say I do win.”
“You will,” interrupted G.T.
“So what’s to stop me from keepin’ all the money for myself. It’s happened before. And you
can’t very well sue me, now can you?” A small smile made it way to Munro’s face.
“I don’t need to sue you.” G.T. reached into his drawer and pulled out a handgun. “I’ll just
shoot you.” G.T. slapped the gun on the desk causing a desktop lamp to vibrate slightly.
“Now, are you interested?”
“I don’t think so,” Munro finally replied.
“Why not? You scared?” It was G.T.’s turn to grin.
“Nope. You forget, I’ve seen you shoot. When you pick up a gun, the safest place to be in
smack dab in the middle of your sites. Nope, the way I figger it, your scheme’s got to be illegal
and I seem to be takin’ all the risks. If I’m gonna to part of it, I need to know how it’s done. I
don’t figger to be your patsy.”
G.T. was impressed. Munro was smarter than he looked. He had just earned himself another
drink. G.T. poured two more whiskeys and took a quick shot for himself before getting up and
walking over to the utility closet.
“You know what this is?” G.T. held up an old bingo cage. “This is a British ball cage. I bought
it years ago. It’s no good, I can’t use it here. The Limeys use a different system. Their balls are
two millimetres bigger around. They won’t fit through the chute of a regular cage. So all I have
to do is use the Limey balls in a good old American cage except for the balls that match up with
the winning bingo card. They’re the only ones that will come out of the chute.”

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G.T. put the cage down and went back to join Munro who was passively taking in the
information. “So only my 25 numbers will fit through the hole,” said Munro reiterating the plan.
“24 numbers,” G.T. corrected. “You don’t need a number for the free space”
“Right. The free space.” Munro paused again. “So I’ll win after 24 numbers.”
“Right.”
“Won’t that look suspicious? I mean in six months nobody’s won on 40 numbers and all of a
sudden somebody wins on 24. It don’t seem right.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll be alright. Leonard pulls the numbers, you yell bingo, they match
your card to the numbers and you win. Nobody will say a thing.”
“I ain’t so sure.” The two men went silent. Munro was definitely a different kind of a man.
Most men weren’t so thoughtful. Or maybe he was just a slow thinker.
“Why don’t we put in a couple of more balls?” Munro finally suggested.
“We’d risk someone else winning the jackpot.”
“That don’t seem so likely. Nobody’s won it yet.”
“You may be right. We could put in maybe 11 more balls. That way someone would have to
win legit on 35 balls. Like you say, it’s not too likely.”
“You know the odds?”
“I could figure it out.” G.T. began to punch numbers into a desktop calculator. “I don’t know.
Maybe something like 2.4 times ten to the 60th power.”
“What kinda number is that?”
“It’s a big number.”
“OK then, we got a deal. Put’er there partner.” Munro stood up and extended his hand. As G.T.
took it, Munro closed his hand tight and pulled G.T. towards him. Munroe put his head so close
that G.T. could feel his whiskey soaked breath of his cheat. “The next time I see you pull a gun
on me, I won’t hesitate. I’ll jest shoot you straight dead.” said Munroe softly.
G.T. emerged from his office to find a brouhaha in front of the cashier’s table. Kathy and Fay
were at it again. They seem to be playing a game of tug-of-war with a grey bingo card. Each
woman was augmenting her physical effort with a stream of obscenities, verbal abuse and threats
of physical violence. It seemed to G.T. that the women were about 45 seconds away from an all
out catfight.
“You fucking bitch”
“That’s pretty funny coming from a thief and a liar.”
“If you don’t let go of my card, I swear, I’ll clobber you.”
“Lay one of those stinking meat hooks on me and you’ll kill you.”
Fights rarely break out at a bingo hall. This was not terribly surprising. Bingo is not known as a
game that provokes violence among its adherents. Usually, the players are much like the game

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itself, slow, calm and elderly. The only aggression ever exhibited at the bingo hall is passive
aggression. Players jealously guard their stockpile of cards from prying eyes as if the knowledge
of one’s numbers could somehow prevent those numbers from being called. On the other hand,
announcing that one was one or two numbers away from victory was merely in poor taste and
indicated that the offending player was either ill-mannered, ignorant or both. Breaches in
protocol were generally brought under control with a dirty look or a pointed hush.
Years ago, G.T. had hung a poster:
The Ten Commandments of Bingo
I. Thou shalt not buy thy neighbours’ lucky card
II. Thou shalt not sit in thy neighbours’ lucky seat
III. Thou shalt not stare at thy neighbours’ card
IV. Thou shalt not take the caller’s name in vain.
V. Thou shalt not yell a false bingo
VI. Thou shalt not wish bad luck upon thy neighbour
VII. Thou shalt not whine
VIII. Thou shalt not brag
IX. Thou shalt covet they neighbours winnings
X. Thou shalt not threaten to kill the caller
The poster was originally put up as a joke but over the years it had proven to be a valuable tool
when a dirty look or sarcastic remark, failed to do the job.
“Are you two at it again?” asked G.T. as he waded into the fray.
“Fay’s trying to buy my lucky card. That’s the first Commandment.”
“Don’t start quoting Commandments to me,” warned G.T. “You’re in continuous breach of
Commandment 6, 7 and 9. Now what’s the problem here?”
“I don’t know why you even let her in here. She’s crazy with jealously,” said Fay, kicking
things off. “I swear one day she’s going to forget herself and attack somebody.”
“I’ll attack you, that’s for sure,” agreed Kathy finding some unexpected common ground.
“Quiet both of you. Fay, you’re no saint so just settle down before I throw the pair of you out on
the street. G.T. paused to establish his control. “Alright then, I’m going to point at each of you
one at a tine and you’re going to tell me what your problem is. No interruptions. O.K., go.”
G.T. formed his finger and thumb into a toy pistol and pointed at Kathy.
“Fay purposely bought my lucky card.”
“It’s not your lucky card.”
“I said one at a time.” G.T. glowered at Fay. “O.K., so what’s your lucky card Kathy?” G.T.
pointed his finger at Kathy again.
“8 and 9”
“And how long have you played them?”

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“Well … just tonight. But …”
“Ha!” Fay expressed her opinion.
“I’m not going to warn you again, Fay,” said G.T. warning Fay again.
“But I’ve been playing them all night and the only reason Fay bought 8 is because she saw that
I’ve been playing them. You know what she’s like.”
“Well, Fay, is that true?”
“How would I know what cards she’s been playing? She’s so paranoid, she hunches over her
cards as if someone could steal the numbers right off the page.”
“Then why did you ask for 8?”
“B8, one fat lady. That’s me. Whenever I’m feeling down I always buy one fat lady.”
“What a bunch of horseshit,” It was Kathy’s turn to express her opinion.
G.T. gazed at the two combatants before handing out his judgement. Most of the fat in Fay’s
body seemed to have gathered around her neck, upper thighs, butt and forearms. Throughout the
entire interaction, G.T. kept glancing at her flapping forearms, weary of being accidentally
smack by a wayward swing. He turned to face Kathy. “Just because you’ve played those cards
tonight, doesn’t make ‘em your lucky cards. You’ve got 9. Fay’s got 8. That seems fair to me.
You can either buy some more cards and go back to your seat or you can go home. You’re
choice.”
Leonard was watching from his podium. In his spare moments, he liked to speculate as to how
many bingo patrons he could kill before they all managed to flee or take cover. He supposed it
would depend on the weapons he used. Let’s say he used the pistol that he currently carried in
his belt. The secret was to move fast and keep on moving. First he would kill the players closest
to the podium. That would get the crowd moving toward the door, fast. Next he would kill the
players closet to the doors. That should block the exits, depending on how the bodies fell. With
a bit of luck, the crowd closest to the doors would turn and run back into the rushing mob. Then
it’s just a matter of shoot, shoot, shoot, panning across the room, trying to maintain the sate of
chaos. He’d have to reload every six shots and that would slow him down. To maximize the kill
you’d really have to make each shot count. He might be able to kill 20 to 25 before they were all
gone or hidden. Then he could walk through the room picking off the ones who were still visible
in their hidey holes. He might be able to go as high as 40 before the police finally got him. Not
counting the people who died under the feet of the mob.
“How ya doin’ Leonard?”
Leonard was startled; he hadn’t heard G.T. come up on the podium.
“Hi,” replied Leonard.
“Good crowd tonight, huh?”
“Yeah,” agreed Leonard.
“I’m going to look at the ball cage. Wanna take a break?”

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“What?”
“Take a break.”
“Take a break?” Leonard seemed confused.
“You know what a break is, don’t you Leonard?”
“Sure. It’s when something gets smashed.”
“No. The other kind of break. Take a break from work. Go get yourself a snack.”
“You what me to eat?”
“Yeah, eat. Tell Shirley it’s on me. Think you could do that?”
“Sure.” Leonard wondered off in the direction of the snack bar. He didn’t like to cross the bingo
hall. It hurt to get to so close to people. But he had his marching orders. He needed to stock up
on provisions. Luckily, business at the snack bar was slow. Shirley was there by herself.
“Hi, honey. What’ll you have?”
“Hi.” Leonard looked at the Bill of Fare. Chips, chocolate bars, packaged cupcakes, and for the
more adventurous and calorie deprived, hot dogs, and nachos. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
“Well what do you feel like?”
“Nothing. G.T. said it was on him.”
Shirley looked over to the podium to see G.T. fiddling with the bingo cage.
“Well then you’ll be wanting something expensive. How about a cup of coffee and a piece of
pie? You like apple?”
Leonard just stood looking at Shirley. It seemed as though Shirley’s question was unable to
penetrate Leonard’s brain. This was not a problem as, in the absence of a reply, Shirley always
provided her own. “Sure you do. Everyone loves apple pie. There you go honey,” she said
placed a plate of pie and a coffee mug on the counter in front of Leonard. “It’ll help to keep your
strength up. So, tell me about yourself,” she asked as she poured the coffee. She would again be
forced to provide her own answers.
After pie, Leonard returned to the podium and got down to business. G.T. was gone. Leonard
flicked on the microphone and the bingo machine. “Eyes down. This is the Bonanza Bingo. It’s
blackout bingo, 40 balls called. We are playing on grey cards.” Leonard pulled the first ball off
the runway. “I21. Starting off with the Royal salute. I21. … G56. Was she worth it? G56 .…
N40. Life begins at. N40. … I28. Overweight. I28.”
Bingo has its own rhythm, albeit a slow one. Long before the bingo patrons noticed that
something was amiss, Leonard became aware that the rhythm was off. Leonard normally waited
30 to 35 seconds between numbers to allow players time to mark their cards. In the meanwhile,
a fresh ball would appear in the runway every 3 to 4 seconds. But tonight, the balls were coming
down the chute a little slower than usual. In fact, the machine seemed to take a little longer to
eject each successive a ball. It was if a constipation had seized the mechanism forcing it to
squeeze a little harder with each passing movement.

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B4. The one next door. B4 … G58. Make them wait. Grossly overweight. G58. …
B13. It’s devil’s number. Unlucky for some. B13.
By ball 20 Leonard had to wait more than 30 seconds for a ball to roll down the ramp. Most
players didn’t notice, others assumed that Leonard was building suspense for the big jackpot.
B1. Little Jimmy. The baby of bingo. B1 … G50. Bull’s eye. Half a
century. Hawaii five-O. G50.
By ball 30 the wait had lengthened to 60 seconds. Now the wait was noticeable. Patrons were
calling out from the floor of the bingo hall.
“Hurry up.”
“What’s the trouble up there?”
“Leonard, what are doing up there? Stop playing with your balls and call out the numbers”
Leonard was a mess. Charles was angry. He was withholding the balls. Leonard racked his
brains. What had he done to make Charles so mad? Was it the cookies and pie? He normally
didn’t eat at the bingo hall. Was Charles jealous that he couldn’t share in the treats? But he had
only done what Charles had instructed. And how could he have shared? What did Charles
want?
… … … … G57. Heinz 57. A can of beans. G57.
After the 32nd ball, the machine just plain refused to spit out another ball. The electronic
machine kept spinning, the balls kept rattling in the cage but nothing came out. Leonard was
frantic. How could he make amends to Charles? What did he want? He felt like throwing up
but was afraid to leave his post for fear of making matters worse. G.T. was sweating, pacing the
floor, his attention split between Munro, Leonard and the malfunctioning ball cage. Most of the
patrons were in a state of agitation. Fay started to announce that she was one number away from
winning the jackpot. Kathy was straining to see if Fay was winning with her card. G.T. looked
over Munro’s shoulder to see that he was also one number away from winning. He was afraid to
walk over to Fay’s seat to see if she needed one of the three remaining “good” numbers. Time
would tell. Unfortunately, time seemed to have been suspended as the bingos balls kept turning
round and round and round in their cage. Ralph was speaking loudly to no one in particular,
wondering what kind of a clip joint G.T. was running. Only Dora and Munro remained calm and
cool, sitting like a pair of matching fat and skinny Buddha’s serenely waiting for the next ball to
drop out of the chute. The sound of rattling balls filled Leonard’s ears. It was Charles. What
was he saying? What did he want? What did he want? He couldn’t take the sound of the balls.
WHAT DID HE WANT?
Leonard snapped. He covered his ears with his hands and started screaming, “WHAT DO YOU
WANT? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? With one last wordless scream, Leonard
pulled the gun from his belt and started pumping bullets into the ball cage.

The ironically named Bellwether Massacre was indeed considered to be a new low in society’s
slow decline to an ever-receding bottom. It was not the number of dead, which came in at a
modest 4, nor was it the manner in which the victims died. Nothing had become more mundane

How to Win a Bonanza Page:14

than an old fashion shooting. Rather, Bellwether demonstrated, perhaps for the first time, how
the veneer of civilization had been worn exceeding thin by the coarse friction of modern living.
Leonard was the first to die. Clearly deranged and a hazard to those around him, Leonard was
shot by four separate patrons of the bingo hall. In the first of the many strange twists of the
evening, two of the four original shooters attracted shooters of their own. G.T. Woods, the
owner of the bingo hall, was shot by Ralph Goudy, an infrequent bingo player who had been
attracted to the bingo hall on that fateful evening by the Super Bonanza jackpot. Ralph was
eventually charged and convicted of weapons offences for wounding both Dora Glass and G.T.
Woods. Although witnesses reported that Ralph and G.T. had some words earlier in the evening,
it was determined that Ralph was a victim of his own panic and had shot more or less wildly into
the crowd. Ralph’s case was helped by the fact that he did not fire the fatal bullet that ended
G.T.’s life. In what proved to be the most controversial aspects of the fateful evening, Munro
Oxleigh killed both Leonard and G.T. in quick succession before the crowd turned on him in
what had increasing become an uncontrolled shoot-out. Munro was an expert shot so the
shooting of his long-time friend was a mystery. Both G.T. and Munro had been drinking earlier
in the evening but whether alcohol played any part in the killing remains hotly debated. There
was some speculation that the two men had fought earlier in the evening but as both men died
and there were no witnesses to the encounter, the speculation remained just that. Finally, in an
unrelated incident, Kathy Simmel took the opportunity to shoot and kill her long time rival, Fay
Quinte.
What had turned a quiet evening at a bingo hall into a murderous free-for-all? Was it another
example of American gun culture gone wild or an ill advised mixture of weapons and gambling?
There were a multitude of theories. The most compelling of which suggested that the moment
Leonard fired his gun, normal rules of society were suspended and replaced with a more
primitive code of behaviour. In the end, the Bellwether Massacre had little long term effect on
society’s slow decent in barbarism. Metal detectors, though, were eventually installed in bingo
halls and casinos throughout the country.

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