Entreaty- an earnest or humble request or plea
Ex: The entreaties of those seated around him at the dining room table grew louder and more desperate with every passing moment. Grampy Bob checked the time on his silver and black Rolex Submariner. It had been 15 minutes since Cousin Rick’s turn had begun. “Will you just GO already!” pled Grampy Bob. “I’m gonna miss 60 minutes! And they’re interviewing Faye Dunaway. Have I ever told you about the time I was a PA on the set of Chinatown and I accidentally opened the door to her changing room? Yowza, what a woman! I mean I had been looking at her through the slit in the wall that Polanski had installed, but now I was getting the full picture, and what a picture it was!”
*Granny Bobara throws a Werther’s Original at Grampy Bob’s chest*
“Yes, Grampy Bob, you’ve told us every time we’ve seen you in the past 25 years” said Cousin Jim.
“Come on, Rick! Will you just make a move!?” demanded Cousin Fred.
“I’m THINKING! Just give me a little more time. I almost have it all planned out.” Said Cousin Rick.
“What is there to plan? It’s Candy Land for crying out loud! There’s zero strategy. That’s quite literally the selling point of the game. That you don’t have to make choices! They take all the pressure off of you! You just take your turn and move your piece to the color of whatever card you pull from the deck! You take your fruity little shmeckeled character and bounce him through the gumdrop forest or the Twizzler plains or the Haribo halfway home or wherever the fuck and then we move on to the next person!” said an impassioned Grampy Bob.
“JUST GIVE ME SOME PEACE AND QUIET! There’s no strategy, there’s no strategy? Maybe for you smooth brained early hominids there’s no strategy! I’ve built my whole identity around never being stuck in molasses swamp, not once! How do you think the boys on Reddit will react if they find out that I ended up in molasses swamp in a CASUAL game with my family, not an officially sanctioned match in the rec room at the Lions’ club! I’d show up at the next convention and they’d all be like ‘molasses man, molasses man, oh look at me, there’s something sticky on my feet, it feels like I’m stuck in something, something sweet and syrupy’”
Rick’s shpiel concluded with him ripping at his wavy locks and hyperventilating.
“Rick, it’s okay buddy. Take…take your time. When you feel like you’re ready, draw a card. It’s not like waiting is going to magically change the color that’s on the card, but clearly you have some strategy that’s way over all of our heads. Just keep in mind that we’re on a timer here, I have a show to watch. You and your make believe Reddit buddies can putz around and circle jerk at the Lions club all you want tomorrow, I’m just trying to keep things moving here.” Said Grampy Bob.
*Rick breathes in. One. Two. Three. Four. Rick breathes out. One. Two. Three. Four. He reaches an arm out slowly and peels a card from the top of the deck. He flips it over. Two red squares. He looks back and forth between the board and the card. Two red spaces from his current position, that would be…NO, NO, NO NO NO NO NO! Rick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver .357 magnum. He smacks out the revolving chamber and loads it with two golden bullets. He snaps the chamber back into place, cocks the gun, and fires one of the bullets through Grampy Bob’s right pectoral muscle. Half the family screams and frantically scrambles out of the room. The other half are paralyzed with fear, bolted rigidly to their chairs as they try to process what is going on. The wall behind Grampy Bob is splattered in crimson and chunks of still warm human meat. Rick places the gun in his mouth with the barrel turned up towards his brain. Click, he pulls the trigger. His head explodes like a watermelon squeezed with hundreds of rubber bands as blood and brain matter rain down on Cousin Fred who is still squeezing tight to his plastic green gingerbread man game piece.