Friday, October 21, 2011

Cards



He dealt the cards as I took another sip of my whiskey, neat.  I can't stand cold liquor, preferring the warmth spread into a fire, instead of hell freezing and then melting in my stomach.  I studied the amber liquid swishing about in the glass, waiting for the last card to be laid down.  Never touch the cards before the dealer is finished dealing.  Rule number one.

Rule number two.  Don't watch your dealer as he deals.  Look anywhere else.  Which is why I allowed myself to be mesmerized by the pattern of the glass, cut crystal into a multi-pointed star.  My head was beginning to feel light, the sure sign I was becoming tipsier than need be.  I was pushing to break rule number three.  Don't get too drunk to play.

The dealer grunted, ready to play, and I picked up my cards.  Made my bet.  Traded in three cards.  Waited for the my dealer to decide his move.  The sweat was on my face, but my body was cold.  I had broken rule number four at the beginning of our game.  He just didn't know it yet.  Never bet more than you have.  I was up for a long time, each hand giving me more money, my greed building.  Until I blew past rule number five.  The most important rule of them all.

Never get cocky.

I'm trying to remember how to pray.  It's been a long time since I sent a message to the man upstairs; even longer since I felt like anyone was listening to anything I have to say.  Begging isn't my strong suit, and that's all praying ever felt like to me.  Begging someone to fix my problems, give me what I need.  I certainly heard my daddy begging enough times for God to spare my soul and lead me back.  He wanted me to hear him begging for me.

All bets are off.  We stare at each other now, my hands shaking slightly.  Damn it.  I always have tells.  Fanning out my cards, I show what I got, hopeful.  Four of a kind, King high.  He starts laughing.  Asshole starts laughing.  I need this hand, I need this hand to get it all back, to break even and walk away with my life.  And he's laughing.

The anger, I feel it bubbling up in my throat as I reach for my gun.  I know he's won, and I'd rather go to jail than have him kill me.

The 32 bullet hits him square in the forehead, throwing him backwards in his chair and to the ground.  I've always been a better shot than I was a poker player.  The cards flutter down with him, splattered with his blood.

As I'm shuffling the money into my bag, desperate to get on the road before the cops are on my tail, I notice his cards, being enveloped by the pool of blood escaping his wound, turning sticky in the chill of the room.

Two kings.  Three queens.




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