SOUTHTEN NEWS HEADLINES:
ANOTHER DECEASED ON LOCAL BAR’S FLOOR.
TEN DEAD & COUNTING. DOUBLE DAN’S TYRANNY KNOWS NO–END…
It was a sunny Monday Afternoon, in the small town of Eastwood, the dead center of the North American wild-west, in what was soon to be called: The New Mexico desert. In the dead center stood an old empty saloon, which was barely able to stand on its own architecturally. It appeared like a children’s rushed scribble of a random building. So old that if someone were to look at it wrong, the whole structure would fall in on itself like a house of cards. The sign-out front, so faded by the sun, had become unreadable to anyone passing by; the locals called it “The Old ‘n’ Shitty”. It might as well have collapsed, out of respect for all other bars. But in this particular saloon, at the farthest table to the east next to a dirty orange surface window stained from years of dust, smoking, and avoidance of janitorial duties, sat one man. However, this was no regular individual. Named by the papers as, “Double Dan,” though he hated the name. Saying it sounded childish and unfitting of what he imagined himself. “A man, just trying to live his life. Regardless of the law.”
Though funny enough, “Double Dan,” was the most suitable name he could have gotten. He was an outlaw (though he hated being called that too,) in every sense of the word. Double Dan was a man in his late twenties to early thirties, standing about six feet and two inches, regularly wearing old black leather from top to bottom, occasionally having a dash of white on the sides. He sported a dark brown Stetson hat and a thick, jet-black mustache over the chapped lip of his rugged face.
Double Dan was most infamous for his acts of robbery, thievery, and of course, murder. Said to have had at least nine dead by his actions alone. Dan’s primary victims of robbery were banks, big and small. Dan would tell himself, (and occasionally others):
“If they didn’t want someone to come and take it, they wouldn’t have put it all in one spot!”
It wasn’t just banks he fancied, but also men, women, stores, and even parked horses. Hell, if a dog had something valuable on its person, Dan would hold it at gunpoint without a second thought. But he didn’t get the name from his acts of robbery. He got the name “Double Dan,” for every time a local deputy would examine the body of the unfortunate soul who’d crossed Double Dan’s path—
“Being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” they liked to put it.
The body, without failure, would always show signs of two bullets; either lodged or just remnants, somewhere in the recipient’s lower to upper torso. Never the arms, legs, or head. Either the chest or stomach, occasionally both—nonetheless, there was always a sight of two bullets scattered somewhere throughout.
Some survived, but most didn’t.
– – –
From the town of Southten, one old gentleman in their mid to late sixties, David Rathulberg; who’d been following Dan’s little adventures across the West through the local paper, had one question on his old brain for the murderous outlaw. Curious as to the reason why Dan chose such an odd method of killing.
Once David had gotten wind that Dan had stopped in Southten, he saw his opportunity. David came up to Dan on a sunny Thursday morning. Dan, who’d been settling in one of the town’s various Saloons, sat on one of the front counter’s stools, staring into space, occasionally sipping a glass (of what David assumed) to be whiskey. Looking tipsy before the clock struck noon. Ahh… To be young again, A thought of nostalgic joy came to him, going as quickly, as a shock of anxiousness hit, remembering the man he was dealing with. David nervously forwarded himself to Dan. His feet, boards of wood stiffly waddling their way. Once David had gotten within talking distance, he spoke toward Dan, his voice trembling, avoiding eye contact. Asking the notorious outlaw, why he didn’t just shoot his victims in the head. Get it over with quickly and easily. Why waste a whole other bullet?
In Dan’s response, he didn’t speak a word. Just reached behind himself, taking out his dusty-gray revolver, worn down by years of use. Before the old man realized what was about to happen, he aimed the gun at him. Firing two solid led bullets in the left side of David’s chest, nearly missing his heart, but his fate was already sealed. His ancient body hit the ground like a bag of heavy rocks, making a loud thud. Dan took one last sip of his glass before getting up, half-dazed, and walking out of the Saloon and into the open town leaving David on the floor, moaning in pain, struggling around in a pool of his own blood, till his eventual death minutes later on the bar floor.
Thirty people witnessed that event, only five of whom confessed they saw Dan. Others chose not to comment or didn’t recall anything from that day.
– – –
If someone had half the brain, (and half Dan’s convictions,) they would’ve done the logical thing, taken the money and run, crossed the border and made their way south to Mexico, or up north to Canada. However, Dan had his reasons for staying—the main being a soft spot in his heart. A soft spot for the “Art of Gambling,” as he’d like to say. Could even say it was a weakness of his.
Yes, he could do his gambling elsewhere—but elsewhere didn’t have cold-hard American dollars. He’d been told at a young age that the American dollar could be exchanged for the hardest money on the planet, Gold. Dan adored gold. Loved the idea of it even more. Just a single bar worth and he’d be set for life, he’d never need to work for anything again. But he was never in the right place at the right time. Burned money faster than someone could say his name fifty–times over. Faster than he could get to the closest bank on foot. Spending either on booze, food, whores, or just bad hands. Though yes, Dan could have shot whoever beat him, desecrated their corpse, and maybe left a little richer than before. Though this suggested that the people Dan played against were unarmed, or came alone, which most didn’t. However, he still found a way to tilt the odds in his favour.
Couldn’t keep his hands off the cards—no he couldn’t. Normally there’s four of each type in a standard fifty-two-card deck: Four kings, four queens, four aces, etc, etc. But they couldn’t keep Dan from messing with the odds—no they couldn’t. Sticky-finger some would call it, others would just say flat out cheating.
On that faithful Monday afternoon, in that old rickety Saloon, The Old Bartender cleaned his permanently stained glasses from behind the counter. Double Dan sat at his table; the dirty window shining a dim shade of orange onto the wooden surface. He was mildly annoyed, pissed that there hadn’t been a drink in his hand before he’d sat down. But having run out of money the previous night, and Bartenders being the few, if not the only people Dan refused to rob (being the best supporters of his favourite pastime: drinking,) had to sit and dwell on his sober lonesome. He sat angrily fidgeting with his favourite deck of cards. The oil of his fingers wore down the images they’d become close to incomprehensible. He’d been waiting for an older rugged man by the name of Willem Portmen to stop by, with whom he’d planned a game, during his night on the town. Though, a surprise he’d remembered that, for everything else, was a shaky blur.
Unfortunately for Dan, Willem never did show up. However, someone did appear in his place. The outline of their character could be seen walking up to the bars swinging doors, before kicking them open, the backs of which hitting the wood framing of the walls.
BAM
The noise captured Dan’s attention, and startled The Old Bartender; almost making him drop one of the stained glass cups he’d been cleaning with his equally stained rag. The Stranger walked in, the metal bottoms of their shoes making a very distinguishable sound when touching the hard-oak-wood floor. They were dressed in all–white, from the Stetson hat that sat atop their head, to their well—shined steel-toed dress shoes. Their appearance was odd (to say the least) looking out of place anywhere they were.
A—sight for sore eyes, Dan insultingly pondered to himself.
The Stranger moved their head across the interior of the saloon, seeing the numerous rows of vacant tables and empty chairs. All except for one, the one Dan was sitting at. The Stranger’s eyes were like a snake to his mouse. Dan (having been used to this behaviour,) slowly moved his closest hand away from the deck of cards, grabbing onto the handle of his revolver held in its holster ready to answer whatever this person had to say with two solid lead bullets somewhere in their lower intestine if they tried to pull a fast one.
They walked over to Dan’s table with a relaxed strut that would tell anyone, “Ain’t trying to cause a scene.” He didn’t care. However, there was no one to make a scene for, except for the Old Bartender. Who’d stopped cleaning their stained glasses, (upon seeing the oddly dressed stranger,) and was watching both of them with curiosity. Dan kept a firm grip on the handle of his gun, feeling he should have fired by then, but a little voice from the back of his head told him to wait.
He’d been looking for any signs: shaky posture, fidgeting with one’s hands, a stilted face, or a stuffed walk, something that would tell him they were hiding a plan.
Anything that would lead to their true intentions. But their walk was relaxed, the left foot following the right like a well-oiled machine. Their posture was loose and firm as if to say: “I ain’t here for long so might as well have fun.” Their hands were calmly placed on the side of their hips, hanging down, held up only by the thumbs hooked on the inner pockets of their leather pants far away from the shiny silver revolver, which was hidden behind them, almost out of Dan’s sight. It hung loose in the holster, held by their white belt. The Stranger’s face appeared to be smiling as if they couldn’t take themselves seriously, and only edging Dan to pull the trigger sooner.
The Stranger dragged in a chair from a different table, now sitting across from Dan. Both of them only arms–length away from each other. The tension was so thick that The Old Bartender could cut it with a knife, and spread it across a piece of whole wheat bread.
“Woah therebud,” The Stranger said, seeing Dan’s hand on his gun with a fearful grip.
“I ain’t here to cause a scene.” Their charismatic tone whistled softly. “Don’t worry–”
“Then you shouldn’t have come,” He’d cut them short, returning a sharp stare.
The Stranger stopped, leaning back in the seat. Their fingers tapped in a smooth rhythmic pattern on the table’s wooden surface. A second went by, and both hadn’t spoken a word, (The Stranger stood blankly at him). Dan, eventually loosened the grip on his revolver, but only by a little. (Still, within easy–reach.) They spoke again, speaking in the same charismatic (almost excited) tone.
“Buddy— if I wanted you dead, don’t-chu think I would’ve tried somethin’ by now? Come–on.”
Dan gambled on the decision (which he’d done for most things) whether or not to fully take his hand away. He flipped an imaginary coin he had in his head.
Tails, take your hand off the gun. Heads, shoot them right then ‘n’ there. The coin flipped… landing face-up on Tails. He quietly inched his hand away from his revolver, moving his hand back on the deck of cards.
“What the hell do you want?” Dan’s voice was as dull as could be. Getting straight to the point of whatever they had to say.
“Well—hey! There we go straight to the point, that’s what I’m looking for,” The Stranger, almost giddy with laughter. “But y’know… I-I don’t feel too comfortable discussing… personal details, like that—not like this at least. Not my style.”
The Stranger looked at Dan’s hands, seeing the deck of cards he held within, pointing to them.
“Hey– I see you already got some cards out—why not a game? You ‘n’ me, I’ll let-chuh pick the game if you want.”
Dan looked at them for a second, before shrugging his shoulders.
Dan thought to himself: “Hell, why not? Came to play cards anyhow; doesn’t matter who.” He started shuffling the cards with the type of speed that showed his years of experience.
“Poker, the game is poker,” he grunted.
They replied, almost jumping with joy: “That’s what I’m talking about! There we go—Poker. Poker is a very good choice, I would have to say… So it’s a deal then?”
Dan stopped shuffling the cards, and looked at The Stranger’s face, with a sharp jarring look.
“What deal? I didn’t say we’d be betting,” Dan, perplexed at the sudden mention. Couldn’t help but get a taste of suspicion on his tongue.
“-Oh, my apologies,” they sounded surprised. “I-I just thought we’d be betting on somethin’?”
“No,” he replied. “Y’know caught me on a bad day. I was supposed to play an old man this afternoon. But, I guess you’ll do.”
“Oh, and you would’ve bet with him—not me?” They questioned, appearing sarcastically hurt by the comment.
“Not necessarily,” Dan continued. “Planned on robbing the old shit, shooting him dead. Take whatever was on’em ‘n’ run over to the next town. Somethin’ like that.”
The Stranger gave out a chuckle, believing that he was joking; he was not. Dan, a bit scattered, played along anyhow. Gave out a chuckle alongside them, concluding that they mustn’t have known who he was. Immediately thinking of ways he could take advantage of the knowledge. He waited for their laugh to die down before continuing.
“Yup, So… we’ll have to play for fun. All out of money, yuh see.” Dan, his playful laugh dying down
“Well, what does that matter?” The Stranger questioned with a short laugh, (a chuckle still trapped in their throat).
“Pardon?” Dan jumped in, “It means we’d have nothing to…” He paused for a second, gesturing with his hands like a madman, who ain’t all up there in the head; trying to come up with the rest of his sentence, “y’know… raise the pot.”
The Stranger leaned closer to him from across the table, staring square into Dan’s dirty reggaed face. They whispered in a small, almost joking voice: “I think you’re full of shit, Double—Dan.” They did (in fact) know who he was.
He was compelled to rip the handle of his gun out and end their conversation right there. Then again something (in a little whisper from the back of his subconscious,) is telling him to keep calm and see where this goes. The fake smile on Dan’s face had been wiped off, now only staring at The Stranger, as they led further back in their chair. Continuing to speak.
“Doesn’t mean we can’t bet,” their voice continued calmly. “Here, here’s the deal: we’ll play a single round of Poker. Only one. If you win, I’ll give you whatever you desire. Gold Bars, Property, Women. Hell—I’ll even let you shoot me dead if you want.”
Dan’s dead stare soon turned to the eyes of a kid, filled with excitement. His ears perked up and practically popped off his head when he heard the word “GOLD.” As if The Stranger looked inside his mind and knew exactly what to say to him. He’d never even held a gram’s worth of gold in his life, let alone a whole bar. Not even in one of the countless banks he’d robbed in his day. At least none that wasn’t locked behind one of those solid steel safes. (Which wasn’t acquainted with Dan’s run-and-go style of robbery.) But the more he repeated the words “Gold bars” in his head, the more suspicion arose.
“How do I know you’re not just playing me for a fool?” He questioned, curious about their offer, but trying not to show it.
“Oh, so I take it that you’re interested?” They questioned before continuing, “Well, if you’re going to doubt my words like that. Then… I guess I’ll just have to show you how genuine they really are.”
They stood up from their seat, removing their right hand, spreading the left flat and wide on the table’s wooden surface still as a stone, unyielding. Their right hand reached down low to their footwear, searching through the inside part of their white dress shoes. Exploring for an abnormally lengthy period.
The Hell could be in there? Dan wonder to himself, “Couldn’t so much as hide a dollar bill in those short sons of bitches.”
Their hand stopped moving, having found what they were looking for. They pulled out, like magic, (what must have been at least) a nine-inch-long boot knife. The kind best used to strip away the hides of animals after being killed.
“What the fuck?” Dan expressed under his breath. Believing it must have been a trick of the mind, but very clearly a real knife. Amazed at how a tall knife could be hidden in such a short shoe.
Brand new as if it had been bought just yesterday, shiny like a diamond, thin like a fresh blade of grass, sharp as a cat’s claw. They held the knife in a tight grip, raising it over their left hand, still firmly glued to the table’s wooden surface; not making so much as a twitch. Dan, by then could guess what was about to happen, but couldn’t help himself from not looking away. To see. To see if their word was as good as they had said it was. To find out if there was an actual possibility of Gold bars at the end of this tunnel for him.
The Stranger raised their hand higher. The Old Bartender looked on hoping what he thought, was not about to happen. The Stranger raised the knife a little higher above themselves, before letting it drop, diving—down to the table—
CRACK
The knife slammed through the wooden surface; making a loud sound.
A thud, followed by a cracking of wood. The noise filled the empty bar, echoing to the outside. The knife, which had gone right through the old wooden surface of the table and out the other end, stuck through the bottom, and through The Stranger’s hand, smack dab in the middle. The knife had hit a bone or cartilage, for audible crinkling could be heard as the hand’s muscles made tiny movements around the bone. As it did, blood quickly rose from the wound. It flowed down the gaps and crevices onto the table. Rapidly spreading, covering a face of the surface. But somehow not a drop could be seen on The Stranger’s white clothes. The same could not be said for Dan, with drops of blood visible on the black leather covering his torso.
Dan, taken aback at what had just transpired, stared down at the knife sticking out and through their hand, stopping at their face. This was of course not Dan’s first bloodbath, but it was the first time he’d seen anyone take it so willingly. He looked up at The Stranger’s face. Their expression was unmoved; not changed in the slightest, not so much as a squeal through the entire duration of their action. Still as charismatic and relaxed as before.
“So… I imagine we have a deal?” A tiny smirk was visible on their face. Blood spurting out of the wound.
Dan nodded, taking a deep breath, “Yup, I would say you have yourself a deal.”
“Hey—barkeep!” They shouted over to The Old Bartender, pointing at the blood-covered table, “Yuh mind wiping down this mass? I can’t play on this.”
The Old Bartender, who’d been watching their conversation from the background, looked as horrified as Dan but nodded back with fearful shaking. The Stranger seeing this, saw it was about time. Holding back onto the knife, pulling it, creating an awful cracking noise. Another wave of blood made its way up from the hand, sliding its way out through the table’s surface. They wiped the sides of it using the rounded edge of the table. Magically Putting the knife back inside their dress shoe. But Dan hadn’t noticed this, too busy replaying the event in his head, trying to comprehend The Strangers’ reasoning. They lifted the bloody mess of a hand off the table. And held it up with their uninjured hand.
The Bartender, an old man by the name of Mark Mcdogul, was sixty-four years of age, but looked to be about seventy from sheer financial stress. He’d owned the establishment for about half of his life. He’d planned to sell the joint in the coming year, hopefully using the money to retire but imagined he wouldn’t get much for the old place, condition it was in and all.
But, now having been witness to the whole ordeal, the event was unfolding right in front of his own eyes. Rightfully scared for his life, he stumbled across the counter trying to get the closest cloth in sight, which sat on top of the small end counter door (being the rag he’d previously used). He waddled his way over the counter door, picking up the cleaning rag from around it, and stumbling his way to their table. He quickly gave its surface a wipe-down to the best of his abilities. But barely being able to clear the top. The blood, already staining the wood, with now the rag. Hoping it was good enough, he took a step back to safety. However, The Stranger stopped him, his heart skipping a beat, which for someone his age was deadly.
“Hey—could you give me that there rag yuh got?” Their pearly-white teeth shone through the lips of their mouth. “Can’t be letting this thing hang loose—y’know?” Said in a joking tone, even though their situation was not a laughing matter.
“Oh, Uh… yes–yes o-of course.” Though believing the request was odd, The Old Bartender agreed, handing over the blood-stained cloth.
He hurriedly waddled back over to his countertop, a scent of fear dripping from his sweaty wrinkled face, wanting to look away, to run for the highest hill he could find and never submerge. But the wondering temptation of what would play–out next couldn’t be helped. The Stranger wrapped the rag around their freshly self-made wound; creating a makeshift bandage of sorts.
“Y-You ain’t worried about it getting infected, or non?” Dan asked, still in a state of shock, trying to pretend that nothing had happened.
They replied, “Nah… I’ve gotten worse.” Still wrapping the rag around their hand, eventually tying it in a tight knot. Sitting back down in their seat.
The Stranger carried the conversation forward. “Okay, now listen. For any deal this juicy, there got to be some rules to it—”
“Rules—?” Dan interrupted to question, snapping out of his shock.
“-Yes Rules. Now, I know you’re not particularly a big fan of those. Being an outlaw–and–all. But, if yuh want to cross the goblin’s bridge, you got to answer his riddles fir—”
“I ain’t no outlaw.” Dan intervened, His voice a petty kid’s who’d been called a rude name.
“I beg your pardon—?” The Stranger glanced at Dan with a puzzled look on their face.
Dan repeatedly annoyed, “I said, I – Ain’t – No – Outlaw. I’m just a man, trying to fight for his right to survive, in a world that doesn’t give two–shits about him,” Dan continued, what he’d say to anyone who questioned his way of living. “And I’ll be damned if that’s considered,against the law.”
The Stranger was a little taken aback that someone like the notorious “Double Dan” would take such issues, with something so trivial. The Stranger was no baby bird, but if someone were to consider them an Outlaw, well it wouldn’t be so far out of sight.
“Uh—well, however, you want to put it, friend.” They scratched their head with their injured hand. Trying to move past his outburst, and carry on the conversation.
“Okay, Okay, now—listen, rule–one: Of course no cheating, that’s a given. We’ll be going by tax-style rules for that. So, no messing with the deck, no card up the sleeves, none of that. And if you think I can’t tell, well, to cut it simply, I can.” Dan looked on, irritated at the mention of extra rules.
“Rule–two: There’s no getting up from the seat for the entirety of the game. Not for a smoke, or a drink, not even if you’re on the edge of shitting yourself. I don’t care. The second we start this, your ass will be firmly seated till we’re done here, Okay?” They continued, annoying Dan that there was more to come.
“Rule three: This’s the last one, now you gotta stick with me here. If you, or I—break any of the rules, whatsoever. The individual, whoever that may be, will instantly lose the game, and have to give up whatever they put down. No restart, no second chances, that’s it, Over. Also no folding either, you play the cards you have. Now, you can exchange some of’em, but that’s final. Do you understand me?” The Stranger gazed over at Dan, holding out their last good hand in the middle of the table, expecting him to shake it.
“Wait—Wait,” Dan paused, tapping his head genuinely curious. “Isn’t that like five rules?”
The Stranger said exhausted, “It doesn’t matter; rules are rules,” still holding out their hand. “I’ll ask again; do you understand what I have just told you?”
“Yes-Yes, I understand your damn rules.” Dan was irritated. “Let’s get started already. How long’s one round of Poker–anyway? Like two or three minutes? Less than that.” Dan said, almost ignoring their beckoning hand.
“Yup—Yup, you gotta shake the hand though. The game doesn’t start till you shake the hand.” Their patience was growing slim. The shaking hands became more visible. Neither spoke another word until Dan’s dirty mitt, grabbed onto the Stranger’s blood-stained hand.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He said, not fully understanding what he’d agreed to.
“That’s what I like to see! Okay, let’s start this thing.” A volume of excitement came from their voice, pulling their hand away.
Dan lifted the deck, shuffling it three times. Cards overlapping, front to back, back to middle, middle to front. He dealt The Stranger five cards, sliding each across the table in perfect unison. Then proceeding to deal himself five cards each. The Stranger paused, stopping Dan in his tracks, just before he could deal himself his last card.
“Now… Dan. Yuh got to think I’m one stupid son–of–va–bitch, if you think I didn’t just see what you did there.”
A drip of sweat fell off of Dan’s face. “What’re you talking about, I ain’t done nothing—” Dan almost jumped from his seat, being accused of breaking the first rule, but remembering the second.
“Give me the cards,” they demanded.
Dan obliged, not to arouse suspicion, picking up the cards he’d dealt himself, putting them back in the deck, and handing them over.
“I’m just making sure Dan. Don’t want you to lose before we’ve even gotten started—now do we?” They said in a smirky tone, under their breath, grabbing the deck from him with their remaining good hand. But Dan could hear what they’d said. Giving the Stranger a dirty stare, contemplating taking his gun out, quickly putting the idea away once the word “GOLD,” echoed in his head.
The Stranger started to reshuffle the deck with both their injured and uninjured hands. This time in a disorganized pattern, seemingly random. Putting cards into wherever they seemed to fit.
“Don’t be getting any blood on them cards y’hear,” Dan threatened, but his voice was riddled with nervousness. “I don’t want to have to get new ones because you ruined those.”
“Don’t you worry about that now, okay?” They replied calmly, done shuffling the cards. “There we go, perfectly random,” they said, proud of their work.
“You going to give them back now?” he asked disgruntledly.
“Hold yourself, I’ll be the one doing it this time,” the Stranger responded, pulling the cards closer to themselves.
They dealt themself a card, then dealt Dan a card. Repeating the motion until they both had five cards each. The Stranger placed the deck in the center of the table, in plain sight for the both of them to observe.
“So, you’re done with your hissy fit now?”
Dan picked up his cards, holding them in the palm of his hand, spreading them across his fingers, and taking a very close look.
Dan’s hand:
Six of Hearts, Seven of Hearts, Eight of Hearts, Nine of Hearts, and Ten of Hearts.
Dan stared at his hand, his arms became noodles barely able to keep his palms up. His heart almost pushed the wind out of his throat from excitement. He forced himself not to smile, but it all showed through his eyes, looking to pop right out of his head.
B-by—God… A straight flush! He thought to himself. (The second highest hand in the game, next to a royal flush.)
It looked as though, he didn’t have to cheat after all; Lady Luck was already on his side, It wasn’t no Royal Flush, but Dan couldn’t complain. He could practically feel the gold bars in his hands. Believing to have already won. However, one question appeared in his head. A question he should’ve asked earlier, but he’d misplaced. It wasn’t The Stranger’s name, or who they were, Dan had stopped caring about that once the aforementioned GOLD bars had come up. Nonetheless, he shoved the thought into his back pocket, to dwell on later; letting himself enjoy the moment a little longer. He stared at their faces, to get a read on The Stranger’s hand. Not as if it mattered, he had the second-highest hand in the game, and the chances of them having a Royal Flush were slim to none.
Only a small smirk could be found on The Stranger’s face; holding their cards with their last good hand. They too stared back at him.
Must be their poker face, Dan thought to himself. Must not want me to see those cards of yours huh?
“Need any new cards?” He asked, trying to be indiscriminate, but his mouth constantly rocked from straight to crooked.
“Nope,” the Stranger replied. “And I assume you don’t need any either.” Their smirk poking a needle size hole through Dan’s ego.
“You’d be right.” The edges of Dan’s mouth shook.
Dan thought to himself: “The only thing that could beat a straight flush, is a royal flush, and for that, you’d need to pray to God.” Dan chose to savour the moment for as long as he could, knowing the game was already set and matched. Letting The Stranger enjoy the few seconds they had left with their gold. So he stalled for time.
Another question appeared for Dan, not the question he’d stored away. A different one he’d decided to ask them now to extend his moment.
“So… you were going to tell me why you came here?” Dan, trying not to giggle. “Were you just looking for me, or did you just so happen to stop by?” He playfully asked.
The Stranger scratched their head, with the bandaged hand. The cloth, now drenched in their blood, still dripping from before. “Oh yes, thank you. I almost forgot to say,” sounding genuinely happy that Dan reminded them.
“You didn’t just come here to play a card game with me, did yeah?” Dan continued giddy with excitement. Trying to hold himself together.
“No-no, I came here not just on behalf of myself, but others too.” They said, “I have an ulterior motive.”
Dan’s excitement quickly took a back seat, as he asked now curious; dragged in by the Stranger’s odd way of answering, “And… what would that be?”
The Stranger seemed to have hesitated before continuing. “So… About a year ago, you were in a town called ‘Westton’ Right?”
Dan laid back in his seat before replying, wondering where they’d be taking this. “No—no, I don’t believe I was,” He lied. “Why?”
“Dan, I ain’t no cop. I don’t care what yuh do on your own time or where you do it. Just answer the question.”
He paused for a second. Giving himself a moment to think. Again flipping the imaginary coin, whether to answer truthfully or not. Tails, to speak the truth. Heads, to stick with the lie. The coin flipped… landing face-up on Tails (twice in a row).
“Yes, I do believe I was in Westton a few months back. But I say again, why d’you ask?”
“Now, just give me a second, Okay?” They responded, trying not to offend Dan. “What’d you do in Westton exactly? And don’t chicken out on me now. You already admitted to being there.”
Dan paused, annoyed. Annoyed at how they had been dodging his question. Thinking for a while. Whether or not to answer truthfully. Ready to flip the coin at a moment’s notice—but chose not to, ended up shrugging it off, and just deciding to tell them.
“Robbed their bank, shot up about seven of them. Must have killed at least four. Then I left town.” He looked at the Stranger, his brow tilted, jumping to the conclusion of what he thought their answer would be. “Is that why you’re here, revenge? One of them your family or somethin; mother, father, daughter—?”
“Oh, No—no, Nothing like that.” They gave out a quick laugh, before carrying on. “You did a lot of other things there too. What was it?” Their face curious with a smile, urging Dan to remember.
He stared at them with an honest look of confusion. Intrigued as to why they’d bring up the town if it wasn’t for the crimes he’d committed.
“What, the hell are you talking about?” He questioned. “There were only three good things in that piss-poor town. Money, Drinks, and whores. Hell, there was a whore house across from each of them.”
“Yes, that’s what it was, whores.” Their voice sounded playful. “Now—Now a little birdy told me. You happen to frequent there quite often,”
Dan’s curiosity was getting the better of him. Suddenly the question he’d put away for later, started to come up again, begging for him to ask The Stranger. He felt that it was either now or never, the time to ask. He pulled his chair closer to the table leaning in.
“Hey—Hey, I don’t mean to take your conversation off course—but, what was it again? I don’t think I remember asking yuh before. What’s it that I’d have to give you if I lost the game?” He asked, staring at their face with a puzzled look.
A pregnant moment of silence crossed them; the sweat droplets getting more and more visible on Dan’s face. The Stranger appeared to be thinking, engrossed by their cards, subtly reaching their injured hand behind themselves. From Dan’s perspective, they seemed to be scratching their ass, but in actuality, were grabbing the silver revolver, hung loose in the holster of their white belt. They gently forwarded it back around to the front of themselves, settling it over their lap. It was held in their injured hand, ready to shoot Dan at any instant they desired. Dan was ignorantly unaware.
“Got a StickyAss or somethin?” Dan said. He’d become a sweaty fat man in the summer heat. His mind raced, wondering, what exactly he’d put on the table. Questioning everything over and over itself, reaching the point of annoyance.
“Yeah, you could say that—” They played it off with a laugh. “Oh, and did I not say anything before? My fault.” They cleared their throat with a quiet cough; continuing. “If I were to win this game. I, by what we agreed on, would have the permission to take—you, Double Dan’s, life.” Their relaxed tone was a jap in it of itself.
Dan’s once excited heart dropped into the deepest pit of his stomach, making a loud thud. Though he was certain that he’d have this game in the bag. His mind could not help but second guess itself.
Dan’s thoughts: “There are few poker hands that can beat a Straight flush. I know that… right? What am I thinking, of course, there’s not. A straight flush is the second-best hand in the game. But wait—no– wait—what if…” The odds of them having a better hand increased in his mind. “They have a royal flush? No, that’s the stupidest—t-the odds of that—but not impossible. It’s a one-in-a-million chance. But what if this is that one-in-a-million chance?” Dan’s thoughts raced, seeming unable to make up his mind.“Crazier things have happened. You never really know this stuff till it happens to you. But If–If that happens I could end up losing the game—NO, my life! Just like that.
Unless… Unless I shoot that Motherfucker righthere ’n’ now! I wouldn’t get the gold, but I’d at least live another day to have some. And I’d be done with this shitty card game. Wait… then it’d come to a game of who’s the fastest. It’d be a challenge of speed, but with that bum hand, I’ll have the advantage. Though for now… I’ll… just wait and see—I’m just overthinking it all. And I do have this game under lock ’n’ key.” Dan had to find out. Had to see if his ludacris thoughts were just that. But if his predictions were right, he’d have to resort to the one thing he was best at, violence.
Dan knew that they wouldn’t be an easy run ’n’ gun scenario. They shoved their boot-knife through their left hand only a few moments ago to prove a point. Didn’t make so much as a noise. Dan knew he didn’t have that kind of pain resistance. He’d have to end it quickly.
“So… Uh, we’re going to show–hands, or not?” Dan rushed.
“Hold on—Hold on I’m not done talking,” The Stranger said, holding their hand up, trying to think. “Give me a second now…” They continued what they’d been talking about before, “T-there was one whore, you fancied the most, right? The owner said you’d come–in almost every day, like clockwork, and the second she was available, you bought her out for an hour or two. Doing the same thing the next day all over again.”
Dan’s nervous sweaty throat now hinted of a temper that came out plainly in his voice. “I don’t see why, what I do in my time is any of your God–Damn–Business!” Dan finished every last word with a shout, getting increasingly more frustrated by the second.
“Now are we going to show cards or NOT!” His fuse was running out.
“I’m getting there, I’m getting there.” They appeared not to be influenced by Dan’s growing attitude. “Anyway, I believe her name was somethin’ like… Air—Tar-uh—Tar—a–T–Tara… TARA! That’s her name. Tara Campbell, I believe it was—”
“What about her!” He growled, his patience running thin.
“Nothing–Nothing, just wanted to tell you she had a kid was all. Thought because you fancied her and all, you oughta know. It was twelve or so months ago, I believe.”
Dan’s nerves settled at the back of his throat, upon hearing the news. His head a tilted lampshade, face down staring into the palm of his straight flush.
“Oh… well good for her,” his voice grew grim.
“Yeah, Yeah… Good for her. Y’know? Her kid just turned three months old not too long ago.”
Dan slowly lifted his face; he had put two and two together.
“Yeah, it was her who got me to come out here.” They lied. “Paid a good penny for my services too. Three hundred dollars, if you could believe it. How a whore makes money like that, I’ll never know.”
Believing every word, he stared at The Stranger’s cheeky smile, hoping he was not about to hear what he thought he was.
“Yup… paid me a lot of money to track down the Father. Paid me even more to kill him,” The Stranger’s face grew a shit-eating grin. “And well her reasoning? Her words, not mine. Said that she didn’t like the thought of her newborn child being related to a quote; dirty, lying, cheating…” Dan’s ears focused on the last word of their sentence, harder than he’d ever focused on anything before. “Outlaw—” The Stranger repeated, taunting Dan. The last spark to his fuse.
“YOU SON OF-VA-BITCH—!” He shouted, springing up from his seat with rage. Going through with the backup plan he’d made in his mind, resorting to what he knew best: violence. Not caring about the game or the gold anymore.
Only caring to see The Stranger’s dead body lay cold and lifeless on the bar floor, in front of him, he reached around to his side, (dropping the straight flush of cards from his grasp,) and over his waist. He grabbed the revolver held nicely within his brown leather holster, unsheathing it. Bringing it back around to his front, aiming at the left side of The Stranger’s chest, right where the heart was. Ready to put as many bullet-sized holes as he could. “Maybe I’ll even go for the head this time; change things up,” Dan wondered to himself.
The Stranger, still sitting in their seat. Hadn’t gotten up, even upon seeing Dan jump from his seat in anger, breaking one of their previously agreed rules. Their right hand; still holding onto their cards. The left, bandaged and injured, remained firmly placed in their lap.
BANG!
A gunshot echoed throughout the saloon; gun smoke could be seen through the bar’s dusty atmosphere. A moment of silence was forwarded by the shot, feeling like an eternity. The Old Bartender looked on, his eyes unable to move away, fixed on the gun’s smoke, emanating from its barrel.
Blood dripped quickly onto the floor from the ceiling. Dan’s body stood frozen. His hat was still on top of his head, seemingly unaware that a bullet had just passed through, and a dime-sized hole protruded from the top. Dan’s mind held what little consciousness it had left for only a moment while he tried to speak, but no words came; only incomprehensible mutters. His consciousness faded into obscurity; his body tumbled slamming into one of the nearby empty tables, knocking it off its base and flipping it over, before he himself landed on the ground with a loud thud. He hit the hardwood floor like a bag of rocks. Dan had landed at an angle, revealing the bullet wound straight through his neck and out the head.
The Stranger got up from their seat, not a drop of blood could be seen on any inch of their clothes, not even from the cloth that covered their hand; they looked unworldly as they stood up, their left hand showing their shiny silver revolver grasped tight within the palm of the blood-soaked rag. They placed their cards face up, right next to the bullet-sized hole in the table, looked down at the injured hand still wrapped in that dirty rag, holding the gun.
“Good to know it still works.” They said looking down, glaring over Dan’s motionless corpse.
“What’d I say about breaking the rules Dan? Y’know… fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Now fool me three times, well… ain’t that just a sum-bitch.” They gave a small chuckle.
The Stranger kneeled, grabbing his corpse by the shirt collar, dragging it through the bar, leaving an ugly,gory trail as they swerved Dan around many empty rows of tables and chairs. The Old Bartender, who’d been petrified with fear, held an expression of shock perfectly visible. Feeling unable to move away from the front counter, only able to look on, as The Stranger made their way towards the swinging entrance doors, while holding on to Dan’s body with a tight grip.
However, The Old Bartender let a thought slip from his head to his mouth. A thought he hadn’t intended to let get away from his mind. A thought he would’ve never wanted The Stranger to hear, not for as long as he lived, and for the remainder of his life. The words swung out of his throat at a volume he wished he could’ve played off as random murmuring, but was too loud and disturbingly clear. And he knew it.
“Y—you’re the devil…” The words almost threw themselves out of his windpipe, with little to hold them back.
The Stranger stopped in their tracks, looking over to him, before he cowered under the counter, swallowing his words back up. They stared, a sense of intent could be felt from a distance. Dan’s body held tight within their grasp. The Old Bartender could only look on as the Stranger took slow, small steps toward him, taking Dan’s warm deceased corpse with them.
Each step closer, made him sweat twice as much as the last. The Stranger approached his countertop, leaning over it, one arm held across the surface.
“Y’know, Sir I-I don’t appreciate—” They cut themselves off, starting their sentence fresh. “The Devil… Well—now, The Devil is a liar, cheat, manipulator, murderer, and all sorts of different things. Living in a place that’s, quite literally, hot as hell. Filled to the top with people as bad–if not worse! With nothing to do but… fuck around. Play a few games to pass the time…” The Stranger paused. The Old Bartender stood stiff as a board, not daring to move a muscle. They continued with a grin, “Well… Y’know, It-It’s like your mama always said: if you ain’t got nothing nice to say. Don’t say anything at all!”
The Old Bartender gazed into their cold lifeless eyes, turning to ice as they spoke, forcing The Old Bartender to hold his breath saying not a word. His face ran pale as snow. His heartbeat was so loud and harsh, it moved the inside walls of his chest. The Stranger sat staring at him, almost daring him to say something, anything, however, only for a second. The Stranger, believing that their business was done, pulled themselves away from the counter, sneaking glances at him as they did. Making their way back to the swinging entrance doors. Dragging Dan’s body, and The Old Bartender’s cloth, with them.
Before passing through the swinging doors they said something to him, “See yuh later Mark!” waving goodbye.
The saloon doors swung open the same way they’d done before. Their silhouette moved further in the distance, quickly becoming invisible over the horizon.
The Old Bartender hadn’t been able to hear the stranger’s last words, for the sound of his heartbeat rippling throughout his body was the only thing he could hear, though he was certain they were directed towards him.
He looked across his bar, an awkward ugly blood trail leading from their table to the outside, plainly visible from every perspective. Still shaken by their up-close encounter, tried to calm his worries with some deep breaths. But through the deep breaths, one question piqued his curiosity; as he moved his eyes over to Dan and The Stranger’s vacant table and The Stranger’s cards, conveniently placed up. Wondering how the game would’ve gone if things had turned a little differently, he stiffly walked his way around the counter (still shaken,) like he’d done before bringing The Stranger the cleaning rag. The realization hit him that he’ll never get it back. He made his way past the plethora of empty tables and vacant chairs, over to the heavily stained surface of the table, floor, and now ceiling. Gazing over The Stranger’s cards, perfectly visible from his standing perspective.
The Stranger’s cards:
Ace of Hearts, Six of spades, Ace of Diamonds, Ace of Clover, and Six of hearts.
End.
