Doc knew he had to kill him. The only question was when.
The mark had been playing the worst game of poker that he
had ever seen. The burly teamster looked like he could barely read and it was a
wonder that he could recognize the meaning of the cards he was playing. Best of
all he was stinking drunk. Stinking in all aspects. He reeked of stale tobacco
and rot gut whiskey with flesh that had not seen water since the last time he
was caught in a rainstorm.
It was only a matter of time before it came to pistols. Not
be the first time. A problem none the less. You see the sheriff had warned him
when he rode into Newton. He had managed to keep his nose clean. Well relatively
clean since his nose could often be found in a saloon girl’s cooze. Doc was an
old school Southern gentlemen but he did favor the soiled doves. Their corruption
assuaged the rot in his soul.
The whiskey drummer with the stained cravat had the play. “Two”
he said. Doc spun two cards across the table. The drummer picked them up
delicately and frowned. He tossed down his hand. “Fold.”
Just Doc and idjit who smelled like a constipated buffalo. “Three”
he slurred. Doc sent them across the table from the bottom of the deck. No need
to trifle with circumstance. Since it would come to killing he might as well
win the pot.
“You have the play sir” Doc said. The teamster googled at
his hand like it was the first time he figured out what his privates were used
for besides pissing. “I raise twenty” he
said. Doc checked his hand and shook his head. “I will see that sir and raise
you fifty.” “FIFTY! YOU COCKSUCKING LUNGER! I AIN’T GOT BUT ANOTHER TEN DOLLARS
TO MY NAME!” “That will suffice sir. You can just call all in. I will be
willing to let it be.”
The teamster glared and pushed his last few coins to the
middle of the table. He turned over his cards. “Three sixes” he said as he lunged to pull in
the pot. “Sorry sir but I think you are premature.” Doc turned over his hand. “I
believer four Queens would be the better sir.” The teamster looked stupidly at
the cards and he lost it. He jumped up and pulled an enormous Tennessee
Toothpick and started to slash across the table.
Doc calmly palmed a derringer and shot him through the eye.
It had been twelve minutes.
5 comments:
A bit of editing and you will be there, sir.
Sixty is a Zen master in editing. But he still eats mashed taters w/ his hands.
Does he bother to mash them with anything other than two remaining teeth? You know tree guys are root challenged and used to dealing with stumps.
I cannot properly respond as I do not eat potatoes. Or, badaydahz, as Spinookie probably pronounces the word.
Or, badaydahz...
Now that was pretty good. Enough to make me laugh and abscond with the word for my own purposes, with badaydahz fitting the the flat feeling (what the Dutch who love potatos call "flau") that accompanies bad days and precedes the consumption of comfort food.
Post a Comment