Wild Cards: Ante Up

The day began just as any other, wandering the country doing odd jobs. My little crew was made of Jess, the lady of our group, James, an old ranch hand, and me. This was way back when, so the town we had ended up in was one of the few with paved roads in the country. Our travels had brought us to somewhere the Nevada, the icon of sin. The town was run by some idiot that called himself the Meriff, which was supposedly a portmanteau of “mayor” and “sheriff.”

We had been buying supplies and taking them back to camp while Jess was looking for any jobs or bounties for us to take on. We met with her at a shop after we were done only for it to start raining. I remember finding it strange at the time, what with it being in the desert in all, but we would soon find out that it was for a reason. I got the urge to run into the saloon that was a ways down the road, James and Jess following behind. The poor girl was struggling to keep up in her dress, the bottom of it smeared with much from the sudden downpour, but James was as ever the gentleman and helped her along. When we came into the saloon, huffing, puffing and soaking wet, a bare few people looked up at us before going back to their cards and drink.

“Open table over here,” said one of the dealers through a world weary, knowing smile. The man had a scruffy beard and a pack-a-day voice. Now that I think about it, there were only three chairs at his table and they all seemed oddly inviting at that exact moment.

“Deal or fold, mister…” he continued, shuffling the cards with his liver spotted hands in a way that was somehow unsettling.

“Ernest, Ernest Wellingforth,” I replied, “and I think you’re talking about the wrong card game.”

“Just a saying I’m fond of,” said he, voice mild. We settled into the battered old wooden seats and played a few rounds. The atmosphere was tense in the way that only being trapped by unpleasant weather with a bunch of unpleasant folk can be, which wasn’t helped by the fact that the “musician” played classic saloon tunes as though he had a grudge against the composers. The old man was polite enough though. Eventually the rainstorm finally broke and we made to leave, but he put three more cards on the table: a five of hearts for Jess, a six of clubs to James, and a ten of spades to me.

“We’re done for now,” Jess said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“The game’s just begun, little lady,” the dealer man said through his teeth. We looked down, or I should say our gazes were drawn down and saw that where the three cards were now lay three actual, honest to God Guns: a rifle with a scope as long as the barrel, a huge under over shotgun that looked like it belonged on the side of an airship more than in a man’s hands, and an onyx black break open revolver.

Utterly taken aback, James’ jaw worked before he asked, “Why us?”

“The Cards chose you” replied the Dealer, who was gone before the words had finished echoing in our ears. Now we had a purpose. We had to find the Red Joker.

I was thinking of maybe making a story off of this old RPG, so here's a teaser of sorts.