Flash Fiction: Probably · 10:09am Jul 14th, 2016
Current iteration of story attributed to Chuck Finley for the execution and conversations with Ariamaki for the inspiration.
Written in two and a bit days, just to prove that if I have an idea I like, I can finish it before Chuck steals it like he threatened.
“I don’t trust him. I don’t trust this whole situation.”
That was strange coming from Grim. That’s a name we gave him, not a name he chose. We gave it because he’s a connoisseur of the bad feeling, both the giving and receiving thereof. Strange because all we had to deal with was a strange motherfucker we had already tied up, here.
Grim had nearly a foot on this guy, and was a fine man of hard-leather-wrapped muscle next to this nicely-dressed beanpole. Grim also had Clyde, Cleaver and myself with him. The dude giving off the bad vibes was bound, unarmed and... maybe a little unnerving, yeah.
“I’m telling you, Wickham, the bounty on his head’s too high and the whole thing was too easy. I don’t like easy money. Just means you can’t see the strings yet.”
Clyde claps him in the arm, and there’s a smack as his ham hock hand bounces off Grim’s hardened leather shoulders. “Yeah, well, worse to worst it’s dead or alive, right? Less is less, but we can still kill ‘im if it gets weird, and ransom’s an option if he’s waiting for rescue.
I could swear I see the beanpole smile at that, but it’s only there a fraction of a second, and maybe I’m just losing it in my old age. We don’t normally hold bounties in saloons, but this one was long deserted since some wildlife breezed through from Murdoch and scattered the locals. The whole scene was probably just making me paranoid.
It’s not paranoia if you’re right though, yeah...
Cleaver speaks her mind, and I’m quick to listen. Grim might have a good gut, but Cleaver’s the one with the head on her shoulders. “I think it’s a risk. It’s a risk we’re not seeing yet, but we’re smart, and we know what the reward is, and the reward is sweet. And just untying him and setting him loose? We’d be burning a meal ticket just because we got spooked.”
I grumble, and Grim nods, even though he doesn’t look comfortable about it. “Point.” I concede. “Damned good one.”
“I still think something’s wrong here. Bounty’s too high for what we got.”
“But we got it anyway.” I retort. “So what’d you have me do about it?”
Everyone’s silent in the old parlor. The bounty, and his names just Edward. No strange alias or codenames. Not even ‘Ed’. The rather unimpressed and unimpressive man tied here was just regular old Edward. Which is why it wasn’t settling right how much we were being paid for tracking him.
Most that we’d take in for his price didn’t have the ‘alive’ option, and ended up being some ornery customers who were probably quick on the draw or scary as hell, maybe they had wits like tempered iron or maybe they had enough buddies to take on a small town. Sometimes a little of all of the above. Never were they men in nice clothes all by their lonesome.
We’d found Edward sitting in this saloon like he was waiting for us. Unarmed, unarmoured, just sitting here sipping a glass of water. Offered us one too when we came in.
Then we told him we were here for him and he just smiled and nodded. No muss, no fuss, didn’t put up a fight.
Just tied him up and now here we are.
Shit.
Clyde doesn’t see the problem, but that’s fine by me because Clyde never sees the problem. You don’t want your muscle man to get too clever or he might start questioning orders. Clyde was one hell of a muscle man.
It was Grim and Cleaver being as uneasy as me that was the real problem.
And the whole damn time Edward hasn’t said a thing.
“Fuck it.” Grim says. “I think we should leave it to chance.”
I’m not even angry, just confused. “What? Why?”
“Something doesn’t want us taking him in, that’d be the way to find out. ‘Sides, reckon it’s sporting, since he didn’t put up a fight otherwise. I’d feel a damn sight better about this whole situation, I reckon.”
I’m about to talk him down for spouting stupid superstitious bullshit when Cleaver just nods emphatically. That’s two for three.
Suppose superstitious bullshit is an everyday occurence. And what’s good for morale is good for morale.
“Okay, Edward. Tell you what, we don’t turn you in if you beat me in a round of craps. Sound good?”
He considers it and shrugs. “Sure. You just roll for me, okay, sir? I’m very grateful for the opportunity, sir, I just have rotten luck if I touch the dice.”
“What, you’re going to trust me to roll the dice for you?”
And Edward nods too, like a damned bobblehead that’s been flicked. “Oh, yes, Sir. If you’re being kind enough to be giving me a fair chance at freedom, Sir, I believe it’s only too true that you’re going to be fair about it, sir. If you weren’t intending to be honest about this, Sir, my touching of the dice wouldn’t matter much anyway, Sir.”
Well, he’s got a damned point there. Makes a lot of damned sense, and I hate that. Someone in his situation shouldn’t be so damned rational about it.
I look at Grim, and he’s giving me the biggest damn “I told you so” expression. Grim: Mercenary motorcycle mechanic, marksman with that big iron revolver of his, also apparently my goddamn mother.
“Cleaver, we got dice in our packs. You grab ‘em?”
She doesn’t reply with words, but double times it over to the saddlebags we’d slung behind the bar. In anticipation of us making out with as much of the good hootch as we could carry, of course. She vaults the counter, tight black jeans showing off her athletic form, then she vaults back, splayed legs showing why she wore jeans instead of a dress, and is about halfway between the bar and us at the table by the front windows when she fucking trips.
The dice scatter from her hand and down some floorboards.
“Shit!” Grim, Cleaver and I say as one. Clyde doesn’t say anything, he’s just trying to dig through the boards to try and grab ‘em, but no such luck. Probably a basement.
“They were my lucky dice too.” Cleaver groans.
I snort. “Not so lucky if you fucking tripped with ‘em in your hand and lose ‘em like that. Must have been past their expiration date.” She doesn’t appreciate the joke.
A silence hangs in the air.
“We don’t have any more dice on us, do we?”
“I got cards?” Clyde offers. “We could just do poker.”
I’m iffy on that one. Craps is luck, poker’s got a bit of skill to it, and... “Ah, fuck it, poker’s more fun anyway. You good playing Cleaver one on one, Mr Edward?”
You know what they call a card shark who doesn’t cheat, is just damn good at the game? Card sharp. No shit. Cleaver, being one with the metaphysical concept of sharpness, was far and away our best card player.
Seemed pretty damn unfair until Edward started laughing.
“Oh, no. No, no, Sir and Ma’am, please. If we’re going to play, I want it to be against all of you, please. I do so love a challenge, Sir and Ma’am, and it makes for a much slower game if it’s just the two. What fun is spectating anyway? Join, all of you!”
He was dreadfully enthusiastic about it and everything. It makes Cleaver look uneasy as she starts ripple-shuffling the cards, and the little awkward silences are now filled the the clatter of cardboard collisions. Edward watches the cards intently.
Clyde, oblivious to the bad vibes, smiles and takes a seat next to Edward, who’s also smiling. “Hell yeah, dude’s got some fuckin’ spirit in him. Hey, speakin’ of getting spirits in you, anyone want a drink?”
Because I am a most benevolent leader, I get up and grab the nicest looking bottle of hooch from behind the bar and begin pouring five glasses. Edward shakes his head though.
“Just water, please, Sir. I like to concentrate when I play cards, if you’d be so kind, Sir?”
“Yeah, reckon this might be more serious stakes for you than usual.”
“Hrrm? Oh, no, not at all. But I don’t drink then, either, Sir.”
This whole exchange, Grim’s been giving me the stinkeye, and I don’t dignify him with a response because I’m feeling it too, but at least I’m acting like a rational adult about the situation.
I pour him the damn water from my own canteen. Just so he knows it’s safe. He nods gratefully, arms still bound by his sides, and gives me a genuinely appreciative smile. Creepy fuck.
Finally he asks to be untied. If only so he can drink his water. I oblige him, careful. He doesn’t make any sudden moves when the knots fall, but he does start reaching slow and steady for his pocket. Grim twitches in response for the bad .44 he keeps quick-holstered, but Edward either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
He reaches into his pocket. This whole time the beanpole’s been wearing a damn clean brown waistcoat and dark red shirt, but now he pulls out a matching brown bow tie and puts it on. “It helps to look your best for company, Sir, no matter who they may be.” He explains. “Besides, I feel it helps give me that pokery look, don’t you agree, Sirs and Ma’am?”
He looked like a dealer from the old west, honestly. Couldn’t fault him on it, but it made the situation just that one step weirder.
It’s not a clip-on. He ties it without a mirror, flawlessly. That bit’s reassuring, because I’ve never met a fighter with the skillset. So I doubt he’s going to pull some freaky martial arts bullshit on us.
We end up settling on coins for the low end currency, five millimeter rounds for the middle tier, bottlecaps swiped from behind the bar counter for the high end. It makes for a shiny chip set I’ll give it that.
“Name of the game,” I announce, “Is Texas Hold ‘Em. A classic. You unfamiliar with the rules?”
Edward seems delighted by it all. “No, Sir, I’m very familiar. Shall we begin, then, Sirs and Ma’am?” He starts as big blind, Cleaver sits on the dealer, and the cards fly around.
I check my hand: 5 and 8, different suits. Not the best, but I might be in it for a straight. I call, as does everyone else. Then it’s Edward and-
“I’m all in Sirs and Ma’am, I’m afraid.”
He hasn’t touched his cards. They’re both still face down in front of him, untouched.
Clyde snorts in bemusement next to him and throws his own cards down. “Fold.”
Cleaver and Grim follow. I squint at Edward. “Not going to look at your cards?”
He shakes his head emphatically, even looks a little shocked by the question. “Oh, no, Sir, I believe that to be bad luck in the utmost! But I have a very good feeling about them, Sir.”
I’m not risking it with this hand,then. I fold.
He takes in the pot and, because he was last to bet, he managed to bleed us all of the blinds. Not a bad first move. Risky, though. I can’t tell if that was stupid or brilliant.
The dealer chip moves down for the blinds, but Cleaver still does it, because she’s the only one of us who doesn’t fumble the cards. Well, Grim might manage, but he’s always got grease or oil on his hands, so we don’t trust him to try. As it is he’s playing with gloves on.
He’s still come closer to touching his cards than Edward, though, as Cleaver deals out the next hand with quick flicks of her wrist.
I start watching Edward for tells this round. He just looks like he’s having a great time, and he takes another sip of his water. He hasn’t touched his cards yet though, so I can’t tell if it means anything yet.
I check my hand. King and four, hearts and diamonds. Crap. I can’t help but scowl at Cleaver, which is a pretty big tell of my own. Edward notices.
“Bad hand, Sir? Probably best if you fold now, then.”
I growl lightly under my breath. Clyde snickers, and even Cleaver smiles a little. Ah well.
Betting goes Grim, Me, Cleaver, then Edward and Clyde as the big blind this time. Grim calls, I fold, Cleaver calls.
Then Edward calls all-in again.
Everyone at the table groans, except for Clyde who flat out shouts “Fuck!” in frustration. Edward looks apologetic.
“I just have a good feeling about these cards again, Sirs and Ma’am I’m afraid, and cannot help but bet accordingly.”
“You haven’t even seen the flop!” I accuse, “And you’re betting your damn life here, remember.”
“Oh, yes Sir,” he says, taking another long sip of his water. I match him with a long pull of my own drink, and enjoy the long burn. “So it makes sense that I shouldn’t bet lightly, doesn’t it? If I’m all in, Sir, then I might as well go all in.”
Then Clyde calls.
Now I’m angry and confused, great combination. “The fuck you doing, man?”
Clyde surprises me again by saying something damned smart. “He’s just going to do this ‘til he bleeds us through the blinds, Boss, and I’m the big blind anyway. I got a decent hand, he doesn’t even know what his fuckin’ cards are, and if he does this a few rounds more then he’s gonna get a solid lead anyway.”
I grunt. “... a’ight. Go all in then.”
Grim snorts. “Fuck that noise, I’m folding. Good luck, mate.”
Cleaver wordlessly throws her own cards down, and Clyde flips his cards. King and a Jack of spades. Face cards, close enough for straight potential, same suit. He’s right, they’re damned fine.
Edward coughs as if he’s embarassed, but he’s still smiling a little. “Do you mind flipping mine for me? It’d be bad luck if I did, Sir.”
“You can stop calling us that at any time, Mr Edward. I’m Wickham, for instance. That’d do me fine.”
Edward shook his head more emphatically still. “Oh, no, Sir, you’ve been a most gracious host, I couldn’t be disrespectful.”
“Lemme guess; Bad luck?”
Edward’s smile shifts gear to a toothy grin, and he taps the side of his nose knowingly. “Got it in one, Sir, got it in one.”
Clyde flips his cards for him. Edward’s got a two and a seven of clubs against Clyde’s spade face cards. Fantastic.
Cleaver goes through the motions. Flip three, burn one, flip one, burn one, flip one.
Five of spades, four of clubs, Queen of spades. Clyde’s looking at a flush for the first burn.
“Come to pappa!”
King of clubs. Even better, even if he loses on the flush, he’s got a high pair. He’s already reaching forward to rake the chips in when Cleaver’s burning the next one.
Edward raises a finger to his pursed lips. “Sh-sh-sh-shh.”
Clyde barely gets out a “What?” when the river shows.
Ace of clubs.
“I think that’s a flush, Sir.”
Clyde bumps the bottle of moonshine on the table in surprise, spilling it across the center of the table down to Edward. His cards are flat in the path of the puddle, and his hand hovers over them and it’s the first time I’ve seen him not smiling, he looks like he’s in pain but he’s not picking them up.
Cleaver’s quick to snap them up for him, and the puddle soaks on through. That was the strangest tense moment I’ve ever seen, but Edward’s visibly relieved, and he lets off some tension fiddling and tightening his bow tie.
“A deck of cards is only good with all the cards...” he mutters to himself.
I feel Grim glaring at me, but I don’t dignify him with a look back. He’s picked the hooch back up, but most of it’s gone. Good thing we drank so much of it already. “Should I grab another bottle, then?”
“Let Clyde do it, since he’s out.”
“Fuck you, Boss.” He grunts, getting up. “That was just some damned bad luck.”
Yeah it really was.
He goes to get us our refreshment, and I’m starting to feel a bit more tired than I thought. Maybe the drink was a little stronger than I expected? But it’s not like my judgement’s needed for much, unless he starts playing more strategically since he’s got such a lead on us now. A few blinds and all of Clyde’s starting, against us who haven’t had a hand in yet.
New order: Me, Cleaver, Edward, Grim. Blinds in.
7 hearts, 8 spades. Not high numbers, but good for a straight. I call.
Cleaver calls.
Edward goes all in again.
We all grit our teeth. Yeah, figured.
“Gunna keep doin’ it even though you got the lead?”
He chuckles, still not touching the cards, not even now that they were closer to him to avoid the spill. “Well, you know, Sir, I reckon fortune favours the bold.”
Grim throws his cards down in frustration. “Damn waste.”
I fold too. I’m not in love with these cards.
Cleaver sighs. “Clyde had a point, even if it didn’t work out. Call.”
She flips on a pair of aces, the reds.
Edward coughs politely again. “Ah, excuse me-”
Clyde hovers over his shoulder and flips for him. Three and a five, different suits.
So why do I have this terrible feeling in my gut?
Grim’s watching the deck carefully as Cleaver does her thing.
Two diamonds, eight clubs, jack clubs, burn a card, four of hearts, burn a card, ace of spades.
“Yeah! Three of a kind!” Clyde declares triumphantly. He’s extremely confused when Edward’s the one raking in the chips.
“Loses to his straight.” Cleaver explains morosely.
Shit.
Shit.
And it just so happens to hit on the last card too.
He’s fucking doing something with the deck, isn’t he, staring at it like that? Doing everything the way he has so far?
Super fucking convenient the dice fell through the floorboards then. And my headache’s gettin’ worse, and I’m starting to get tunnel vision.
“Grim, we’re playing open hand now.”
“Boss?”
“You were right. Let him bleed you, don’t bet if you have to, and when we both get good, we’ll go all-in together. At least one of us will have a chance, then.”
Clyde goes to pour us another shot, but then he just falls down, bottle smashing on the corner of the table. He gets back up immediately, wavering.
Fuck.
“I think- think it was a bad batch of shine, boss.”
“I’m starting to see that, Clyde.”
“I’m starting to see jack shit, boss.”
“Grim, throw him your gloves. Clyde, just try to get all the broken glass up if you can, okay? You ain’t bleedin’ or nothin’?”
“Not too bad boss. You finish this fuckin’ game. I think it’s what Grim said about omens or some shit.”
I stare Edward dead in the eye. He’s not smiling at me anymore, he’s looking at me with the most curious expression. Like the idiot puppy’s wised up and started performing tricks. “I don’t think that’s it, Clyde. Cleaver, deal us in.”
I let him bleed us for two more hands while Clyde just bleeds on the damned floor picking up shards of glass. We’ve all stopped drinking, now, but it’s still getting to us, and I need to think clear.
Edward needs to concentrate when he plays cards but he doesn’t fuckin’ touch ‘em. He just wins.
Doesn’t touch ‘em...
I got a jack and queen of spades. Grim has a pair of kings, hearts and clubs. Good, doesn’t take spades off the table, we’ve got all the royals laid out for us, I’m going for a flush or a straight and him three of a kind or a full house on the off chance.
It’s the best we’re going to do.
Edward goes all in again and we call, both of us. He’s about to ask for the flop when I touch Cleaver’s arm to stay her hand, grip’s feeling a bit weaker than it should.
“Mr Edward, would you be so kind as to flip your cards yourself this time?”
And he stops and glares at me.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Well, you see, Mr Edward, you appear to be the only one at the table not... suffering from tainted libations, as it were,” I mumble with as much dignity as I can muster, just to salt the bastard’s wound, “so I’m afraid we’re no longer in a position to indulge this particular quirk of yours.”
“Well, Sir, I’m afraid I would rather... rather not, Sir.”
“I’m afraid you’re giving us reason, then, to suspect you of cheating in some manner, Mr Edward, and if you find yourself unable to play the cards that would mean the game would be forfeit.”
The rat bastard panics, fiddling furiously with his bowtie, undoing it and then redoing it tighter. Grim’s curious about it now, then angry as he starts catching on just how bad things might be.
Then Edward relaxes suddenly. Goes very calm.
“No, you know what? It’s fine, Sir. The cards have been shuffled enough.” He touches the cards, and I taste static a moment, like a bit of tin foil’s been rubbed against my gums, and the moment passes and we’ve caught the bastard. “The die is cast.”
His eyes are watering, but he smiles anyway, gritted teeth.
He flips the ten and jack of diamonds.
Cleaver starts dealing.
King of diamonds. Two of spades. Ace of spades. I just need a ten for a straight and a spade for a flush. Grim’s already got three of a kind.
But Edward just smiles.
Ten of spades. I got both.
But Edward just smiles.
And Grim’s furious.
He lurches from his chair, slamming one hand down on the table to support himself as his hand goes for the .44 on his hip. He jerks it out.
It slips in the oil all over his hand, carrying with the tug and falling to the table. It fires, hitting Cleaver right in the heart and she falls forward before she can pull the next card.
Grim loses his balance, too, from the gun going off, falls back himself. If he hadn’t been filled with poisoned booze, he would have kept his balance. Had the gun not gone off, he would have kept his balance. If he hadn’t pushed his chair just so when he got up to shoot the bastard, he wouldn’t have caught his neck on it on the way down.
Something goes crunch as the gun slides on the slick left by the spilled moonshine and slides along the table to Edward.
I stare at Edward as he smiles beatifically down at the .44 that’s landed in front of him, barrel pointed towards me now. Cleaver’s dead. Don’t know about Grim.
“Get up Clyde. We’re going to leave now, nice and slow. And apologize to Mr Edward here for taking up his time.” He doesn’t answer. “Clyde?”
Edward’s smile turns thoughtful, maybe even a frown, as he looks at where Clyde is. I can’t see him through the table from where I’m sitting.
“I think he’s lost an awful lot of blood, Sir. A shard of glass must have ended up somewhere unfortunate, Sir. I can check his pulse if you like?” He leans down, and he doesn’t come back up with Clyde. He’s wearing Grim’s gloves, now, though. “Darn shame, Sir, I rather liked him.”
Then the gun’s pointing at me, and he’s holding it rather carelessly. Apathetically, maybe.
Then he looks back at me and smiles again. The .44 opens and the rounds spill out. Before I can react on it, move on it though, he’s put one back in the chamber. I’ve figured out not to press him by this point.
“Tell me, Mr Wickham, Sir, you’ve been so kind with the offers of games of chance to me this evening. Tell me, then, tell me, Sir, how would you feel for a good old game of Russian roulette?” He spins the barrel, and it does that clicking little whirl before clacking back into place. “I’m sure you know the rules, Sir?”
“Intimately.”
“Gloves.” He remarks to himself. “I should remember these. You know, I’d lost mine before you showed up, Sir, and these are just my size. Isn’t that rather fortunate, then?”
I grit my teeth as my vision fades. I’m just about steadying myself against the table now.
“Here, you look ill, Sir. So I suppose it’s only fair if I go first.”
Click.
“You know what, Sir? I’m feeling very good about this game, sir. So why don’t I give you a fighting chance? You’ve been so generous with me, Sir, it only seems right.”
Click. Click. Click. Click.
He stops and sounds sincerely regretful.
“Ah well, bad luck then, Sir. Better luck next time?”
And, because we’d been generous enough to flip his cards for him, he took the liberty of pulling the trigger on my behalf.
I might actually be satisfied with it after another three rewrites, I think.
"are now filled the the clatter"
"filled with the"?
Heh, pretty awesome. I like that the first-person viewpoint didn't mean the narrator survived.
One to re-read to see what else pops out.
Ah. Well then. I quite like the implication of rules to Edward's abilities, rites and restrictions in the wooing of Lady Luck. Lovely stuff.
Oh, now this is FASCINATING! I could see this as a bit of low-fantasy Old West goodness, or downright Fallout-level strangeness. Very, very cool, and I'd LOVE to see more.
This story couldn't end better any other way, but I can't help but think it'd be funny if the gun backfired in Edward's hands. (From overusing his luck ability.)