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A compilation of things which are interesting but don't have nearly enough lore to make for separate posts. I'll make another part at some point in time because there's more, but I'm still trying to catch some clues on those. These are things on which I've given up and won't be looking for more references. If anyone has any more relevant info, please let me know :) The Casino Door I figured I would start with this. Whenever traversing the Oceanview Motel, it's really easy to forget that the name is actually "Oceanview Motel and Casino". We see activity outside the motel (travellers looking to stay the night), we see activity in the closed numbered rooms (bloody trail and screams, later a woman laughing), we have some information or connection on every single door with a symbol on it, we know they all lead to different dimensions, and we also have some lore on 4 of them. But the Casino door remains not only a mystery, it's a mystery with no lore attached. And frankly, I'm inclined to believe the Casino door will never open. Underhill's reaction to Darling's Departure After you finish the main game, you're free to roam the Oldest house, and all of the characters will have some new Dialogue, that includes Raya Underhill. Aside from having a small fit about Pope becoming the head of research, she also has an odd reaction after Jesse tells her about Darling. What makes the scene really sad is that in AWE DLC we've learned in this collectible that Underhill and Darling had a relationship. Green In the Foundation, we find a rather strange letter. Some speculated that this very special and very rejected Threshold Kids episode is related, especially since it's found only a few leaps away. And of course, the letter itself is written by Peggy's husband, and Peggy reported what was happening to him on American Overnight Episode 367. Peggy and her Husband are from Biloxy, Mississippi, and the Radio host mentions that what she's describing sounds exactly like another incident from Decatur, Georgia. Even though both of these apparently led to an actual action from the FBC, there are no records about either of them, at least none that i can find. Which is a bit strange if you think about it - that's a lot of info about a recurring AWE and an Altered Item which don't have any actual Research & Records entries. I suspect this is meant to be related to Chester Bless and his organisation, but I don't see a solid connection. The Astral Plane threshold Although the FBC dismissed it as a dead letter, someone describes what appears to be recurring involuntary visits to the white Astral Plane. It doesn't appear that this person has made an astral dive, like the FBC does. It appears that there's a connection to the Astral Plane attached to a specific location in our world, an actual ongoing threshold. Which might serve as food for speculations and conspiracy theories about the Board's interests in our world, and the next crisis Jesse will have to face. Of course, that's assuming that what's described in the letter is actually true. Dylan wasn't kidding about the musical When describing one of his dreams, which turned out to be a bit of prophecy as it predicted Jesse's office assistant part of the game, Dylan mentions that the dream shifted and turned into a musical. Then he creates an extremely awkward and cringey scene where he's singing the song he remembers from the dream. While it's easy to consider it mere nonsense without context, I'll have you know that Sam Lake mentioned all the way back in 2016 that his dream is to make a videogame that's also a musical. Clearly, that dream is still well and alive ;) Disclaimer: I have no idea whether Sam Lake was joking or not. First tangible information about the third game Remedy said they're already working on another game from this universe, and from the statement it seemed that it's a game that is neither Control nor Alan Wake. According to a collectible called "Keystone report" an entire town's population has disappeared and a strange symbol featuring "two overlapping circles, with a dot in the shared space" has been seen on a number of different buildings. This same symbol appears on a door in Oceanview Motel. The word associated with the symbol in Control game files is "Vanguard". If you're not aware, Vanguard is the codename for a project Remedy has already been working on for more than a year now and thanks to AWE DLC, we already have the first mystery attached to it. We have so much that could be a focus of the future games, but this right here is a very specific intentional connection to a game, development of which has been announced. The interesting, and for some perhaps controversial bit of information, Vanguard is supposed to be an experimental multiplayer title. What also needs clarification, this isn't the "smaller project within the same franchise" which Remedy mentioned. So they're in fact working on three separate projects from this universe. Maybe we've only gotten a peak behind the poster, Control 2 could be much weirder Two separate collectibles, this one and this one, mention something called "The Tennyson Report". And then the report itself is found in a secret location. Which should actually be enough to make us believe that this report is a big deal, but Remedy further added to the significance of this collectible with the DLCs. Not only did they show us in the Foundation collectibles how the FBC used to rely on some much different methods in the past, but more importantly they also left us a cheeky clue in the AWE DLC. Langston reveals in his neverending monologue he named his cat Alfred after his favourite poet. Well, what do you know, Tennyson was the poet quoted in the report and his first name was Alfred. It was Langston who wrote the Tennyson report! Jesse trusts Langston enough to offer him position of the head of an entire sector. So it's not far fetched to imagine she'll leave him to pursue research which is not entirely scientific in nature. As weird as Control can get, it has been mostly grounded in science, something we're somewhat familiar with. The Hiss, Polaris, The Oldest House, other realities, everything tied to concepts from science fiction. The next game could be straight up arcane.
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Today I've been thinking a lot about not only my parental trauma, but the abuse I suffered at the hands of my childhood "best friend" and her mother. I kinda just feel like getting this off my chest... So this girl and I met when we were about three years old. Our moms worked in the same place, and as soon as we were old enough, about five, we started to hang out on a regular basis. I didn't realize her mother was insane until I was nuch older, but the extent of neglect both myself and her daughter experienced haunts me to this day. Her mother was/is a hoarder, of both objects and cats. I remember visiting her house and it was packed in all corners with things. Usually it was house decor that her mother swore she'd put up some day, only to return it to the store a week later and claim she lost the reciept in order to get store credit/a refund. This was on top of uncleaned cat waste and fur. They also had an old chihuahua who scratched herself raw with fleas and anxiety. This woman literally only fed that dog mcdonald's burgers and fries, and to them it was completely normal. Whenever I stayed the night, I couldn't leave my friend's bedroom, and going four feet to the bathroom was always a struggle. If we opened the door to go across the hall she'd yell at us from the living room. What's more, her hoarding meant that random stuff was always in the way, so closing the bathroom door was often impossible. Oh, and god forbid I attempted to go into the kitchen for some food. She'd hear us no matter how quiet we were, and order us to go back to the room. She always said she'd make us something, but of course she never did. Usually it was me asking for food, and I never understood why my friend "wasn't hungry." I know now that it was because she was used to eating maybe once or twice a day. This woman would almost exclusively eat out, and when she didn't have the money to (which was most times), she'd do two things: (a) Buy a gift card and then use it at the restaurant, or (b) Pretend that she'd "lost" a coupon/gift card her husband gave her, and get a free meal. She'd do this for things like getting into water parks, movie theaters, hotel pools, and so on. When I'd stay at her house, she'd chain smoke for hours in the garage, or drink on the couch and watch trashy tv. We weren't allowed to go into the garage or living room for this reason. This woman schemed with her daughter to humiliate me, too. I remember vividly one time when I was seven. We were in the lazy river at a hotel, and they thought it would be funny to untie my bathing suit top and then hide. My top had been partially off for probably some time before I realized that I couldn't find them. I remember turning around and seeing them come out from behind a palm tree, laughing hysterically. I was confused until I noticed the state of things. So there I was, seven years old, struggling in the water because I couldn't have been over four feet, and being publicly laughed at my my best friend and her psycho mother. You might think that's the end of it, but oh no. On my 13th birthday weekend they took me to the Biloxi Beau Rivage. I thought we were gonna have a good time. Yeah, no. Her dad drove us, and for reference, he'd always been the more level headed of the two. This comes in handy later. So we get there pretty late at night, and I don't remember getting to the room and falling asleep. The next day her mother leaves us with no room key to wander the hotel. She then goes down to the casino for what I thought was going to be a reasonable amount of time. Well, her mother ended up disappearing to gamble and get drunk from probably 10-11 am to 4 pm that day. My friend and I were having fun the first few hours. We met some random boys our age and walked the halls with them for a while, and then went to do our own thing. Now, there's literally nothing for two unsupervised 13 year olds to do, right? We walked the lobby, rode the elevator a nauseating amount of times, talked to strangers, and even got trapped at the top floor stairwell. In February. With shorts on. Why we weren't dressed for the weather was beyond me. Going down 32 flights of stairs freezing my ass off in flip flops is something I never want to do again. Mind you, this girl's parents hadn't fed us more than McDonald's since 6 pm the previous night. By the time noon rolled around we'd done all that and still hadn't eaten. I was so desperate that I was about to start asking strangers for money. Her dad, who'd apparently been trying to drag her mother out of the casino for hours, finally appeared. He was generous enough to buy me a muffin and a soda for me and my friend to share. That night her mother was so drunk that I heard her sobbing in the bath, followed by me waking up again to her and her husband arguing at 2 am. I got hissed at to go back to sleep despite my best efforts to look like I wasn't awake. The next day her mother did the same thing, and we ended up leaving to drive back home after this woman had jumped out of the car, sat on a bench, drunk-argued with her husband, and was finally coerced back into the vehicle. Another thing that happened, happened pretty early on. My friend and I had to have been four or five. We were left unsupervised in her mother's bedroom, and we decided to get into the makeup. Arguably we did get lipstick on the entire bathroom and ourselves, but it's not like we had the brain capacity to do differently. We were kids, for crying out loud. Well, her mother finds us and FLIPS out. I was ordered to go into the living room and wait to be punished. It was terrifying to the core for little me to hear my friend being beaten just down the hall. I knew I was in for it when her mother came for me, next. I'm sure you can guess where this is going. I don't actually remember being beaten, but I do remember shaking on the couch afterwards; my head buried into one of the cushions as I tried to keep my sobs quiet. I didn't even tell my parents until 14 years later, just this past year. My mother was understandably furious, but at the time, I thought it was normal. Another scenario was super odd, and I still don't remember exactly what we were doing. I was four or five, and her mom had taken us to a random man's apartment. Apparently he was super rich, and her mother and another adult woman were putting his things into trash bags. I remember thinking, what am I doing here? My friend and I found a briefcase of what I now assume to be drugs, and were looking through it when her mother noticed and had the briefcase taken away. The next thing I remember was walking through a parking lot at night, tired and carrying a heavy trash bag. She and her mom would often show up at my house unannounced and make me go hang out. This had been going on for my whole life, so I didn't actually realize I could say no. If they came to the door and told me "we're going to xyz" I would just go, no matter what other plans I had. Later on, they'd sneak through the back gate into my backyard, and then scare me by peeking through the windows or knocking on the back door while I was sitting at the computer. Another time, I let them come in when my parents weren't home, and this woman went to my parents bedroom to rifle through their things. She then emerged wearing a personal item that belonged to my parents, and paraded around the house with it as if it were a joke. I also remember her being super weird in general. Like, she'd drive me and her daughter around all night and stop at either a wal mart or target to search theough the parking lot for either abandoned jewelry, or reciepts that the intended to return for store credit. Seriouslty. At 11 pm, as my parents are furiously calling ME (she didn't have a cell phone) and demanding I come back home. One of the more gross times was when I asked to stay the night. They both said that they had a flea problem because of the cats, and I thought "how bad could it be? a few fleas aren't a problem." I end up getting there and I kid you not, my friend had a gag DEAD FLEA BOWL in her room. Like, a half way full bowl of fleas that she'd individually killed and put in there. And there were STILL like thousands more. The bed wasn't safe, the floor was disgusting, and I immediately asked to go home. Needless to say I got a verbal beating, but thankfully my mother came through and picked me up that night. This lady also had a terrible cat hoarding habit, to the point where cats were actively breeding with their siblings, and occasionally eating each other in the house. They'd like, wake up and find dead cats in the house. It was awful, but I'm grateful I never had to witness it. I also remember her mother making me stay awake during a night I slept over by blasting gross youtube videos and keeping the lights on, while I pretty much cowered and begged for them to let me go to sleep. This woman also probably kidnapped me once. So my friend texts me around 5 pm one night. She says that her parents are taking us somewhere special. My parents were not aware that this would be anything more than like, a trip to the movies, or the local outlets. So her dad picks me up and drives me to his house, where my friend and her mom are loading the car. I was confused as to what was happening, but I go along with it. By the time we're on the road it's dark, and we're on out way to drop her dad off somewhere. I didn't know it at the time but we dropped him off at a greyhound racing center to play poker (??). My friend's mom then continues driving. At this point I'm tired and anxious, but both of them literally will not tell me where we're going. Hours pass and we get to a city 65 miles away from home. It's 2 am. She told me we'd be doing all this fun stuff, but all we ended up doing was getting burger king and driving the 2 hours back home. Towards the end my dad calls and is berating me for being out so late. He was furious, not only at me, but at this crazy woman who basically kidnapped me and drove me around a random city all night. I also remember her mother telling me a detailed account of the time her own father tried to end his life, and how she saved him by pouring scalding coffee down his throat. I had no idea whyy she was telling me this, as I was only 13 and it was wildly uncalled for. By the time her daughter and I got into high school, it was apparent that not only was she crazy, but my best friend/her daughter was too. She turned former friends against me, completely ignored me when I tried to talk to her, made fun of me and other people in the friend group relentlessly, and got other people to be her friend in order to make me feel bad for having friends other than her. She publicly embarassed me about things I could not change. My teeth, the way my body looked (called me fat on my 16th birthday)-- even the way I drank water. She deprived me of learning how real friendships should have been. She and her mother formed a team against me, and it was like they lived to make me feel inferior. I wish I hadn't been manipulated into keeping these horrible experiences from my parents. I wish they'd never gained access to me; a vulnerable three year old. It makes me sick to think that this woman targeted me before I was old enough for f-ing preschool, and decided to make the next 13 years of my life a nightmare any chance she could get... If you've made it this far, thank you for reading. Some memories I haven't even told my parents. Others are buried in my subconscious. Some days I pray for my friend. I watched her grow into a toxic young woman right in front of me, and it pains me deeper than the abuse ever could. If she could read this I'd tell her that I'm so sorry for what happened. She endured so much more than I know, and quite frankly, never had a chance given that her family was beoken from the beginning. I pray that even though we haven't spoken in years, I hope we both heal from the terrible neglect and verbal abuse suffered at the hands of her mother. That is all...
2020 was already getting off to a bad start. Here it was New Year’s Day in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was already down four-hundred for the year. And it was only noon... Of course, the black-eyed peas didn’t help. No good luck charm could cure my current drought at the Imperial Palace’s poker room. This was the last day my buddies and I would be out here. Our final day touring Biloxi’s many casinos. Just like years past, The Vegas Of The South hadn’t been kind to me. But I still had fun. Your wacky horror author Rhonnie enjoyed poker after all. Even when I was constantly being battered by bad beats. There were four of us out here. Me and my Stanwyck, Georgia poker pals. I was the youngest of the bunch. Scrawnier than ever, my combed-over brown hair was still a mess from this wild binge of booze and cards. My green eyes wild with drunken life. The gambling fix just what I needed after a hectic 2019. Obviously, I missed Ashley… But I suspected she was doing just fine partying with Carty and Erika in Columbus, Georgia. The power trio indulging in their own New Year’s blitz of margaritas and dancing. My friends J.T., David, and Trent were all with me. From playing nickel/dime house games to $1/3 at the IP, we brought the rowdiness of South Georgia with us to this fine establishment... much to the chagrin of all the dealers and poker players. A few years older than me, David was a stocky, red-headed Southern boy. The combination of his loud voice and drunk shit talking ensured we’d never keep a low-profile. David always unrestrained unless he was behind bars or in a strait-jacket. J.T. was similar but more stable. At forty, he’d skirted by authority and drama with the type of good luck he inexplicably had at the casinos. Tall and lanky, J.T. was Hispanic in ethnicity but a crazed country boy at heart. And with him and David together, their fighting and flirting hit a manic overdrive. Trent only dealt with them due to experience... J.T. was his ex-brother-in-law after all. Trent was the most reserved out of us. Even drunk, he didn’t cut up much. His bushy beard and piercing eyes certainly gave him clout on the felt. Not to mention he was the only one with a real job. With real money to spare. When David, J.T., and I inevitably went broke, the three of us followed Trent around like roadies desperate for a rock star’s sloppy seconds. New Year’s Day was just a chaotic continuation of our three-day bender. At noon, everyone but Trent was already hammered. The constant “free” beer and vodka our only way of staving off the New Year’s Eve hangovers hunting us down… This early, the IP’s card room was empty save for one $1/3 table. The usual players probably still out recovering from the previous night’s festivities. Party favors and empty bottles littered the other tables. The room’s 60s soft rock soundtrack well overshadowed by the constant chimes of neighboring slots. The four of us had table eight together. Under bright lighting, we enjoyed the game with four other Hold Em stragglers. I only recognized Lily a hot regular I’d seen over in Gretna, Florida’s poker room. Someone from our neck of the woods. Wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses and flaunting her stylish short brown hair, she was the only female player here... And already, both David and J.T. had tried her. And already she’d insulted them right back. Not to mention took the last of David’s pathetic chip stack. Table eight’s other players included the usual low stakes caricatures. The shitregs. A depressed dad with an equally depressing dad bod. The smartass college kid masquerading as a poker pro. And an older farmer still wearing overalls, the type of surreal sight you somehow take for granted in Biloxi. Our dealer was a bitchy man in his mid-40s. The type of rude personality reserved for the casino’s deader shifts. None of the players were any good. Then again, I couldn’t talk much. My thirty-big-blind buy-in strategy had been continually getting crushed by suckouts. Usually by Trent. Needless to say, he and Lily were the big winners so far… Their colorful chip stacks even contained stray hundred dollar bills. But somehow, J.T.’s drunkass had even more. Obnoxious as ever, the son-of-a-bitch had been running off Fireball cinnamon whiskies since the ball dropped. And here he was with over three grand on the table. A stack of Benjamins clustered amongst his towers. Now the farmer had just thrown in another hundred dollar bill. J.T. snap called. Farmer showed three of a kind. J.T. hesitated for a moment... either he was too drunk to read the board or slow-rolling his opponent. My guess was both. Finally, J.T. slung down the winning hand: ten four of diamonds. A flush on the river. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Laughing, J.T. collected his latest pot. Another two hundred for his growing stack. “Nice hand, sir!” he taunted the frowning farmer. “You see that shit, Trent! I played that shit like you!” Broke and on his tenth Corona, David now sat behind me. A rail I never asked for… but an entertaining one at least. He leaned in toward me. “Hey, here she comes!” A red-headed waitress complete with an hourglass figure and flawless face walked toward us. Right into David’s carnal sights. Then again, I couldn’t blame him. He waved his beer at her. “Hey, I need another one!” Annoyed, she stopped and jotted down his order. David grabbed my shoulder. “What are you having!” “Miller Lite,” I said to her, my calm voice the opposite of David’s rowdy roar. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” the waitress said. With drunken confidence, David reached toward her. “Hey, sweetie, what’s your name?” He just missed her… The waitress was in a hurry. “None of your business!” she yelled back. With that, she high-tailed it straight for the table games. Then again, neither of us were complaining to watch her leave… Only the beer was definitely gonna take awhile. Especially once she stopped to take an order from a young bodybuilder. A hunk by the slots. Excited, the redhead leaned in closer. A rare smile on her face. Her thirst obvious… David turned to me. “Hey, why’s she talking to him like that!” “Damn, boy, she got you good!” Trent teased. David shrugged him off. “Man, fuck you, Trent!” “Language!” our dealer warned us in a pissed-off growl. Trent collected another pot. “I don’t think she like you anyhow,” he told David. “She just playing hard to get!” David yelled. The alcohol hitting him hard, David leaned in toward the table. “I bet I can get her before the day’s over with! I’ll get her in my room-” Like a brick wall, a fat arm blocked David. A pot-bellied security guard glared over him. “Move back, son!” David threw up his hands. “Alright!” J.T.’s crude laughter echoed through the room. The rest of the table cracked up in a sadistic chorus. Even the dealer. Keeping my cool, I pointed David behind me. “Just sit here, man. Drink the beer.” “Get your brokeass back, David!” J.T. jeered. “Man, whatever.” David moved his chair behind me. Flashed a glare at the guard. “There? You happy?” Behind a cold expression, the guard just stared at us. Completely unamused. I looked over at a corner where the front desk was. Where all the chips and cash were. The clerk just watched us, her dark eyes like lasers. David again the center of attention. A wave of cold air hit us. My FSU hoodie couldn’t keep me from shivering. And regardless of all the booze, I suspected David’s long-sleeved AC/DC shirt wasn’t helping him much either. I looked down at my cards. Ten three offsuit. Yet another fold on my fucking big blind. Then a rotten smell hit me. Well from beyond the grave. The scent more putrid than roadkill. “Is this one three hold em?” I heard a guttural drawl say. The entire table looked toward our latest player. Hopefully, our latest fish. The black man certainly looked the part. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a red jacket with rolled-up sleeves, he was in his fifties. His scruffy beard matched by greasy Jheri curls. Years of wildness captured in his arsenal of tattoos and odd jewelry. The skull-and-bones earrings and gold teeth certainly hinted at what was sure to be an eccentric gambler. The man’s stern gaze locked in on the security guard. “Is it one-three?” he asked in that muddled Cajun accent. With a flourish, he pulled out a bundle of Benjamins. Well over five-hundred dollars. Immediately, the guard went to work getting those chips. Him and the clerk eager to count the dough. The Cajun took a seat right beside J.T. Seat number seven. “Holy shit…” J.T. exclaimed. He flashed David and I a drunken smirk. But soon, that smile was wiped clean. The wild man didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and he may have been stinking up the place with a corpse’s hygiene, but he was damn sure winning. Even Trent and Lily’s stacks were going downhill. Left with only fifty bucks on the table, I just enjoyed the show as David kept the beer flowing. Him and I an audience for this black Cajun man’s rampage. Ashley sent me an obvious drunk text: I love you :) Grinning, I texted her back: The two of us drunk at noon on New Year’s Day. How cute. J.T.’s triumphant yell then caught my attention. “Whoo!” He slid out a huge tower into the pot. The arrogance such an obvious tell… “Come get some!” he shouted at the Cajun. The man deliberated on the river bet. Like a young gunslinger, J.T. leaned toward him. Trying to get eye-to-eye. “Come on, call me!” he yelled, desperate to antagonize the man. The dealer forced J.T. back. “Sir, please don’t lean over the table.” Holding his latest mixed drink, J.T. waved toward his opponent. “I don’t care! I’ll call clock on his ass!” “Aw-in!” the man stated. He pushed his huge stack out. Everyone watched, dumbfounded... but fucking entertained. Even if we didn’t quite understand the man’s dialect... The dealer leaned in toward him. “Uh, sir. Was that an all-in?” “Aw-in!” the Cajun declared. “I said aw-in!” Now put on the spot, J.T. trembled in the cold. His weakness well on display. “Goddammit!” he yelled. His good mood long gone, he threw the cards toward the dealer. The confident drunk now hurtling through depression. “Language, sir,” the dealer reminded him. “I don’t give a fuck!” J.T. replied. Now David was the one laughing his ass off… J.T. motioned toward the Cajun. “How the Hell you keep winning these hands!” With a smile of gold rather than teeth, the man faced J.T. “Dat’s juss how I play, boy.” I couldn’t help but crack up. Trent covered his own chuckle. “Yeah, and you stink like Hell too,” J.T. said. Cackling, the Cajun stacked up his winnings. Lily looked over at J.T. “Maybe that’s part of his strategy.” “Well, I’m about to bust that shit! Fuck his strategy!” J.T. shouted. “And you wanna know why!” He looked down at his latest cards. “Because I’m J.T. Torres! That’s why!” On the warpath, he took out his phone. “I’m about to get in my zone, Rhonnie!” I cringed. Simultaneously amused and embarrassed. Tom Petty’s “Last Dance With Mary Jane” blasted off J.T.’s phone. Over the IP’s soundtrack. Over Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” J.T. glared at the whole table. “I ain’t playing now! Who wants some of this!” “It’s one three, boy,” Trent quipped. Growing more and more aggravated, the dealer confronted J.T. “Sir, you can’t play music,” he said in an exasperated tone. The security guard approached us. “No phones on the table!” he barked at J.T. J.T. cut off the music. “Alright, that’s fine!” Without hesitation, he waved at his stack. “Fuck it, I’m all-in!” “Sir-” the dealer began. “I caw!” the Cajun cried. With everyone else out, he flipped over his cards. Pocket aces. The fucking bullets. A dramatic intensity dominated the table. Only the ominous beat of “Bad Moon Rising” could be heard. The man’s rotten stench like cigarette smoke in the arena’s atmosphere. This heavyweight match we all anticipated now looking to be a quick knockout. “Oh shit!” Trent joked to J.T. “You done fucked up!” The twisting knife sent J.T. further into his downward spiral. Anger built inside him. He threw up his pocket kings. “Goddammit!” he said. “How much does he have?” “He’s got you,” remarked the dealer in a not-so-subtle jab. The Cajun chuckled. “I got you covered, boy!” And he damn sure did. J.T.’s fifteen-hundred dollar stack was in a world of pain. “Fuck!” J.T. yelled. I then noticed the man jam both his hands inside those hoodie pockets. Burrowing them in deep. “What the fuck!” I heard J.T. say to me. “What the fuck else could I do, Rhonnie! I had fucking kings!” I watched the Cajun’s lips move... but his voice didn’t carry. He was mumbling… All while his eyes stayed glued to the center of the table. To where the cards would fall. An unsettling realization hit me. The guy was praying… Mumbling some sort of chant. “Luckyass bitch!” J.T. yelled. With indifferent efficiency, the dealer laid the board out quick. The Cajun wound up with four aces. J.T. gone from a bad beat to outright slaughtered. “Stick a fork in him!” Trent’s Southern accent joked. “Oh shit…” David chimed in. He nudged me but I was too disturbed to respond. Too drawn into whatever was going on in seat seven’s world. Full of rage, J.T. stood up, spilling some of his drink. “Man, fuck y’all!” The guard took an annoyed step toward us. “Sir!” he yelled. J.T. turned his irate eyes toward the Cajun. The man still had his hands in his pockets. His eyes still on the board. Still in prayer. “He comes in here stinking up the place!” J.T. continued. He stumbled toward his nemesis. “And what the Hell’s he doing now!” Trent glared at J.T. “Man, just leave him alone! Your ass can’t afford to play, you shouldn’t be here nohow!” In his trance, the Cajun stayed in his seat. Still chanting. His hands still hidden deep in those pockets. Moving quick, the guard took off for the slots. His walkie-talkie at the ready. Eager for back-up. David faced J.T. “Goddamn, man, chill!” “Fucking idiot,” I heard Lily grumble. The alcohol giving him fake toughness, J.T. pushed the man back. “How in the Hell did you win that!” Startled, the Cajun stumbled up. His eyes in a panic. A disturbing amulet stuck in his sweaty hand. The table gasped and screamed. Us drunks louder and more terrified than the rest. The horrifying smell somehow got more sickening. I sifted in my seat. My ass still in pain from when Nicki Minaj fucked me. “What the fuck!” J.T. yelled at his rival. Trembling, the man looked at each of us. Too scared to talk. Still clinging to a baby wolf. A real, dead baby wolf. Like a furry fetus, its decomposing corpse resembled a crude outline of life. A tiny, crumbling cadaver. The pup’s hollow skin in a post-mortem preservation. Its blue eyes forever open. And the Cajun had been holding this wolf for a very long time. A good luck charm in which the superstition outweighed the pup’s gruesome touch and nauseating stench. A necklace of a noose was wrapped around its small neck. Rather than a medallion, the wolf wore a shiny dime. One with a hole drilled in the middle of it... “It’s my Gris-Gris!” the man yelled in a guttural growl. Possessive, he pulled the wolf in closer. A literal baby in his arms. “You ain’t taking my Gris-Gris!” Through the tension, no one said a word. No one except J.T.. “Hey, gimme that shit!” J.T. yelled. Pissed, he snatched the corpse out of the Cajun’s desperate grip. “No!” the man cried. Tears formed in his eyes. “Gimme my Gris-Gris! My Loup Garou!” “So that’s how your ass has been winning!” J.T. continued. He held the baby wolf out toward the man. “That’s how you been getting all them Goddamn cards!” With savage glee, he flicked the dime. “This is your nastyass good luck charm!” The Cajun held his pitiful hands out toward J.T. Literally begging him… much to J.T.’s twisted delight. “I need him back!” he cried. “Gimme my Gris-Gris!” “Give him the damn thing!” Trent shouted at J.T. “Naw, Hell no!” J.T. replied. He squeezed on to the pup, making the wolf’s eyes even bigger. Further taunting the Cajun. “I need me some luck after this bitch took my chips!” Weeping, the man motioned toward the corpse. “It’s no good, boy! Dat wolf’s only good luck for me! He’s bad luck for you!” J.T. cackled. “Bullshit, bitch!” “Whoever touch it get bad luck!” Dismissive, J.T. looked toward the clerk. “Hey, get me three-hundred in chips! I’m reloading!” A flash of silver caught everyone’s eye. The machete whirled right through J.T.’s neck. A red river spread across his slit throat. For once, J.T. went silent. He dropped the wolf and grasped at the fatal wound. A fountain of blood poured out his mouth. The dead pup hit the felt. Its soft thud caused chips to collapse. Bits of its old flesh fragmented upon impact. The decomposing smell somehow hit new highs... “My Gris-Gris!” the Cajun screamed J.T. landed in his chair. His body convulsing in a painful rhythm. His death slow and steady. Blood now spewed all across table eight. David and I exchanged frightened looks. Disgusted, Trent moved his seat further away. Trying to avoid J.T.’s gore. “Seat open on eight!” the dealer hollered out of instinct. “Give us the fucking money!” a Southern drawl demanded. The dealer went quiet quick. So did the rest of us. The rush of fear spread throughout the game. All of us stared at the three men standing over us. Each of them wore black suits. Their faces disguised by straw hats and green bandanas. The leader waved a long machete around. J.T.’s blood adding decorative crimson to the sharp blade. The other two robbers carried pistols. Without hesitation, they scooped up all the hundred dollar bills. The literal blood money. The Cajun man reached for the wolf. “Lemme get my Loup Garou!” With a harsh shove, the leader pushed him back in his seat. “Sorry, buddy!” In tears, the Cajun looked toward the floor. His voice got lower but his words remained constant. Back to chanting. A hush lingered on table eight. All thanks to J.T. going completely still. Using his machete, the leader motioned his partners toward the clerk. “Go get the fucking money!” They did as they were told. In a panic, the clerk opened the registers. “Please! Don’t shoot me!” she cried The leader snatched the baby wolf. I sensed a wicked smile behind that bandana. “This must be your good luck charm.” He faced the Cajun. Holding up the corpse as if it were a pathetic trophy. “Is this shit how you won all the time?” “Drop your weapons!” we heard someone shout. Footsteps stormed behind us. We turned just in time to see the security guard leading several armed officers inside the poker room. Without hesitation, a cop fired. And not a warning shot either. The bullet blew the leader’s brains out. Blood and gray matter sprayed over us. Courtesy of The IP. “Goddammit!” the dealer shouted. Screams formed our soundtrack. Several players jumped up. “Stay where you are!” the guard commanded. The leader collapsed on to the table. More grue covered the felt. The leader’s dead hands dropped both the machete and amulet. The cops came rushing forward. “Don’t move!” an officer screamed. “Sit the fuck down!” The other players got back in their seats. Together, we formed a gruesome congregation. Each of us covered in blood. J.T.’s corpse seated as if he were ready to play. Table eight a poker game from Hell. Eager to keep up with the real cops, the security guard descended upon us. He cringed at the smell. “Jesus Christ!” Then the wolf caught his eye. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!” Trent warned him. “What the Hell’s this...” the guard said. He snatched the dead pup. Dusty flesh and dry blood stuck to his fingertips. Instantly, several shots rang in the new year and the guard’s brutal death. Bullets obliterated his face into oblivion. In the chilly room, the gunfire left us all coated in another layer of crimson. The security guard fell to the floor, motionless. Gaping holes leaked blood from his head. The baby wolf still clasped in his tight grip. David downed his beer. The now-red Corona didn’t bother him at this point... Behind us, I saw the cops apprehend the other two robbers. The lingering fear made me shiver. The gang could’ve shot any one of us… but deep down, I knew why they only killed the guard. And why they immediately surrendered afterward. I looked on at the dead wolf. Its baby blues remained fixated on me. Tempting me to touch. Its mummified body the prettiest corpse in this poker room’s collection. “Shit, I ain’t touching it!” I heard David say. Weary, Trent stood up and pushed his seat back. “Fuck it!” Blood dripping off his beard and jacket, he looked toward the nervous clerk. Pointed down at his ridiculous chip stack. Even at the pieces of flesh stuck to them. “I’m cashing out!” 14
2020 was already getting off to a bad start. Here it was New Year’s Day in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was already down four-hundred for the year. And it was only noon... Of course, the black-eyed peas didn’t help. No good luck charm could cure my current drought at the Imperial Palace’s poker room. This was the last day my buddies and I would be out here. Our final day touring Biloxi’s many casinos. Just like years past, The Vegas Of The South hadn’t been kind to me. But I still had fun. Your wacky horror author Rhonnie enjoyed poker after all. Even when I was constantly being battered by bad beats. There were four of us out here. Me and my Stanwyck, Georgia poker pals. I was the youngest of the bunch. Scrawnier than ever, my combed-over brown hair was still a mess from this wild binge of booze and cards. My green eyes wild with drunken life. The gambling fix just what I needed after a hectic 2019. Obviously, I missed Ashley… But I suspected she was doing just fine partying with Carty and Erika in Columbus, Georgia. The power trio indulging in their own New Year’s blitz of margaritas and dancing. My friends J.T., David, and Trent were all with me. From playing nickel/dime house games to $1/3 at the IP, we brought the rowdiness of South Georgia with us to this fine establishment... much to the chagrin of all the dealers and poker players. A few years older than me, David was a stocky, red-headed Southern boy. The combination of his loud voice and drunk shit talking ensured we’d never keep a low-profile. David always unrestrained unless he was behind bars or in a strait-jacket. J.T. was similar but more stable. At forty, he’d skirted by authority and drama with the type of good luck he inexplicably had at the casinos. Tall and lanky, J.T. was Hispanic in ethnicity but a crazed country boy at heart. And with him and David together, their fighting and flirting hit a manic overdrive. Trent only dealt with them due to experience... J.T. was his ex-brother-in-law after all. Trent was the most reserved out of us. Even drunk, he didn’t cut up much. His bushy beard and piercing eyes certainly gave him clout on the felt. Not to mention he was the only one with a real job. With real money to spare. When David, J.T., and I inevitably went broke, the three of us followed Trent around like roadies desperate for a rock star’s sloppy seconds. New Year’s Day was just a chaotic continuation of our three-day bender. At noon, everyone but Trent was already hammered. The constant “free” beer and vodka our only way of staving off the New Year’s Eve hangovers hunting us down… This early, the IP’s card room was empty save for one $1/3 table. The usual players probably still out recovering from the previous night’s festivities. Party favors and empty bottles littered the other tables. The room’s 60s soft rock soundtrack well overshadowed by the constant chimes of neighboring slots. The four of us had table eight together. Under bright lighting, we enjoyed the game with four other Hold Em stragglers. I only recognized Lily a hot regular I’d seen over in Gretna, Florida’s poker room. Someone from our neck of the woods. Wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses and flaunting her stylish short brown hair, she was the only female player here... And already, both David and J.T. had tried her. And already she’d insulted them right back. Not to mention took the last of David’s pathetic chip stack. Table eight’s other players included the usual low stakes caricatures. The shitregs. A depressed dad with an equally depressing dad bod. The smartass college kid masquerading as a poker pro. And an older farmer still wearing overalls, the type of surreal sight you somehow take for granted in Biloxi. Our dealer was a bitchy man in his mid-40s. The type of rude personality reserved for the casino’s deader shifts. None of the players were any good. Then again, I couldn’t talk much. My thirty-big-blind buy-in strategy had been continually getting crushed by suckouts. Usually by Trent. Needless to say, he and Lily were the big winners so far… Their colorful chip stacks even contained stray hundred dollar bills. But somehow, J.T.’s drunkass had even more. Obnoxious as ever, the son-of-a-bitch had been running off Fireball cinnamon whiskies since the ball dropped. And here he was with over three grand on the table. A stack of Benjamins clustered amongst his towers. Now the farmer had just thrown in another hundred dollar bill. J.T. snap called. Farmer showed three of a kind. J.T. hesitated for a moment... either he was too drunk to read the board or slow-rolling his opponent. My guess was both. Finally, J.T. slung down the winning hand: ten four of diamonds. A flush on the river. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Laughing, J.T. collected his latest pot. Another two hundred for his growing stack. “Nice hand, sir!” he taunted the frowning farmer. “You see that shit, Trent! I played that shit like you!” Broke and on his tenth Corona, David now sat behind me. A rail I never asked for… but an entertaining one at least. He leaned in toward me. “Hey, here she comes!” A red-headed waitress complete with an hourglass figure and flawless face walked toward us. Right into David’s carnal sights. Then again, I couldn’t blame him. He waved his beer at her. “Hey, I need another one!” Annoyed, she stopped and jotted down his order. David grabbed my shoulder. “What are you having!” “Miller Lite,” I said to her, my calm voice the opposite of David’s rowdy roar. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” the waitress said. With drunken confidence, David reached toward her. “Hey, sweetie, what’s your name?” He just missed her… The waitress was in a hurry. “None of your business!” she yelled back. With that, she high-tailed it straight for the table games. Then again, neither of us were complaining to watch her leave… Only the beer was definitely gonna take awhile. Especially once she stopped to take an order from a young bodybuilder. A hunk by the slots. Excited, the redhead leaned in closer. A rare smile on her face. Her thirst obvious… David turned to me. “Hey, why’s she talking to him like that!” “Damn, boy, she got you good!” Trent teased. David shrugged him off. “Man, fuck you, Trent!” “Language!” our dealer warned us in a pissed-off growl. Trent collected another pot. “I don’t think she like you anyhow,” he told David. “She just playing hard to get!” David yelled. The alcohol hitting him hard, David leaned in toward the table. “I bet I can get her before the day’s over with! I’ll get her in my room-” Like a brick wall, a fat arm blocked David. A pot-bellied security guard glared over him. “Move back, son!” David threw up his hands. “Alright!” J.T.’s crude laughter echoed through the room. The rest of the table cracked up in a sadistic chorus. Even the dealer. Keeping my cool, I pointed David behind me. “Just sit here, man. Drink the beer.” “Get your brokeass back, David!” J.T. jeered. “Man, whatever.” David moved his chair behind me. Flashed a glare at the guard. “There? You happy?” Behind a cold expression, the guard just stared at us. Completely unamused. I looked over at a corner where the front desk was. Where all the chips and cash were. The clerk just watched us, her dark eyes like lasers. David again the center of attention. A wave of cold air hit us. My FSU hoodie couldn’t keep me from shivering. And regardless of all the booze, I suspected David’s long-sleeved AC/DC shirt wasn’t helping him much either. I looked down at my cards. Ten three offsuit. Yet another fold on my fucking big blind. Then a rotten smell hit me. Well from beyond the grave. The scent more putrid than roadkill. “Is this one three hold em?” I heard a guttural drawl say. The entire table looked toward our latest player. Hopefully, our latest fish. The black man certainly looked the part. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a red jacket with rolled-up sleeves, he was in his fifties. His scruffy beard matched by greasy Jheri curls. Years of wildness captured in his arsenal of tattoos and odd jewelry. The skull-and-bones earrings and gold teeth certainly hinted at what was sure to be an eccentric gambler. The man’s stern gaze locked in on the security guard. “Is it one-three?” he asked in that muddled Cajun accent. With a flourish, he pulled out a bundle of Benjamins. Well over five-hundred dollars. Immediately, the guard went to work getting those chips. Him and the clerk eager to count the dough. The Cajun took a seat right beside J.T. Seat number seven. “Holy shit…” J.T. exclaimed. He flashed David and I a drunken smirk. But soon, that smile was wiped clean. The wild man didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and he may have been stinking up the place with a corpse’s hygiene, but he was damn sure winning. Even Trent and Lily’s stacks were going downhill. Left with only fifty bucks on the table, I just enjoyed the show as David kept the beer flowing. Him and I an audience for this black Cajun man’s rampage. Ashley sent me an obvious drunk text: I love you :) Grinning, I texted her back: The two of us drunk at noon on New Year’s Day. How cute. J.T.’s triumphant yell then caught my attention. “Whoo!” He slid out a huge tower into the pot. The arrogance such an obvious tell… “Come get some!” he shouted at the Cajun. The man deliberated on the river bet. Like a young gunslinger, J.T. leaned toward him. Trying to get eye-to-eye. “Come on, call me!” he yelled, desperate to antagonize the man. The dealer forced J.T. back. “Sir, please don’t lean over the table.” Holding his latest mixed drink, J.T. waved toward his opponent. “I don’t care! I’ll call clock on his ass!” “Aw-in!” the man stated. He pushed his huge stack out. Everyone watched, dumbfounded... but fucking entertained. Even if we didn’t quite understand the man’s dialect... The dealer leaned in toward him. “Uh, sir. Was that an all-in?” “Aw-in!” the Cajun declared. “I said aw-in!” Now put on the spot, J.T. trembled in the cold. His weakness well on display. “Goddammit!” he yelled. His good mood long gone, he threw the cards toward the dealer. The confident drunk now hurtling through depression. “Language, sir,” the dealer reminded him. “I don’t give a fuck!” J.T. replied. Now David was the one laughing his ass off… J.T. motioned toward the Cajun. “How the Hell you keep winning these hands!” With a smile of gold rather than teeth, the man faced J.T. “Dat’s juss how I play, boy.” I couldn’t help but crack up. Trent covered his own chuckle. “Yeah, and you stink like Hell too,” J.T. said. Cackling, the Cajun stacked up his winnings. Lily looked over at J.T. “Maybe that’s part of his strategy.” “Well, I’m about to bust that shit! Fuck his strategy!” J.T. shouted. “And you wanna know why!” He looked down at his latest cards. “Because I’m J.T. Torres! That’s why!” On the warpath, he took out his phone. “I’m about to get in my zone, Rhonnie!” I cringed. Simultaneously amused and embarrassed. Tom Petty’s “Last Dance With Mary Jane” blasted off J.T.’s phone. Over the IP’s soundtrack. Over Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” J.T. glared at the whole table. “I ain’t playing now! Who wants some of this!” “It’s one three, boy,” Trent quipped. Growing more and more aggravated, the dealer confronted J.T. “Sir, you can’t play music,” he said in an exasperated tone. The security guard approached us. “No phones on the table!” he barked at J.T. J.T. cut off the music. “Alright, that’s fine!” Without hesitation, he waved at his stack. “Fuck it, I’m all-in!” “Sir-” the dealer began. “I caw!” the Cajun cried. With everyone else out, he flipped over his cards. Pocket aces. The fucking bullets. A dramatic intensity dominated the table. Only the ominous beat of “Bad Moon Rising” could be heard. The man’s rotten stench like cigarette smoke in the arena’s atmosphere. This heavyweight match we all anticipated now looking to be a quick knockout. “Oh shit!” Trent joked to J.T. “You done fucked up!” The twisting knife sent J.T. further into his downward spiral. Anger built inside him. He threw up his pocket kings. “Goddammit!” he said. “How much does he have?” “He’s got you,” remarked the dealer in a not-so-subtle jab. The Cajun chuckled. “I got you covered, boy!” And he damn sure did. J.T.’s fifteen-hundred dollar stack was in a world of pain. “Fuck!” J.T. yelled. I then noticed the man jam both his hands inside those hoodie pockets. Burrowing them in deep. “What the fuck!” I heard J.T. say to me. “What the fuck else could I do, Rhonnie! I had fucking kings!” I watched the Cajun’s lips move... but his voice didn’t carry. He was mumbling… All while his eyes stayed glued to the center of the table. To where the cards would fall. An unsettling realization hit me. The guy was praying… Mumbling some sort of chant. “Luckyass bitch!” J.T. yelled. With indifferent efficiency, the dealer laid the board out quick. The Cajun wound up with four aces. J.T. gone from a bad beat to outright slaughtered. “Stick a fork in him!” Trent’s Southern accent joked. “Oh shit…” David chimed in. He nudged me but I was too disturbed to respond. Too drawn into whatever was going on in seat seven’s world. Full of rage, J.T. stood up, spilling some of his drink. “Man, fuck y’all!” The guard took an annoyed step toward us. “Sir!” he yelled. J.T. turned his irate eyes toward the Cajun. The man still had his hands in his pockets. His eyes still on the board. Still in prayer. “He comes in here stinking up the place!” J.T. continued. He stumbled toward his nemesis. “And what the Hell’s he doing now!” Trent glared at J.T. “Man, just leave him alone! Your ass can’t afford to play, you shouldn’t be here nohow!” In his trance, the Cajun stayed in his seat. Still chanting. His hands still hidden deep in those pockets. Moving quick, the guard took off for the slots. His walkie-talkie at the ready. Eager for back-up. David faced J.T. “Goddamn, man, chill!” “Fucking idiot,” I heard Lily grumble. The alcohol giving him fake toughness, J.T. pushed the man back. “How in the Hell did you win that!” Startled, the Cajun stumbled up. His eyes in a panic. A disturbing amulet stuck in his sweaty hand. The table gasped and screamed. Us drunks louder and more terrified than the rest. The horrifying smell somehow got more sickening. “What the fuck!” J.T. yelled at his rival. Trembling, the man looked at each of us. Too scared to talk. Still clinging to a baby wolf. A real, dead baby wolf. Like a furry fetus, its decomposing corpse resembled a crude outline of life. A tiny, crumbling cadaver. The pup’s hollow skin in a post-mortem preservation. Its blue eyes forever open. And the Cajun had been holding this wolf for a very long time. A good luck charm in which the superstition outweighed the pup’s gruesome touch and nauseating stench. A necklace of a noose was wrapped around its small neck. Rather than a medallion, the wolf wore a shiny dime. One with a hole drilled in the middle of it... “It’s my Gris-Gris!” the man yelled in a guttural growl. Possessive, he pulled the wolf in closer. A literal baby in his arms. “You ain’t taking my Gris-Gris!” Through the tension, no one said a word. No one except J.T.. “Hey, gimme that shit!” J.T. yelled. Pissed, he snatched the corpse out of the Cajun’s desperate grip. “No!” the man cried. Tears formed in his eyes. “Gimme my Gris-Gris! My Loup Garou!” “So that’s how your ass has been winning!” J.T. continued. He held the baby wolf out toward the man. “That’s how you been getting all them Goddamn cards!” With savage glee, he flicked the dime. “This is your nastyass good luck charm!” The Cajun held his pitiful hands out toward J.T. Literally begging him… much to J.T.’s twisted delight. “I need him back!” he cried. “Gimme my Gris-Gris!” “Give him the damn thing!” Trent shouted at J.T. “Naw, Hell no!” J.T. replied. He squeezed on to the pup, making the wolf’s eyes even bigger. Further taunting the Cajun. “I need me some luck after this bitch took my chips!” Weeping, the man motioned toward the corpse. “It’s no good, boy! Dat wolf’s only good luck for me! He’s bad luck for you!” J.T. cackled. “Bullshit, bitch!” “Whoever touch it get bad luck!” Dismissive, J.T. looked toward the clerk. “Hey, get me three-hundred in chips! I’m reloading!” A flash of silver caught everyone’s eye. The machete whirled right through J.T.’s neck. A red river spread across his slit throat. For once, J.T. went silent. He dropped the wolf and grasped at the fatal wound. A fountain of blood poured out his mouth. The dead pup hit the felt. Its soft thud caused chips to collapse. Bits of its old flesh fragmented upon impact. The decomposing smell somehow hit new highs... “My Gris-Gris!” the Cajun screamed J.T. landed in his chair. His body convulsing in a painful rhythm. His death slow and steady. Blood now spewed all across table eight. David and I exchanged frightened looks. Disgusted, Trent moved his seat further away. Trying to avoid J.T.’s gore. “Seat open on eight!” the dealer hollered out of instinct. “Give us the fucking money!” a Southern drawl demanded. The dealer went quiet quick. So did the rest of us. The rush of fear spread throughout the game. All of us stared at the three men standing over us. Each of them wore black suits. Their faces disguised by straw hats and green bandanas. The leader waved a long machete around. J.T.’s blood adding decorative crimson to the sharp blade. The other two robbers carried pistols. Without hesitation, they scooped up all the hundred dollar bills. The literal blood money. The Cajun man reached for the wolf. “Lemme get my Loup Garou!” With a harsh shove, the leader pushed him back in his seat. “Sorry, buddy!” In tears, the Cajun looked toward the floor. His voice got lower but his words remained constant. Back to chanting. A hush lingered on table eight. All thanks to J.T. going completely still. Using his machete, the leader motioned his partners toward the clerk. “Go get the fucking money!” They did as they were told. In a panic, the clerk opened the registers. “Please! Don’t shoot me!” she cried The leader snatched the baby wolf. I sensed a wicked smile behind that bandana. “This must be your good luck charm.” He faced the Cajun. Holding up the corpse as if it were a pathetic trophy. “Is this shit how you won all the time?” “Drop your weapons!” we heard someone shout. Footsteps stormed behind us. We turned just in time to see the security guard leading several armed officers inside the poker room. Without hesitation, a cop fired. And not a warning shot either. The bullet blew the leader’s brains out. Blood and gray matter sprayed over us. Courtesy of The IP. “Goddammit!” the dealer shouted. Screams formed our soundtrack. Several players jumped up. “Stay where you are!” the guard commanded. The leader collapsed on to the table. More grue covered the felt. The leader’s dead hands dropped both the machete and amulet. The cops came rushing forward. “Don’t move!” an officer screamed. “Sit the fuck down!” The other players got back in their seats. Together, we formed a gruesome congregation. Each of us covered in blood. J.T.’s corpse seated as if he were ready to play. Table eight a poker game from Hell. Eager to keep up with the real cops, the security guard descended upon us. He cringed at the smell. “Jesus Christ!” Then the wolf caught his eye. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!” Trent warned him. “What the Hell’s this...” the guard said. He snatched the dead pup. Dusty flesh and dry blood stuck to his fingertips. Instantly, several shots rang in the new year and the guard’s brutal death. Bullets obliterated his face into oblivion. In the chilly room, the gunfire left us all coated in another layer of crimson. The security guard fell to the floor, motionless. Gaping holes leaked blood from his head. The baby wolf still clasped in his tight grip. David downed his beer. The now-red Corona didn’t bother him at this point... Behind us, I saw the cops apprehend the other two robbers. The lingering fear made me shiver. The gang could’ve shot any one of us… but deep down, I knew why they only killed the guard. And why they immediately surrendered afterward. I looked on at the dead wolf. Its baby blues remained fixated on me. Tempting me to touch. Its mummified body the prettiest corpse in this poker room’s collection. “Shit, I ain’t touching it!” I heard David say. Weary, Trent stood up and pushed his seat back. “Fuck it!” Blood dripping off his beard and jacket, he looked toward the nervous clerk. Pointed down at his ridiculous chip stack. Even at the pieces of flesh stuck to them. “I’m cashing out!” 14
2020 was already getting off to a bad start. Here it was New Year’s Day in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was already down four-hundred for the year. And it was only noon... Of course, the black-eyed peas didn’t help. No good luck charm could cure my current drought at the Imperial Palace’s poker room. This was the last day my buddies and I would be out here. Our final day touring Biloxi’s many casinos. Just like years past, The Vegas Of The South hadn’t been kind to me. But I still had fun. Your wacky horror author Rhonnie enjoyed poker after all. Even when I was constantly being battered by bad beats. There were four of us out here. Me and my Stanwyck, Georgia poker pals. I was the youngest of the bunch. Scrawnier than ever, my combed-over brown hair was still a mess from this wild binge of booze and cards. My green eyes wild with drunken life. The gambling fix just what I needed after a hectic 2019. Obviously, I missed Ashley… But I suspected she was doing just fine partying with Carty and Erika in Columbus, Georgia. The power trio indulging in their own New Year’s blitz of margaritas and dancing. My friends J.T., David, and Trent were all with me. From playing nickel/dime house games to $1/3 at the IP, we brought the rowdiness of South Georgia with us to this fine establishment... much to the chagrin of all the dealers and poker players. A few years older than me, David was a stocky, red-headed Southern boy. The combination of his loud voice and drunk shit talking ensured we’d never keep a low-profile. David always unrestrained unless he was behind bars or in a strait-jacket. J.T. was similar but more stable. At forty, he’d skirted by authority and drama with the type of good luck he inexplicably had at the casinos. Tall and lanky, J.T. was Hispanic in ethnicity but a crazed country boy at heart. And with him and David together, their fighting and flirting hit a manic overdrive. Trent only dealt with them due to experience... J.T. was his ex-brother-in-law after all. Trent was the most reserved out of us. Even drunk, he didn’t cut up much. His bushy beard and piercing eyes certainly gave him clout on the felt. Not to mention he was the only one with a real job. With real money to spare. When David, J.T., and I inevitably went broke, the three of us followed Trent around like roadies desperate for a rock star’s sloppy seconds. New Year’s Day was just a chaotic continuation of our three-day bender. At noon, everyone but Trent was already hammered. The constant “free” beer and vodka our only way of staving off the New Year’s Eve hangovers hunting us down… This early, the IP’s card room was empty save for one $1/3 table. The usual players probably still out recovering from the previous night’s festivities. Party favors and empty bottles littered the other tables. The room’s 60s soft rock soundtrack well overshadowed by the constant chimes of neighboring slots. The four of us had table eight together. Under bright lighting, we enjoyed the game with four other Hold Em stragglers. I only recognized Lily a hot regular I’d seen over in Gretna, Florida’s poker room. Someone from our neck of the woods. Wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses and flaunting her stylish short brown hair, she was the only female player here... And already, both David and J.T. had tried her. And already she’d insulted them right back. Not to mention took the last of David’s pathetic chip stack. Table eight’s other players included the usual low stakes caricatures. The shitregs. A depressed dad with an equally depressing dad bod. The smartass college kid masquerading as a poker pro. And an older farmer still wearing overalls, the type of surreal sight you somehow take for granted in Biloxi. Our dealer was a bitchy man in his mid-40s. The type of rude personality reserved for the casino’s deader shifts. None of the players were any good. Then again, I couldn’t talk much. My thirty-big-blind buy-in strategy had been continually getting crushed by suckouts. Usually by Trent. Needless to say, he and Lily were the big winners so far… Their colorful chip stacks even contained stray hundred dollar bills. But somehow, J.T.’s drunkass had even more. Obnoxious as ever, the son-of-a-bitch had been running off Fireball cinnamon whiskies since the ball dropped. And here he was with over three grand on the table. A stack of Benjamins clustered amongst his towers. Now the farmer had just thrown in another hundred dollar bill. J.T. snap called. Farmer showed three of a kind. J.T. hesitated for a moment... either he was too drunk to read the board or slow-rolling his opponent. My guess was both. Finally, J.T. slung down the winning hand: ten four of diamonds. A flush on the river. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Laughing, J.T. collected his latest pot. Another two hundred for his growing stack. “Nice hand, sir!” he taunted the frowning farmer. “You see that shit, Trent! I played that shit like you!” Broke and on his tenth Corona, David now sat behind me. A rail I never asked for… but an entertaining one at least. He leaned in toward me. “Hey, here she comes!” A red-headed waitress complete with an hourglass figure and flawless face walked toward us. Right into David’s carnal sights. Then again, I couldn’t blame him. He waved his beer at her. “Hey, I need another one!” Annoyed, she stopped and jotted down his order. David grabbed my shoulder. “What are you having!” “Miller Lite,” I said to her, my calm voice the opposite of David’s rowdy roar. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” the waitress said. With drunken confidence, David reached toward her. “Hey, sweetie, what’s your name?” He just missed her… The waitress was in a hurry. “None of your business!” she yelled back. With that, she high-tailed it straight for the table games. Then again, neither of us were complaining to watch her leave… Only the beer was definitely gonna take awhile. Especially once she stopped to take an order from a young bodybuilder. A hunk by the slots. Excited, the redhead leaned in closer. A rare smile on her face. Her thirst obvious… David turned to me. “Hey, why’s she talking to him like that!” “Damn, boy, she got you good!” Trent teased. David shrugged him off. “Man, fuck you, Trent!” “Language!” our dealer warned us in a pissed-off growl. Trent collected another pot. “I don’t think she like you anyhow,” he told David. “She just playing hard to get!” David yelled. The alcohol hitting him hard, David leaned in toward the table. “I bet I can get her before the day’s over with! I’ll get her in my room-” Like a brick wall, a fat arm blocked David. A pot-bellied security guard glared over him. “Move back, son!” David threw up his hands. “Alright!” J.T.’s crude laughter echoed through the room. The rest of the table cracked up in a sadistic chorus. Even the dealer. Keeping my cool, I pointed David behind me. “Just sit here, man. Drink the beer.” “Get your brokeass back, David!” J.T. jeered. “Man, whatever.” David moved his chair behind me. Flashed a glare at the guard. “There? You happy?” Behind a cold expression, the guard just stared at us. Completely unamused. I looked over at a corner where the front desk was. Where all the chips and cash were. The clerk just watched us, her dark eyes like lasers. David again the center of attention. A wave of cold air hit us. My FSU hoodie couldn’t keep me from shivering. And regardless of all the booze, I suspected David’s long-sleeved AC/DC shirt wasn’t helping him much either. I looked down at my cards. Ten three offsuit. Yet another fold on my fucking big blind. Then a rotten smell hit me. Well from beyond the grave. The scent more putrid than roadkill. “Is this one three hold em?” I heard a guttural drawl say. The entire table looked toward our latest player. Hopefully, our latest fish. The black man certainly looked the part. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a red jacket with rolled-up sleeves, he was in his fifties. His scruffy beard matched by greasy Jheri curls. Years of wildness captured in his arsenal of tattoos and odd jewelry. The skull-and-bones earrings and gold teeth certainly hinted at what was sure to be an eccentric gambler. The man’s stern gaze locked in on the security guard. “Is it one-three?” he asked in that muddled Cajun accent. With a flourish, he pulled out a bundle of Benjamins. Well over five-hundred dollars. Immediately, the guard went to work getting those chips. Him and the clerk eager to count the dough. The Cajun took a seat right beside J.T. Seat number seven. “Holy shit…” J.T. exclaimed. He flashed David and I a drunken smirk. But soon, that smile was wiped clean. The wild man didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and he may have been stinking up the place with a corpse’s hygiene, but he was damn sure winning. Even Trent and Lily’s stacks were going downhill. Left with only fifty bucks on the table, I just enjoyed the show as David kept the beer flowing. Him and I an audience for this black Cajun man’s rampage. Ashley sent me an obvious drunk text: I love you :) Grinning, I texted her back: The two of us drunk at noon on New Year’s Day. How cute. J.T.’s triumphant yell then caught my attention. “Whoo!” He slid out a huge tower into the pot. The arrogance such an obvious tell… “Come get some!” he shouted at the Cajun. The man deliberated on the river bet. Like a young gunslinger, J.T. leaned toward him. Trying to get eye-to-eye. “Come on, call me!” he yelled, desperate to antagonize the man. The dealer forced J.T. back. “Sir, please don’t lean over the table.” Holding his latest mixed drink, J.T. waved toward his opponent. “I don’t care! I’ll call clock on his ass!” “Aw-in!” the man stated. He pushed his huge stack out. Everyone watched, dumbfounded... but fucking entertained. Even if we didn’t quite understand the man’s dialect... The dealer leaned in toward him. “Uh, sir. Was that an all-in?” “Aw-in!” the Cajun declared. “I said aw-in!” Now put on the spot, J.T. trembled in the cold. His weakness well on display. “Goddammit!” he yelled. His good mood long gone, he threw the cards toward the dealer. The confident drunk now hurtling through depression. “Language, sir,” the dealer reminded him. “I don’t give a fuck!” J.T. replied. Now David was the one laughing his ass off… J.T. motioned toward the Cajun. “How the Hell you keep winning these hands!” With a smile of gold rather than teeth, the man faced J.T. “Dat’s juss how I play, boy.” I couldn’t help but crack up. Trent covered his own chuckle. “Yeah, and you stink like Hell too,” J.T. said. Cackling, the Cajun stacked up his winnings. Lily looked over at J.T. “Maybe that’s part of his strategy.” “Well, I’m about to bust that shit! Fuck his strategy!” J.T. shouted. “And you wanna know why!” He looked down at his latest cards. “Because I’m J.T. Torres! That’s why!” On the warpath, he took out his phone. “I’m about to get in my zone, Rhonnie!” I cringed. Simultaneously amused and embarrassed. Tom Petty’s “Last Dance With Mary Jane” blasted off J.T.’s phone. Over the IP’s soundtrack. Over Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” J.T. glared at the whole table. “I ain’t playing now! Who wants some of this!” “It’s one three, boy,” Trent quipped. Growing more and more aggravated, the dealer confronted J.T. “Sir, you can’t play music,” he said in an exasperated tone. The security guard approached us. “No phones on the table!” he barked at J.T. J.T. cut off the music. “Alright, that’s fine!” Without hesitation, he waved at his stack. “Fuck it, I’m all-in!” “Sir-” the dealer began. “I caw!” the Cajun cried. With everyone else out, he flipped over his cards. Pocket aces. The fucking bullets. A dramatic intensity dominated the table. Only the ominous beat of “Bad Moon Rising” could be heard. The man’s rotten stench like cigarette smoke in the arena’s atmosphere. This heavyweight match we all anticipated now looking to be a quick knockout. “Oh shit!” Trent joked to J.T. “You done fucked up!” The twisting knife sent J.T. further into his downward spiral. Anger built inside him. He threw up his pocket kings. “Goddammit!” he said. “How much does he have?” “He’s got you,” remarked the dealer in a not-so-subtle jab. The Cajun chuckled. “I got you covered, boy!” And he damn sure did. J.T.’s fifteen-hundred dollar stack was in a world of pain. “Fuck!” J.T. yelled. I then noticed the man jam both his hands inside those hoodie pockets. Burrowing them in deep. “What the fuck!” I heard J.T. say to me. “What the fuck else could I do, Rhonnie! I had fucking kings!” I watched the Cajun’s lips move... but his voice didn’t carry. He was mumbling… All while his eyes stayed glued to the center of the table. To where the cards would fall. An unsettling realization hit me. The guy was praying… Mumbling some sort of chant. “Luckyass bitch!” J.T. yelled. With indifferent efficiency, the dealer laid the board out quick. The Cajun wound up with four aces. J.T. gone from a bad beat to outright slaughtered. “Stick a fork in him!” Trent’s Southern accent joked. “Oh shit…” David chimed in. He nudged me but I was too disturbed to respond. Too drawn into whatever was going on in seat seven’s world. Full of rage, J.T. stood up, spilling some of his drink. “Man, fuck y’all!” The guard took an annoyed step toward us. “Sir!” he yelled. J.T. turned his irate eyes toward the Cajun. The man still had his hands in his pockets. His eyes still on the board. Still in prayer. “He comes in here stinking up the place!” J.T. continued. He stumbled toward his nemesis. “And what the Hell’s he doing now!” Trent glared at J.T. “Man, just leave him alone! Your ass can’t afford to play, you shouldn’t be here nohow!” In his trance, the Cajun stayed in his seat. Still chanting. His hands still hidden deep in those pockets. Moving quick, the guard took off for the slots. His walkie-talkie at the ready. Eager for back-up. David faced J.T. “Goddamn, man, chill!” “Fucking idiot,” I heard Lily grumble. The alcohol giving him fake toughness, J.T. pushed the man back. “How in the Hell did you win that!” Startled, the Cajun stumbled up. His eyes in a panic. A disturbing amulet stuck in his sweaty hand. The table gasped and screamed. Us drunks louder and more terrified than the rest. The horrifying smell somehow got more sickening. “What the fuck!” J.T. yelled at his rival. Trembling, the man looked at each of us. Too scared to talk. Still clinging to a baby wolf. A real, dead baby wolf. Like a furry fetus, its decomposing corpse resembled a crude outline of life. A tiny, crumbling cadaver. The pup’s hollow skin in a post-mortem preservation. Its blue eyes forever open. And the Cajun had been holding this wolf for a very long time. A good luck charm in which the superstition outweighed the pup’s gruesome touch and nauseating stench. A necklace of a noose was wrapped around its small neck. Rather than a medallion, the wolf wore a shiny dime. One with a hole drilled in the middle of it... “It’s my Gris-Gris!” the man yelled in a guttural growl. Possessive, he pulled the wolf in closer. A literal baby in his arms. “You ain’t taking my Gris-Gris!” Through the tension, no one said a word. No one except J.T.. “Hey, gimme that shit!” J.T. yelled. Pissed, he snatched the corpse out of the Cajun’s desperate grip. “No!” the man cried. Tears formed in his eyes. “Gimme my Gris-Gris! My Loup Garou!” “So that’s how your ass has been winning!” J.T. continued. He held the baby wolf out toward the man. “That’s how you been getting all them Goddamn cards!” With savage glee, he flicked the dime. “This is your nastyass good luck charm!” The Cajun held his pitiful hands out toward J.T. Literally begging him… much to J.T.’s twisted delight. “I need him back!” he cried. “Gimme my Gris-Gris!” “Give him the damn thing!” Trent shouted at J.T. “Naw, Hell no!” J.T. replied. He squeezed on to the pup, making the wolf’s eyes even bigger. Further taunting the Cajun. “I need me some luck after this bitch took my chips!” Weeping, the man motioned toward the corpse. “It’s no good, boy! Dat wolf’s only good luck for me! He’s bad luck for you!” J.T. cackled. “Bullshit, bitch!” “Whoever touch it get bad luck!” Dismissive, J.T. looked toward the clerk. “Hey, get me three-hundred in chips! I’m reloading!” A flash of silver caught everyone’s eye. The machete whirled right through J.T.’s neck. A red river spread across his slit throat. For once, J.T. went silent. He dropped the wolf and grasped at the fatal wound. A fountain of blood poured out his mouth. The dead pup hit the felt. Its soft thud caused chips to collapse. Bits of its old flesh fragmented upon impact. The decomposing smell somehow hit new highs... “My Gris-Gris!” the Cajun screamed J.T. landed in his chair. His body convulsing in a painful rhythm. His death slow and steady. Blood now spewed all across table eight. David and I exchanged frightened looks. Disgusted, Trent moved his seat further away. Trying to avoid J.T.’s gore. “Seat open on eight!” the dealer hollered out of instinct. “Give us the fucking money!” a Southern drawl demanded. The dealer went quiet quick. So did the rest of us. The rush of fear spread throughout the game. All of us stared at the three men standing over us. Each of them wore black suits. Their faces disguised by straw hats and green bandanas. The leader waved a long machete around. J.T.’s blood adding decorative crimson to the sharp blade. The other two robbers carried pistols. Without hesitation, they scooped up all the hundred dollar bills. The literal blood money. The Cajun man reached for the wolf. “Lemme get my Loup Garou!” With a harsh shove, the leader pushed him back in his seat. “Sorry, buddy!” In tears, the Cajun looked toward the floor. His voice got lower but his words remained constant. Back to chanting. A hush lingered on table eight. All thanks to J.T. going completely still. Using his machete, the leader motioned his partners toward the clerk. “Go get the fucking money!” They did as they were told. In a panic, the clerk opened the registers. “Please! Don’t shoot me!” she cried The leader snatched the baby wolf. I sensed a wicked smile behind that bandana. “This must be your good luck charm.” He faced the Cajun. Holding up the corpse as if it were a pathetic trophy. “Is this shit how you won all the time?” “Drop your weapons!” we heard someone shout. Footsteps stormed behind us. We turned just in time to see the security guard leading several armed officers inside the poker room. Without hesitation, a cop fired. And not a warning shot either. The bullet blew the leader’s brains out. Blood and gray matter sprayed over us. Courtesy of The IP. “Goddammit!” the dealer shouted. Screams formed our soundtrack. Several players jumped up. “Stay where you are!” the guard commanded. The leader collapsed on to the table. More grue covered the felt. The leader’s dead hands dropped both the machete and amulet. The cops came rushing forward. “Don’t move!” an officer screamed. “Sit the fuck down!” The other players got back in their seats. Together, we formed a gruesome congregation. Each of us covered in blood. J.T.’s corpse seated as if he were ready to play. Table eight a poker game from Hell. Eager to keep up with the real cops, the security guard descended upon us. He cringed at the smell. “Jesus Christ!” Then the wolf caught his eye. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!” Trent warned him. “What the Hell’s this...” the guard said. He snatched the dead pup. Dusty flesh and dry blood stuck to his fingertips. Instantly, several shots rang in the new year and the guard’s brutal death. Bullets obliterated his face into oblivion. In the chilly room, the gunfire left us all coated in another layer of crimson. The security guard fell to the floor, motionless. Gaping holes leaked blood from his head. The baby wolf still clasped in his tight grip. David downed his beer. The now-red Corona didn’t bother him at this point... Behind us, I saw the cops apprehend the other two robbers. The lingering fear made me shiver. The gang could’ve shot any one of us… but deep down, I knew why they only killed the guard. And why they immediately surrendered afterward. I looked on at the dead wolf. Its baby blues remained fixated on me. Tempting me to touch. Its mummified body the prettiest corpse in this poker room’s collection. “Shit, I ain’t touching it!” I heard David say. Weary, Trent stood up and pushed his seat back. “Fuck it!” Blood dripping off his beard and jacket, he looked toward the nervous clerk. Pointed down at his ridiculous chip stack. Even at the pieces of flesh stuck to them. “I’m cashing out!” 14
2020 was already getting off to a bad start. Here it was New Year’s Day in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was already down four-hundred for the year. And it was only noon... Of course, the black-eyed peas didn’t help. No good luck charm could cure my current drought at the Imperial Palace’s poker room. This was the last day my buddies and I would be out here. Our final day touring Biloxi’s many casinos. Just like years past, The Vegas Of The South hadn’t been kind to me. But I still had fun. Your wacky horror author Rhonnie enjoyed poker after all. Even when I was constantly being battered by bad beats. There were four of us out here. Me and my Stanwyck, Georgia poker pals. I was the youngest of the bunch. Scrawnier than ever, my combed-over brown hair was still a mess from this wild binge of booze and cards. My green eyes wild with drunken life. The gambling fix just what I needed after a hectic 2019. My friends J.T., David, and Trent were all with me. From playing nickel/dime house games to $1/3 at the IP, we brought the rowdiness of South Georgia with us to this fine establishment... much to the chagrin of all the dealers and poker players. A few years older than me, David was a stocky, red-headed Southern boy. The combination of his loud voice and drunk shit talking ensured we’d never keep a low-profile. David always unrestrained unless he was behind bars or in a strait-jacket. J.T. was similar but more stable. At forty, he’d skirted by authority and drama with the type of good luck he inexplicably had at the casinos. Tall and lanky, J.T. was Hispanic in ethnicity but a crazed country boy at heart. And with him and David together, their fighting and flirting hit a manic overdrive. Trent only dealt with them due to experience... J.T. was his ex-brother-in-law after all. Trent was the most reserved out of us. Even drunk, he didn’t cut up much. His bushy beard and piercing eyes certainly gave him clout on the felt. Not to mention he was the only one with a real job. With real money to spare. When David, J.T., and I inevitably went broke, the three of us followed Trent around like roadies desperate for a rock star’s sloppy seconds. New Year’s Day was just a chaotic continuation of our three-day bender. At noon, everyone but Trent was already hammered. The constant “free” beer and vodka our only way of staving off the New Year’s Eve hangovers hunting us down… This early, the IP’s card room was empty save for one $1/3 table. The four of us had table eight together. Under bright lighting, we enjoyed the game with four other Hold Em stragglers. I only recognized Lily a hot regular I’d seen over in Gretna, Florida’s poker room. Someone from our neck of the woods. Wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses and flaunting her stylish short brown hair, she was the only female player here... And already, both David and J.T. had tried her. And already she’d insulted them right back. Not to mention took the last of David’s pathetic chip stack. Table eight’s other players included the usual low stakes caricatures. The shitregs. A depressed dad with an equally depressing dad bod. The smartass college kid masquerading as a poker pro. And an older farmer still wearing overalls, the type of surreal sight you somehow take for granted in Biloxi. Our dealer was a bitchy man in his mid-40s. The type of rude personality reserved for the casino’s deader shifts. None of the players were any good. Then again, I couldn’t talk much. My thirty-big-blind buy-in strategy had been continually getting crushed by suckouts. Usually by Trent. Needless to say, he and Lily were the big winners so far… Their colorful chip stacks even contained stray hundred dollar bills. But somehow, J.T.’s drunkass had even more. Obnoxious as ever, the son-of-a-bitch had been running off Fireball cinnamon whiskies since the ball dropped. And here he was with over three grand on the table. A stack of Benjamins clustered amongst his towers. Now the farmer had just thrown in another hundred dollar bill. J.T. snap called. Farmer showed three of a kind. J.T. hesitated for a moment... either he was too drunk to read the board or slow-rolling his opponent. My guess was both. Finally, J.T. slung down the winning hand: ten four of diamonds. A flush on the river. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Laughing, J.T. collected his latest pot. Another two hundred for his growing stack. “Nice hand, sir!” he taunted the frowning farmer. “You see that shit, Trent! I played that shit like you!” Broke and on his tenth Corona, David now sat behind me. A rail I never asked for… but an entertaining one at least. I looked over at a corner where the front desk was. Where all the chips and cash were. The clerk just watched us, her dark eyes like lasers. The pot-bellied security guard on standby. David again the center of attention. A wave of cold air hit us. My FSU hoodie couldn’t keep me from shivering. And regardless of all the booze, I suspected David’s long-sleeved AC/DC shirt wasn’t helping him much either. I looked down at my cards. Ten three offsuit. Yet another fold on my fucking big blind. Then a rotten smell hit me. Well from beyond the grave. The scent more putrid than roadkill. “Is this one three hold em?” I heard a guttural drawl say. The entire table looked toward our latest player. Hopefully, our latest fish. The black man certainly looked the part. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a red jacket with rolled-up sleeves, he was in his fifties. His scruffy beard matched by greasy Jheri curls. Years of wildness captured in his arsenal of tattoos and odd jewelry. The skull-and-bones earrings and gold teeth certainly hinted at what was sure to be an eccentric gambler. The man’s stern gaze locked in on the security guard. “Is it one-three?” he asked in that muddled Cajun accent. With a flourish, he pulled out a bundle of Benjamins. Well over five-hundred dollars. Immediately, the guard went to work getting those chips. Him and the clerk eager to count the dough. The Cajun took a seat right beside J.T. Seat number seven. “Holy shit…” J.T. exclaimed. He flashed David and I a drunken smirk. But soon, that smile was wiped clean. The wild man didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and he may have been stinking up the place with a corpse’s hygiene, but he was damn sure winning. Even Trent and Lily’s stacks were going downhill. Left with only fifty bucks on the table, I just enjoyed the show as David kept the beer flowing. Him and I an audience for this black Cajun man’s rampage. Ashley sent me an obvious drunk text: I love you :) Grinning, I texted her back: The two of us drunk at noon on New Year’s Day. How cute. J.T.’s triumphant yell then caught my attention. “Whoo!” He slid out a huge tower into the pot. The arrogance such an obvious tell… “Come get some!” he shouted at the Cajun. The man deliberated on the river bet. Like a young gunslinger, J.T. leaned toward him. Trying to get eye-to-eye. “Come on, call me!” he yelled, desperate to antagonize the man. The dealer forced J.T. back. “Sir, please don’t lean over the table.” Holding his latest mixed drink, J.T. waved toward his opponent. “I don’t care! I’ll call clock on his ass!” “Aw-in!” the man stated. He pushed his huge stack out. Everyone watched, dumbfounded... but fucking entertained. Even if we didn’t quite understand the man’s dialect... The dealer leaned in toward him. “Uh, sir. Was that an all-in?” “Aw-in!” the Cajun declared. “I said aw-in!” Now put on the spot, J.T. trembled in the cold. His weakness well on display. “Goddammit!” he yelled. His good mood long gone, he threw the cards toward the dealer. The confident drunk now hurtling through depression. “Language, sir,” the dealer reminded him. “I don’t give a fuck!” J.T. replied. Now David was the one laughing his ass off… J.T. motioned toward the Cajun. “How the Hell you keep winning these hands!” With a smile of gold rather than teeth, the man faced J.T. “Dat’s juss how I play, boy.” I couldn’t help but crack up. Trent covered his own chuckle. “Yeah, and you stink like Hell too,” J.T. said. Cackling, the Cajun stacked up his winnings. Lily looked over at J.T. “Maybe that’s part of his strategy.” “Well, I’m about to bust that shit! Fuck his strategy!” J.T. shouted. “And you wanna know why!” He looked down at his latest cards. “Because I’m J.T. Torres! That’s why!” On the warpath, he took out his phone. “I’m about to get in my zone, Rhonnie!” I cringed. Simultaneously amused and embarrassed. Tom Petty’s “Last Dance With Mary Jane” blasted off J.T.’s phone. Over the IP’s soundtrack. Over Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” J.T. glared at the whole table. “I ain’t playing now! Who wants some of this!” “It’s one three, boy,” Trent quipped. Growing more and more aggravated, the dealer confronted J.T. “Sir, you can’t play music,” he said in an exasperated tone. The security guard approached us. “No phones on the table!” he barked at J.T. J.T. cut off the music. “Alright, that’s fine!” Without hesitation, he waved at his stack. “Fuck it, I’m all-in!” “Sir-” the dealer began. “I caw!” the Cajun cried. With everyone else out, he flipped over his cards. Pocket aces. The fucking bullets. A dramatic intensity dominated the table. Only the ominous beat of “Bad Moon Rising” could be heard. The man’s rotten stench like cigarette smoke in the arena’s atmosphere. This heavyweight match we all anticipated now looking to be a quick knockout. “Oh shit!” Trent joked to J.T. “You done fucked up!” The twisting knife sent J.T. further into his downward spiral. Anger built inside him. He threw up his pocket kings. “Goddammit!” he said. “How much does he have?” “He’s got you,” remarked the dealer in a not-so-subtle jab. The Cajun chuckled. “I got you covered, boy!” And he damn sure did. J.T.’s fifteen-hundred dollar stack was in a world of pain. “Fuck!” J.T. yelled. I then noticed the man jam both his hands inside those hoodie pockets. Burrowing them in deep. “What the fuck!” I heard J.T. say to me. “What the fuck else could I do, Rhonnie! I had fucking kings!” I watched the Cajun’s lips move... but his voice didn’t carry. He was mumbling… All while his eyes stayed glued to the center of the table. To where the cards would fall. An unsettling realization hit me. The guy was praying… Mumbling some sort of chant. “Luckyass bitch!” J.T. yelled. With indifferent efficiency, the dealer laid the board out quick. The Cajun wound up with four aces. J.T. gone from a bad beat to outright slaughtered. “Stick a fork in him!” Trent’s Southern accent joked. “Oh shit…” David chimed in. He nudged me but I was too disturbed to respond. Too drawn into whatever was going on in seat seven’s world. Full of rage, J.T. stood up, spilling some of his drink. “Man, fuck y’all!” The guard took an annoyed step toward us. “Sir!” he yelled. J.T. turned his irate eyes toward the Cajun. The man still had his hands in his pockets. His eyes still on the board. Still in prayer. “He comes in here stinking up the place!” J.T. continued. He stumbled toward his nemesis. “And what the Hell’s he doing now!” Trent glared at J.T. “Man, just leave him alone! Your ass can’t afford to play, you shouldn’t be here nohow!” In his trance, the Cajun stayed in his seat. Still chanting. His hands still hidden deep in those pockets. Moving quick, the guard took off for the slots. His walkie-talkie at the ready. Eager for back-up. David faced J.T. “Goddamn, man, chill!” “Fucking idiot,” I heard Lily grumble. The alcohol giving him fake toughness, J.T. pushed the man back. “How in the Hell did you win that!” Startled, the Cajun stumbled up. His eyes in a panic. A disturbing amulet stuck in his sweaty hand. The table gasped and screamed. Us drunks louder and more terrified than the rest. The horrifying smell somehow got more sickening. “What the fuck!” J.T. yelled at his rival. Trembling, the man looked at each of us. Too scared to talk. Still clinging to a baby wolf. A real, dead baby wolf. Like a furry fetus, its decomposing corpse resembled a crude outline of life. A tiny, crumbling cadaver. The pup’s hollow skin in a post-mortem preservation. Its blue eyes forever open. And the Cajun had been holding this wolf for a very long time. A good luck charm in which the superstition outweighed the pup’s gruesome touch and nauseating stench. A necklace of a noose was wrapped around its small neck. Rather than a medallion, the wolf wore a shiny dime. One with a hole drilled in the middle of it... “It’s my Gris-Gris!” the man yelled in a guttural growl. Possessive, he pulled the wolf in closer. A literal baby in his arms. “You ain’t taking my Gris-Gris!” Through the tension, no one said a word. No one except J.T.. “Hey, gimme that shit!” J.T. yelled. Pissed, he snatched the corpse out of the Cajun’s desperate grip. “No!” the man cried. Tears formed in his eyes. “Gimme my Gris-Gris! My Loup Garou!” “So that’s how your ass has been winning!” J.T. continued. He held the baby wolf out toward the man. “That’s how you been getting all them Goddamn cards!” With savage glee, he flicked the dime. “This is your nastyass good luck charm!” The Cajun held his pitiful hands out toward J.T. Literally begging him… much to J.T.’s twisted delight. “I need him back!” he cried. “Gimme my Gris-Gris!” “Give him the damn thing!” Trent shouted at J.T. “Naw, Hell no!” J.T. replied. He squeezed on to the pup, making the wolf’s eyes even bigger. Further taunting the Cajun. “I need me some luck after this bitch took my chips!” Weeping, the man motioned toward the corpse. “It’s no good, boy! Dat wolf’s only good luck for me! He’s bad luck for you!” J.T. cackled. “Bullshit, bitch!” “Whoever touch it get bad luck!” Dismissive, J.T. looked toward the clerk. “Hey, get me three-hundred in chips! I’m reloading!” A flash of silver caught everyone’s eye. The machete whirled right through J.T.’s neck. A red river spread across his slit throat. For once, J.T. went silent. He dropped the wolf and grasped at the fatal wound. A fountain of blood poured out his mouth. The dead pup hit the felt. Its soft thud caused chips to collapse. Bits of its old flesh fragmented upon impact. The decomposing smell somehow hit new highs... “My Gris-Gris!” the Cajun screamed J.T. landed in his chair. His body convulsing in a painful rhythm. His death slow and steady. Blood now spewed all across table eight. David and I exchanged frightened looks. Disgusted, Trent moved his seat further away. Trying to avoid J.T.’s gore. “Seat open on eight!” the dealer hollered out of instinct. “Give us the fucking money!” a Southern drawl demanded. The dealer went quiet quick. So did the rest of us. The rush of fear spread throughout the game. All of us stared at the three men standing over us. Each of them wore black suits. Their faces disguised by straw hats and green bandanas. The leader waved a long machete around. J.T.’s blood adding decorative crimson to the sharp blade. The other two robbers carried pistols. Without hesitation, they scooped up all the hundred dollar bills. The literal blood money. The Cajun man reached for the wolf. “Lemme get my Loup Garou!” With a harsh shove, the leader pushed him back in his seat. “Sorry, buddy!” In tears, the Cajun looked toward the floor. His voice got lower but his words remained constant. Back to chanting. A hush lingered on table eight. All thanks to J.T. going completely still. Using his machete, the leader motioned his partners toward the clerk. “Go get the fucking money!” They did as they were told. In a panic, the clerk opened the registers. “Please! Don’t shoot me!” she cried The leader snatched the baby wolf. I sensed a wicked smile behind that bandana. “This must be your good luck charm.” He faced the Cajun. Holding up the corpse as if it were a pathetic trophy. “Is this shit how you won all the time?” “Drop your weapons!” we heard someone shout. Footsteps stormed behind us. We turned just in time to see the security guard leading several armed officers inside the poker room. Without hesitation, a cop fired. And not a warning shot either. The bullet blew the leader’s brains out. Blood and gray matter sprayed over us. Courtesy of The IP. “Goddammit!” the dealer shouted. Screams formed our soundtrack. Several players jumped up. “Stay where you are!” the guard commanded. The leader collapsed on to the table. More grue covered the felt. The leader’s dead hands dropped both the machete and amulet. The cops came rushing forward. “Don’t move!” an officer screamed. “Sit the fuck down!” The other players got back in their seats. Together, we formed a gruesome congregation. Each of us covered in blood. J.T.’s corpse seated as if he were ready to play. Table eight a poker game from Hell. Eager to keep up with the real cops, the security guard descended upon us. He cringed at the smell. “Jesus Christ!” Then the wolf caught his eye. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!” Trent warned him. “What the Hell’s this...” the guard said. He snatched the dead pup. Dusty flesh and dry blood stuck to his fingertips. Instantly, several shots rang in the new year and the guard’s brutal death. Bullets obliterated his face into oblivion. In the chilly room, the gunfire left us all coated in another layer of crimson. The security guard fell to the floor, motionless. Gaping holes leaked blood from his head. The baby wolf still clasped in his tight grip. David downed his beer. The now-red Corona didn’t bother him at this point... Behind us, I saw the cops apprehend the other two robbers. The lingering fear made me shiver. The gang could’ve shot any one of us… but deep down, I knew why they only killed the guard. And why they immediately surrendered afterward. I looked on at the dead wolf. Its baby blues remained fixated on me. Tempting me to touch. Its mummified body the prettiest corpse in this poker room’s collection. “Shit, I ain’t touching it!” I heard David say. Weary, Trent stood up and pushed his seat back. “Fuck it!” Blood dripping off his beard and jacket, he looked toward the nervous clerk. Pointed down at his ridiculous chip stack. Even at the pieces of flesh stuck to them. “I’m cashing out!” 14
2020 was already getting off to a bad start. Here it was New Year’s Day in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was already down four-hundred for the year. And it was only noon... Of course, the black-eyed peas didn’t help. No good luck charm could cure my current drought at the Imperial Palace’s poker room. This was the last day my buddies and I would be out here. Our final day touring Biloxi’s many casinos. Just like years past, The Vegas Of The South hadn’t been kind to me. But I still had fun. Your wacky horror author Rhonnie enjoyed poker after all. Even when I was constantly being battered by bad beats. There were four of us out here. Me and my Stanwyck, Georgia poker pals. I was the youngest of the bunch. Scrawnier than ever, my combed-over brown hair was still a mess from this wild binge of booze and cards. My green eyes wild with drunken life. The gambling fix just what I needed after a hectic 2019. Obviously, I missed Ashley… But I suspected she was doing just fine partying with Carty and Erika in Columbus, Georgia. The power trio indulging in their own New Year’s blitz of margaritas and dancing. My friends J.T., David, and Trent were all with me. From playing nickel/dime house games to $1/3 at the IP, we brought the rowdiness of South Georgia with us to this fine establishment... much to the chagrin of all the dealers and poker players. A few years older than me, David was a stocky, red-headed Southern boy. The combination of his loud voice and drunk shit talking ensured we’d never keep a low-profile. David always unrestrained unless he was behind bars or in a strait-jacket. J.T. was similar but more stable. At forty, he’d skirted by authority and drama with the type of good luck he inexplicably had at the casinos. Tall and lanky, J.T. was Hispanic in ethnicity but a crazed country boy at heart. And with him and David together, their fighting and flirting hit a manic overdrive. Trent only dealt with them due to experience... J.T. was his ex-brother-in-law after all. Trent was the most reserved out of us. Even drunk, he didn’t cut up much. His bushy beard and piercing eyes certainly gave him clout on the felt. Not to mention he was the only one with a real job. With real money to spare. When David, J.T., and I inevitably went broke, the three of us followed Trent around like roadies desperate for a rock star’s sloppy seconds. New Year’s Day was just a chaotic continuation of our three-day bender. At noon, everyone but Trent was already hammered. The constant “free” beer and vodka our only way of staving off the New Year’s Eve hangovers hunting us down… This early, the IP’s card room was empty save for one $1/3 table. The usual players probably still out recovering from the previous night’s festivities. Party favors and empty bottles littered the other tables. The room’s 60s soft rock soundtrack well overshadowed by the constant chimes of neighboring slots. The four of us had table eight together. Under bright lighting, we enjoyed the game with four other Hold Em stragglers. I only recognized Lily a hot regular I’d seen over in Gretna, Florida’s poker room. Someone from our neck of the woods. Wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses and flaunting her stylish short brown hair, she was the only female player here... And already, both David and J.T. had tried her. And already she’d insulted them right back. Not to mention took the last of David’s pathetic chip stack. Table eight’s other players included the usual low stakes caricatures. The shitregs. A depressed dad with an equally depressing dad bod. The smartass college kid masquerading as a poker pro. And an older farmer still wearing overalls, the type of surreal sight you somehow take for granted in Biloxi. Our dealer was a bitchy man in his mid-40s. The type of rude personality reserved for the casino’s deader shifts. None of the players were any good. Then again, I couldn’t talk much. My thirty-big-blind buy-in strategy had been continually getting crushed by suckouts. Usually by Trent. Needless to say, he and Lily were the big winners so far… Their colorful chip stacks even contained stray hundred dollar bills. But somehow, J.T.’s drunkass had even more. Obnoxious as ever, the son-of-a-bitch had been running off Fireball cinnamon whiskies since the ball dropped. And here he was with over three grand on the table. A stack of Benjamins clustered amongst his towers. Now the farmer had just thrown in another hundred dollar bill. J.T. snap called. Farmer showed three of a kind. J.T. hesitated for a moment... either he was too drunk to read the board or slow-rolling his opponent. My guess was both. Finally, J.T. slung down the winning hand: ten four of diamonds. A flush on the river. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Laughing, J.T. collected his latest pot. Another two hundred for his growing stack. “Nice hand, sir!” he taunted the frowning farmer. “You see that shit, Trent! I played that shit like you!” Broke and on his tenth Corona, David now sat behind me. A rail I never asked for… but an entertaining one at least. He leaned in toward me. “Hey, here she comes!” A red-headed waitress complete with an hourglass figure and flawless face walked toward us. Right into David’s carnal sights. Then again, I couldn’t blame him. He waved his beer at her. “Hey, I need another one!” Annoyed, she stopped and jotted down his order. David grabbed my shoulder. “What are you having!” “Miller Lite,” I said to her, my calm voice the opposite of David’s rowdy roar. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” the waitress said. With drunken confidence, David reached toward her. “Hey, sweetie, what’s your name?” He just missed her… The waitress was in a hurry. “None of your business!” she yelled back. With that, she high-tailed it straight for the table games. Then again, neither of us were complaining to watch her leave… Only the beer was definitely gonna take awhile. Especially once she stopped to take an order from a young bodybuilder. A hunk by the slots. Excited, the redhead leaned in closer. A rare smile on her face. Her thirst obvious… David turned to me. “Hey, why’s she talking to him like that!” “Damn, boy, she got you good!” Trent teased. David shrugged him off. “Man, fuck you, Trent!” “Language!” our dealer warned us in a pissed-off growl. Trent collected another pot. “I don’t think she like you anyhow,” he told David. “She just playing hard to get!” David yelled. The alcohol hitting him hard, David leaned in toward the table. “I bet I can get her before the day’s over with! I’ll get her in my room-” Like a brick wall, a fat arm blocked David. A pot-bellied security guard glared over him. “Move back, son!” David threw up his hands. “Alright!” J.T.’s crude laughter echoed through the room. The rest of the table cracked up in a sadistic chorus. Even the dealer. Keeping my cool, I pointed David behind me. “Just sit here, man. Drink the beer.” “Get your brokeass back, David!” J.T. jeered. “Man, whatever.” David moved his chair behind me. Flashed a glare at the guard. “There? You happy?” Behind a cold expression, the guard just stared at us. Completely unamused. I looked over at a corner where the front desk was. Where all the chips and cash were. The clerk just watched us, her dark eyes like lasers. David again the center of attention. A wave of cold air hit us. My FSU hoodie couldn’t keep me from shivering. And regardless of all the booze, I suspected David’s long-sleeved AC/DC shirt wasn’t helping him much either. I looked down at my cards. Ten three offsuit. Yet another fold on my fucking big blind. Then a rotten smell hit me. Well from beyond the grave. The scent more putrid than roadkill. “Is this one three hold em?” I heard a guttural drawl say. The entire table looked toward our latest player. Hopefully, our latest fish. The black man certainly looked the part. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a red jacket with rolled-up sleeves, he was in his fifties. His scruffy beard matched by greasy Jheri curls. Years of wildness captured in his arsenal of tattoos and odd jewelry. The skull-and-bones earrings and gold teeth certainly hinted at what was sure to be an eccentric gambler. The man’s stern gaze locked in on the security guard. “Is it one-three?” he asked in that muddled Cajun accent. With a flourish, he pulled out a bundle of Benjamins. Well over five-hundred dollars. Immediately, the guard went to work getting those chips. Him and the clerk eager to count the dough. The Cajun took a seat right beside J.T. Seat number seven. “Holy shit…” J.T. exclaimed. He flashed David and I a drunken smirk. But soon, that smile was wiped clean. The wild man didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and he may have been stinking up the place with a corpse’s hygiene, but he was damn sure winning. Even Trent and Lily’s stacks were going downhill. Left with only fifty bucks on the table, I just enjoyed the show as David kept the beer flowing. Him and I an audience for this black Cajun man’s rampage. Ashley sent me an obvious drunk text: I love you :) Grinning, I texted her back: The two of us drunk at noon on New Year’s Day. How cute. J.T.’s triumphant yell then caught my attention. “Whoo!” He slid out a huge tower into the pot. The arrogance such an obvious tell… “Come get some!” he shouted at the Cajun. The man deliberated on the river bet. Like a young gunslinger, J.T. leaned toward him. Trying to get eye-to-eye. “Come on, call me!” he yelled, desperate to antagonize the man. The dealer forced J.T. back. “Sir, please don’t lean over the table.” Holding his latest mixed drink, J.T. waved toward his opponent. “I don’t care! I’ll call clock on his ass!” “Aw-in!” the man stated. He pushed his huge stack out. Everyone watched, dumbfounded... but fucking entertained. Even if we didn’t quite understand the man’s dialect... The dealer leaned in toward him. “Uh, sir. Was that an all-in?” “Aw-in!” the Cajun declared. “I said aw-in!” Now put on the spot, J.T. trembled in the cold. His weakness well on display. “Goddammit!” he yelled. His good mood long gone, he threw the cards toward the dealer. The confident drunk now hurtling through depression. “Language, sir,” the dealer reminded him. “I don’t give a fuck!” J.T. replied. Now David was the one laughing his ass off… J.T. motioned toward the Cajun. “How the Hell you keep winning these hands!” With a smile of gold rather than teeth, the man faced J.T. “Dat’s juss how I play, boy.” I couldn’t help but crack up. Trent covered his own chuckle. “Yeah, and you stink like Hell too,” J.T. said. Cackling, the Cajun stacked up his winnings. Lily looked over at J.T. “Maybe that’s part of his strategy.” “Well, I’m about to bust that shit! Fuck his strategy!” J.T. shouted. “And you wanna know why!” He looked down at his latest cards. “Because I’m J.T. Torres! That’s why!” On the warpath, he took out his phone. “I’m about to get in my zone, Rhonnie!” I cringed. Simultaneously amused and embarrassed. Tom Petty’s “Last Dance With Mary Jane” blasted off J.T.’s phone. Over the IP’s soundtrack. Over Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” J.T. glared at the whole table. “I ain’t playing now! Who wants some of this!” “It’s one three, boy,” Trent quipped. Growing more and more aggravated, the dealer confronted J.T. “Sir, you can’t play music,” he said in an exasperated tone. The security guard approached us. “No phones on the table!” he barked at J.T. J.T. cut off the music. “Alright, that’s fine!” Without hesitation, he waved at his stack. “Fuck it, I’m all-in!” “Sir-” the dealer began. “I caw!” the Cajun cried. With everyone else out, he flipped over his cards. Pocket aces. The fucking bullets. A dramatic intensity dominated the table. Only the ominous beat of “Bad Moon Rising” could be heard. The man’s rotten stench like cigarette smoke in the arena’s atmosphere. This heavyweight match we all anticipated now looking to be a quick knockout. “Oh shit!” Trent joked to J.T. “You done fucked up!” The twisting knife sent J.T. further into his downward spiral. Anger built inside him. He threw up his pocket kings. “Goddammit!” he said. “How much does he have?” “He’s got you,” remarked the dealer in a not-so-subtle jab. The Cajun chuckled. “I got you covered, boy!” And he damn sure did. J.T.’s fifteen-hundred dollar stack was in a world of pain. “Fuck!” J.T. yelled. I then noticed the man jam both his hands inside those hoodie pockets. Burrowing them in deep. “What the fuck!” I heard J.T. say to me. “What the fuck else could I do, Rhonnie! I had fucking kings!” I watched the Cajun’s lips move... but his voice didn’t carry. He was mumbling… All while his eyes stayed glued to the center of the table. To where the cards would fall. An unsettling realization hit me. The guy was praying… Mumbling some sort of chant. “Luckyass bitch!” J.T. yelled. With indifferent efficiency, the dealer laid the board out quick. The Cajun wound up with four aces. J.T. gone from a bad beat to outright slaughtered. “Stick a fork in him!” Trent’s Southern accent joked. “Oh shit…” David chimed in. He nudged me but I was too disturbed to respond. Too drawn into whatever was going on in seat seven’s world. Full of rage, J.T. stood up, spilling some of his drink. “Man, fuck y’all!” The guard took an annoyed step toward us. “Sir!” he yelled. J.T. turned his irate eyes toward the Cajun. The man still had his hands in his pockets. His eyes still on the board. Still in prayer. “He comes in here stinking up the place!” J.T. continued. He stumbled toward his nemesis. “And what the Hell’s he doing now!” Trent glared at J.T. “Man, just leave him alone! Your ass can’t afford to play, you shouldn’t be here nohow!” In his trance, the Cajun stayed in his seat. Still chanting. His hands still hidden deep in those pockets. Moving quick, the guard took off for the slots. His walkie-talkie at the ready. Eager for back-up. David faced J.T. “Goddamn, man, chill!” “Fucking idiot,” I heard Lily grumble. The alcohol giving him fake toughness, J.T. pushed the man back. “How in the Hell did you win that!” Startled, the Cajun stumbled up. His eyes in a panic. A disturbing amulet stuck in his sweaty hand. The table gasped and screamed. Us drunks louder and more terrified than the rest. The horrifying smell somehow got more sickening. “What the fuck!” J.T. yelled at his rival. Trembling, the man looked at each of us. Too scared to talk. Still clinging to a baby wolf. A real, dead baby wolf. Like a furry fetus, its decomposing corpse resembled a crude outline of life. A tiny, crumbling cadaver. The pup’s hollow skin in a post-mortem preservation. Its blue eyes forever open. And the Cajun had been holding this wolf for a very long time. A good luck charm in which the superstition outweighed the pup’s gruesome touch and nauseating stench. A necklace of a noose was wrapped around its small neck. Rather than a medallion, the wolf wore a shiny dime. One with a hole drilled in the middle of it... “It’s my Gris-Gris!” the man yelled in a guttural growl. Possessive, he pulled the wolf in closer. A literal baby in his arms. “You ain’t taking my Gris-Gris!” Through the tension, no one said a word. No one except J.T.. “Hey, gimme that shit!” J.T. yelled. Pissed, he snatched the corpse out of the Cajun’s desperate grip. “No!” the man cried. Tears formed in his eyes. “Gimme my Gris-Gris! My Loup Garou!” “So that’s how your ass has been winning!” J.T. continued. He held the baby wolf out toward the man. “That’s how you been getting all them Goddamn cards!” With savage glee, he flicked the dime. “This is your nastyass good luck charm!” The Cajun held his pitiful hands out toward J.T. Literally begging him… much to J.T.’s twisted delight. “I need him back!” he cried. “Gimme my Gris-Gris!” “Give him the damn thing!” Trent shouted at J.T. “Naw, Hell no!” J.T. replied. He squeezed on to the pup, making the wolf’s eyes even bigger. Further taunting the Cajun. “I need me some luck after this bitch took my chips!” Weeping, the man motioned toward the corpse. “It’s no good, boy! Dat wolf’s only good luck for me! He’s bad luck for you!” J.T. cackled. “Bullshit, bitch!” “Whoever touch it get bad luck!” Dismissive, J.T. looked toward the clerk. “Hey, get me three-hundred in chips! I’m reloading!” A flash of silver caught everyone’s eye. The machete whirled right through J.T.’s neck. A red river spread across his slit throat. For once, J.T. went silent. He dropped the wolf and grasped at the fatal wound. A fountain of blood poured out his mouth. The dead pup hit the felt. Its soft thud caused chips to collapse. Bits of its old flesh fragmented upon impact. The decomposing smell somehow hit new highs... “My Gris-Gris!” the Cajun screamed J.T. landed in his chair. His body convulsing in a painful rhythm. His death slow and steady. Blood now spewed all across table eight. David and I exchanged frightened looks. Disgusted, Trent moved his seat further away. Trying to avoid J.T.’s gore. “Seat open on eight!” the dealer hollered out of instinct. “Give us the fucking money!” a Southern drawl demanded. The dealer went quiet quick. So did the rest of us. The rush of fear spread throughout the game. All of us stared at the three men standing over us. Each of them wore black suits. Their faces disguised by straw hats and green bandanas. The leader waved a long machete around. J.T.’s blood adding decorative crimson to the sharp blade. The other two robbers carried pistols. Without hesitation, they scooped up all the hundred dollar bills. The literal blood money. The Cajun man reached for the wolf. “Lemme get my Loup Garou!” With a harsh shove, the leader pushed him back in his seat. “Sorry, buddy!” In tears, the Cajun looked toward the floor. His voice got lower but his words remained constant. Back to chanting. A hush lingered on table eight. All thanks to J.T. going completely still. Using his machete, the leader motioned his partners toward the clerk. “Go get the fucking money!” They did as they were told. In a panic, the clerk opened the registers. “Please! Don’t shoot me!” she cried The leader snatched the baby wolf. I sensed a wicked smile behind that bandana. “This must be your good luck charm.” He faced the Cajun. Holding up the corpse as if it were a pathetic trophy. “Is this shit how you won all the time?” “Drop your weapons!” we heard someone shout. Footsteps stormed behind us. We turned just in time to see the security guard leading several armed officers inside the poker room. Without hesitation, a cop fired. And not a warning shot either. The bullet blew the leader’s brains out. Blood and gray matter sprayed over us. Courtesy of The IP. “Goddammit!” the dealer shouted. Screams formed our soundtrack. Several players jumped up. “Stay where you are!” the guard commanded. The leader collapsed on to the table. More grue covered the felt. The leader’s dead hands dropped both the machete and amulet. The cops came rushing forward. “Don’t move!” an officer screamed. “Sit the fuck down!” The other players got back in their seats. Together, we formed a gruesome congregation. Each of us covered in blood. J.T.’s corpse seated as if he were ready to play. Table eight a poker game from Hell. Eager to keep up with the real cops, the security guard descended upon us. He cringed at the smell. “Jesus Christ!” Then the wolf caught his eye. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!” Trent warned him. “What the Hell’s this...” the guard said. He snatched the dead pup. Dusty flesh and dry blood stuck to his fingertips. Instantly, several shots rang in the new year and the guard’s brutal death. Bullets obliterated his face into oblivion. In the chilly room, the gunfire left us all coated in another layer of crimson. The security guard fell to the floor, motionless. Gaping holes leaked blood from his head. The baby wolf still clasped in his tight grip. David downed his beer. The now-red Corona didn’t bother him at this point... Behind us, I saw the cops apprehend the other two robbers. The lingering fear made me shiver. The gang could’ve shot any one of us… but deep down, I knew why they only killed the guard. And why they immediately surrendered afterward. I looked on at the dead wolf. Its baby blues remained fixated on me. Tempting me to touch. Its mummified body the prettiest corpse in this poker room’s collection. “Shit, I ain’t touching it!” I heard David say. Weary, Trent stood up and pushed his seat back. “Fuck it!” Blood dripping off his beard and jacket, he looked toward the nervous clerk. Pointed down at his ridiculous chip stack. Even at the pieces of flesh stuck to them. “I’m cashing out!” 14
2020 was already getting off to a bad start. Here it was New Year’s Day in Biloxi, Mississippi and I was already down four-hundred for the year. And it was only noon... Of course, the black-eyed peas didn’t help. No good luck charm could cure my current drought at the Imperial Palace’s poker room. This was the last day my buddies and I would be out here. Our final day touring Biloxi’s many casinos. Just like years past, The Vegas Of The South hadn’t been kind to me. But I still had fun. Your wacky horror author Rhonnie enjoyed poker after all. Even when I was constantly being battered by bad beats. There were four of us out here. Me and my Stanwyck, Georgia poker pals. I was the youngest of the bunch. Scrawnier than ever, my combed-over brown hair was still a mess from this wild binge of booze and cards. My green eyes wild with drunken life. The gambling fix just what I needed after a hectic 2019. Obviously, I missed Ashley… But I suspected she was doing just fine partying with Carty and Erika in Columbus, Georgia. The power trio indulging in their own New Year’s blitz of margaritas and dancing. My friends J.T., David, and Trent were all with me. From playing nickel/dime house games to $1/3 at the IP, we brought the rowdiness of South Georgia with us to this fine establishment... much to the chagrin of all the dealers and poker players. A few years older than me, David was a stocky, red-headed Southern boy. The combination of his loud voice and drunk shit talking ensured we’d never keep a low-profile. David always unrestrained unless he was behind bars or in a strait-jacket. J.T. was similar but more stable. At forty, he’d skirted by authority and drama with the type of good luck he inexplicably had at the casinos. Tall and lanky, J.T. was Hispanic in ethnicity but a crazed country boy at heart. And with him and David together, their fighting and flirting hit a manic overdrive. Trent only dealt with them due to experience... J.T. was his ex-brother-in-law after all. Trent was the most reserved out of us. Even drunk, he didn’t cut up much. His bushy beard and piercing eyes certainly gave him clout on the felt. Not to mention he was the only one with a real job. With real money to spare. When David, J.T., and I inevitably went broke, the three of us followed Trent around like roadies desperate for a rock star’s sloppy seconds. New Year’s Day was just a chaotic continuation of our three-day bender. At noon, everyone but Trent was already hammered. The constant “free” beer and vodka our only way of staving off the New Year’s Eve hangovers hunting us down… This early, the IP’s card room was empty save for one $1/3 table. The usual players probably still out recovering from the previous night’s festivities. Party favors and empty bottles littered the other tables. The room’s 60s soft rock soundtrack well overshadowed by the constant chimes of neighboring slots. The four of us had table eight together. Under bright lighting, we enjoyed the game with four other Hold Em stragglers. I only recognized Lily a hot regular I’d seen over in Gretna, Florida’s poker room. Someone from our neck of the woods. Wearing Louis Vuitton sunglasses and flaunting her stylish short brown hair, she was the only female player here... And already, both David and J.T. had tried her. And already she’d insulted them right back. Not to mention took the last of David’s pathetic chip stack. Table eight’s other players included the usual low stakes caricatures. The shitregs. A depressed dad with an equally depressing dad bod. The smartass college kid masquerading as a poker pro. And an older farmer still wearing overalls, the type of surreal sight you somehow take for granted in Biloxi. Our dealer was a bitchy man in his mid-40s. The type of rude personality reserved for the casino’s deader shifts. None of the players were any good. Then again, I couldn’t talk much. My thirty-big-blind buy-in strategy had been continually getting crushed by suckouts. Usually by Trent. Needless to say, he and Lily were the big winners so far… Their colorful chip stacks even contained stray hundred dollar bills. But somehow, J.T.’s drunkass had even more. Obnoxious as ever, the son-of-a-bitch had been running off Fireball cinnamon whiskies since the ball dropped. And here he was with over three grand on the table. A stack of Benjamins clustered amongst his towers. Now the farmer had just thrown in another hundred dollar bill. J.T. snap called. Farmer showed three of a kind. J.T. hesitated for a moment... either he was too drunk to read the board or slow-rolling his opponent. My guess was both. Finally, J.T. slung down the winning hand: ten four of diamonds. A flush on the river. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Laughing, J.T. collected his latest pot. Another two hundred for his growing stack. “Nice hand, sir!” he taunted the frowning farmer. “You see that shit, Trent! I played that shit like you!” Broke and on his tenth Corona, David now sat behind me. A rail I never asked for… but an entertaining one at least. He leaned in toward me. “Hey, here she comes!” A red-headed waitress complete with an hourglass figure and flawless face walked toward us. Right into David’s carnal sights. Then again, I couldn’t blame him. He waved his beer at her. “Hey, I need another one!” Annoyed, she stopped and jotted down his order. David grabbed my shoulder. “What are you having!” “Miller Lite,” I said to her, my calm voice the opposite of David’s rowdy roar. “Alright, I’ll be right back,” the waitress said. With drunken confidence, David reached toward her. “Hey, sweetie, what’s your name?” He just missed her… The waitress was in a hurry. “None of your business!” she yelled back. With that, she high-tailed it straight for the table games. Then again, neither of us were complaining to watch her leave… Only the beer was definitely gonna take awhile. Especially once she stopped to take an order from a young bodybuilder. A hunk by the slots. Excited, the redhead leaned in closer. A rare smile on her face. Her thirst obvious… David turned to me. “Hey, why’s she talking to him like that!” “Damn, boy, she got you good!” Trent teased. David shrugged him off. “Man, fuck you, Trent!” “Language!” our dealer warned us in a pissed-off growl. Trent collected another pot. “I don’t think she like you anyhow,” he told David. “She just playing hard to get!” David yelled. The alcohol hitting him hard, David leaned in toward the table. “I bet I can get her before the day’s over with! I’ll get her in my room-” Like a brick wall, a fat arm blocked David. A pot-bellied security guard glared over him. “Move back, son!” David threw up his hands. “Alright!” J.T.’s crude laughter echoed through the room. The rest of the table cracked up in a sadistic chorus. Even the dealer. Keeping my cool, I pointed David behind me. “Just sit here, man. Drink the beer.” “Get your brokeass back, David!” J.T. jeered. “Man, whatever.” David moved his chair behind me. Flashed a glare at the guard. “There? You happy?” Behind a cold expression, the guard just stared at us. Completely unamused. I looked over at a corner where the front desk was. Where all the chips and cash were. The clerk just watched us, her dark eyes like lasers. David again the center of attention. A wave of cold air hit us. My FSU hoodie couldn’t keep me from shivering. And regardless of all the booze, I suspected David’s long-sleeved AC/DC shirt wasn’t helping him much either. I looked down at my cards. Ten three offsuit. Yet another fold on my fucking big blind. Then a rotten smell hit me. Well from beyond the grave. The scent more putrid than roadkill. “Is this one three hold em?” I heard a guttural drawl say. The entire table looked toward our latest player. Hopefully, our latest fish. The black man certainly looked the part. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a red jacket with rolled-up sleeves, he was in his fifties. His scruffy beard matched by greasy Jheri curls. Years of wildness captured in his arsenal of tattoos and odd jewelry. The skull-and-bones earrings and gold teeth certainly hinted at what was sure to be an eccentric gambler. The man’s stern gaze locked in on the security guard. “Is it one-three?” he asked in that muddled Cajun accent. With a flourish, he pulled out a bundle of Benjamins. Well over five-hundred dollars. Immediately, the guard went to work getting those chips. Him and the clerk eager to count the dough. The Cajun took a seat right beside J.T. Seat number seven. “Holy shit…” J.T. exclaimed. He flashed David and I a drunken smirk. But soon, that smile was wiped clean. The wild man didn’t know what the fuck he was doing and he may have been stinking up the place with a corpse’s hygiene, but he was damn sure winning. Even Trent and Lily’s stacks were going downhill. Left with only fifty bucks on the table, I just enjoyed the show as David kept the beer flowing. Him and I an audience for this black Cajun man’s rampage. Ashley sent me an obvious drunk text: I love you :) Grinning, I texted her back: The two of us drunk at noon on New Year’s Day. How cute. J.T.’s triumphant yell then caught my attention. “Whoo!” He slid out a huge tower into the pot. The arrogance such an obvious tell… “Come get some!” he shouted at the Cajun. The man deliberated on the river bet. Like a young gunslinger, J.T. leaned toward him. Trying to get eye-to-eye. “Come on, call me!” he yelled, desperate to antagonize the man. The dealer forced J.T. back. “Sir, please don’t lean over the table.” Holding his latest mixed drink, J.T. waved toward his opponent. “I don’t care! I’ll call clock on his ass!” “Aw-in!” the man stated. He pushed his huge stack out. Everyone watched, dumbfounded... but fucking entertained. Even if we didn’t quite understand the man’s dialect... The dealer leaned in toward him. “Uh, sir. Was that an all-in?” “Aw-in!” the Cajun declared. “I said aw-in!” Now put on the spot, J.T. trembled in the cold. His weakness well on display. “Goddammit!” he yelled. His good mood long gone, he threw the cards toward the dealer. The confident drunk now hurtling through depression. “Language, sir,” the dealer reminded him. “I don’t give a fuck!” J.T. replied. Now David was the one laughing his ass off… J.T. motioned toward the Cajun. “How the Hell you keep winning these hands!” With a smile of gold rather than teeth, the man faced J.T. “Dat’s juss how I play, boy.” I couldn’t help but crack up. Trent covered his own chuckle. “Yeah, and you stink like Hell too,” J.T. said. Cackling, the Cajun stacked up his winnings. Lily looked over at J.T. “Maybe that’s part of his strategy.” “Well, I’m about to bust that shit! Fuck his strategy!” J.T. shouted. “And you wanna know why!” He looked down at his latest cards. “Because I’m J.T. Torres! That’s why!” On the warpath, he took out his phone. “I’m about to get in my zone, Rhonnie!” I cringed. Simultaneously amused and embarrassed. Tom Petty’s “Last Dance With Mary Jane” blasted off J.T.’s phone. Over the IP’s soundtrack. Over Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising.” J.T. glared at the whole table. “I ain’t playing now! Who wants some of this!” “It’s one three, boy,” Trent quipped. Growing more and more aggravated, the dealer confronted J.T. “Sir, you can’t play music,” he said in an exasperated tone. The security guard approached us. “No phones on the table!” he barked at J.T. J.T. cut off the music. “Alright, that’s fine!” Without hesitation, he waved at his stack. “Fuck it, I’m all-in!” “Sir-” the dealer began. “I caw!” the Cajun cried. With everyone else out, he flipped over his cards. Pocket aces. The fucking bullets. A dramatic intensity dominated the table. Only the ominous beat of “Bad Moon Rising” could be heard. The man’s rotten stench like cigarette smoke in the arena’s atmosphere. This heavyweight match we all anticipated now looking to be a quick knockout. “Oh shit!” Trent joked to J.T. “You done fucked up!” The twisting knife sent J.T. further into his downward spiral. Anger built inside him. He threw up his pocket kings. “Goddammit!” he said. “How much does he have?” “He’s got you,” remarked the dealer in a not-so-subtle jab. The Cajun chuckled. “I got you covered, boy!” And he damn sure did. J.T.’s fifteen-hundred dollar stack was in a world of pain. “Fuck!” J.T. yelled. I then noticed the man jam both his hands inside those hoodie pockets. Burrowing them in deep. “What the fuck!” I heard J.T. say to me. “What the fuck else could I do, Rhonnie! I had fucking kings!” I watched the Cajun’s lips move... but his voice didn’t carry. He was mumbling… All while his eyes stayed glued to the center of the table. To where the cards would fall. An unsettling realization hit me. The guy was praying… Mumbling some sort of chant. “Luckyass bitch!” J.T. yelled. With indifferent efficiency, the dealer laid the board out quick. The Cajun wound up with four aces. J.T. gone from a bad beat to outright slaughtered. “Stick a fork in him!” Trent’s Southern accent joked. “Oh shit…” David chimed in. He nudged me but I was too disturbed to respond. Too drawn into whatever was going on in seat seven’s world. Full of rage, J.T. stood up, spilling some of his drink. “Man, fuck y’all!” The guard took an annoyed step toward us. “Sir!” he yelled. J.T. turned his irate eyes toward the Cajun. The man still had his hands in his pockets. His eyes still on the board. Still in prayer. “He comes in here stinking up the place!” J.T. continued. He stumbled toward his nemesis. “And what the Hell’s he doing now!” Trent glared at J.T. “Man, just leave him alone! Your ass can’t afford to play, you shouldn’t be here nohow!” In his trance, the Cajun stayed in his seat. Still chanting. His hands still hidden deep in those pockets. Moving quick, the guard took off for the slots. His walkie-talkie at the ready. Eager for back-up. David faced J.T. “Goddamn, man, chill!” “Fucking idiot,” I heard Lily grumble. The alcohol giving him fake toughness, J.T. pushed the man back. “How in the Hell did you win that!” Startled, the Cajun stumbled up. His eyes in a panic. A disturbing amulet stuck in his sweaty hand. The table gasped and screamed. Us drunks louder and more terrified than the rest. The horrifying smell somehow got more sickening. “What the fuck!” J.T. yelled at his rival. Trembling, the man looked at each of us. Too scared to talk. Still clinging to a baby wolf. A real, dead baby wolf. Like a furry fetus, its decomposing corpse resembled a crude outline of life. A tiny, crumbling cadaver. The pup’s hollow skin in a post-mortem preservation. Its blue eyes forever open. And the Cajun had been holding this wolf for a very long time. A good luck charm in which the superstition outweighed the pup’s gruesome touch and nauseating stench. A necklace of a noose was wrapped around its small neck. Rather than a medallion, the wolf wore a shiny dime. One with a hole drilled in the middle of it... “It’s my Gris-Gris!” the man yelled in a guttural growl. Possessive, he pulled the wolf in closer. A literal baby in his arms. “You ain’t taking my Gris-Gris!” Through the tension, no one said a word. No one except J.T.. “Hey, gimme that shit!” J.T. yelled. Pissed, he snatched the corpse out of the Cajun’s desperate grip. “No!” the man cried. Tears formed in his eyes. “Gimme my Gris-Gris! My Loup Garou!” “So that’s how your ass has been winning!” J.T. continued. He held the baby wolf out toward the man. “That’s how you been getting all them Goddamn cards!” With savage glee, he flicked the dime. “This is your nastyass good luck charm!” The Cajun held his pitiful hands out toward J.T. Literally begging him… much to J.T.’s twisted delight. “I need him back!” he cried. “Gimme my Gris-Gris!” “Give him the damn thing!” Trent shouted at J.T. “Naw, Hell no!” J.T. replied. He squeezed on to the pup, making the wolf’s eyes even bigger. Further taunting the Cajun. “I need me some luck after this bitch took my chips!” Weeping, the man motioned toward the corpse. “It’s no good, boy! Dat wolf’s only good luck for me! He’s bad luck for you!” J.T. cackled. “Bullshit, bitch!” “Whoever touch it get bad luck!” Dismissive, J.T. looked toward the clerk. “Hey, get me three-hundred in chips! I’m reloading!” A flash of silver caught everyone’s eye. The machete whirled right through J.T.’s neck. A red river spread across his slit throat. For once, J.T. went silent. He dropped the wolf and grasped at the fatal wound. A fountain of blood poured out his mouth. The dead pup hit the felt. Its soft thud caused chips to collapse. Bits of its old flesh fragmented upon impact. The decomposing smell somehow hit new highs... “My Gris-Gris!” the Cajun screamed J.T. landed in his chair. His body convulsing in a painful rhythm. His death slow and steady. Blood now spewed all across table eight. David and I exchanged frightened looks. Disgusted, Trent moved his seat further away. Trying to avoid J.T.’s gore. “Seat open on eight!” the dealer hollered out of instinct. “Give us the fucking money!” a Southern drawl demanded. The dealer went quiet quick. So did the rest of us. The rush of fear spread throughout the game. All of us stared at the three men standing over us. Each of them wore black suits. Their faces disguised by straw hats and green bandanas. The leader waved a long machete around. J.T.’s blood adding decorative crimson to the sharp blade. The other two robbers carried pistols. Without hesitation, they scooped up all the hundred dollar bills. The literal blood money. The Cajun man reached for the wolf. “Lemme get my Loup Garou!” With a harsh shove, the leader pushed him back in his seat. “Sorry, buddy!” In tears, the Cajun looked toward the floor. His voice got lower but his words remained constant. Back to chanting. A hush lingered on table eight. All thanks to J.T. going completely still. Using his machete, the leader motioned his partners toward the clerk. “Go get the fucking money!” They did as they were told. In a panic, the clerk opened the registers. “Please! Don’t shoot me!” she cried The leader snatched the baby wolf. I sensed a wicked smile behind that bandana. “This must be your good luck charm.” He faced the Cajun. Holding up the corpse as if it were a pathetic trophy. “Is this shit how you won all the time?” “Drop your weapons!” we heard someone shout. Footsteps stormed behind us. We turned just in time to see the security guard leading several armed officers inside the poker room. Without hesitation, a cop fired. And not a warning shot either. The bullet blew the leader’s brains out. Blood and gray matter sprayed over us. Courtesy of The IP. “Goddammit!” the dealer shouted. Screams formed our soundtrack. Several players jumped up. “Stay where you are!” the guard commanded. The leader collapsed on to the table. More grue covered the felt. The leader’s dead hands dropped both the machete and amulet. The cops came rushing forward. “Don’t move!” an officer screamed. “Sit the fuck down!” The other players got back in their seats. Together, we formed a gruesome congregation. Each of us covered in blood. J.T.’s corpse seated as if he were ready to play. Table eight a poker game from Hell. Eager to keep up with the real cops, the security guard descended upon us. He cringed at the smell. “Jesus Christ!” Then the wolf caught his eye. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you!” Trent warned him. “What the Hell’s this...” the guard said. He snatched the dead pup. Dusty flesh and dry blood stuck to his fingertips. Instantly, several shots rang in the new year and the guard’s brutal death. Bullets obliterated his face into oblivion. In the chilly room, the gunfire left us all coated in another layer of crimson. The security guard fell to the floor, motionless. Gaping holes leaked blood from his head. The baby wolf still clasped in his tight grip. David downed his beer. The now-red Corona didn’t bother him at this point... Behind us, I saw the cops apprehend the other two robbers. The lingering fear made me shiver. The gang could’ve shot any one of us… but deep down, I knew why they only killed the guard. And why they immediately surrendered afterward. I looked on at the dead wolf. Its baby blues remained fixated on me. Tempting me to touch. Its mummified body the prettiest corpse in this poker room’s collection. “Shit, I ain’t touching it!” I heard David say. Weary, Trent stood up and pushed his seat back. “Fuck it!” Blood dripping off his beard and jacket, he looked toward the nervous clerk. Pointed down at his ridiculous chip stack. Even at the pieces of flesh stuck to them. “I’m cashing out!” 14
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