Gambling Hell in No-Time
Flash Fiction
This is the opening passage to my forthcoming acid western novella, GAMBLING HELL IN NO TIME, coming soon.
The law is hell law. And we’re its keepers. Hells are what the squares and holy rollers call gambling halls. Gambling hells. I guess they thought that was clever. It suits us nonetheless.
Us is me and my associate Viktor Clementine. He’s a Russian and I don’t know what he’s doing in these parts but I never got ‘round to asking. All I know is he’s a long way from home and he likes it fine. We don’t talk much other than arguing over when it is. I mean, the year. I tell him it’s 1939 and we’re on the brink of a second world war. He tells me it’s 1918 and the first one’s barely ended. Meanwhile, this whole damn hell thinks it’s 1855 and there are whispers of civil war in the air. Which doesn’t seem likely but the place is packed with miners who spend all day in the hills pullin’ gold out of the earth and they got bags of dust to prove it and that’s the currency ‘round here. So who are we to argue? I’m just grateful for the work. Whatever the year, it’s war all around.
Anyway, Clem — I call him Clem ‘cuz Victor is my brother’s name but with a “c” instead of a “k” and I hate the sonofabitch — had earlier that evening smoked opium with his favorite shady lady Juanita Springs and his reaction time was rather stalled. That and he had no juice in his sack. Juanita got it all and what was left of his gold too. These are bad things when you’re hired to keep the riffraff down in a hell where riffraff was the order of the day.
Well, it was at the roulette table where our attention was needed. And the roulette was the Russian kind. If the Reds got anything right that was it. These bastards sure do love them some Russian roulette. Not the most patriotic game to play during wartime but these gamblers sure know how to put nationalism on the back burner. Besides, it’s In GO(L)D We Trust ‘round here.
So now we got this problem with a gentlemen at the Russian roulette table who’s picked up the gun and is waving it around the table, threatening to shoot the dealer. The dealer sits there cool as cactus water. He’d have a real good poker face except he never plays poker he just deals the cards. It’s not his job to wrangle this bad boy, anyway, it’s our job.
The problem was that this bad boy is Eddie “The Bull” Bullard. The man is big as a mountain, so big that these miners probably have thought about how much gold they could mine from him if they tried. He’s fast as a coyote too. He killed two men this week alone just outside in the street.
“You ain’t supposed to play with pistols, buster. Not if ain’t part of the game.”
The Bull turns the pistol on me. “Ain’t no damn law ‘round here!”
With numb fingers and a big, stupid smile on his face, Clem struggles to cock the hammer back on his .44.
“Well, whatdya waitin’ for, Clem? Aren’tcha gonna shoot the bastard?”
Clem’s the faster gun of the two of us and there was no way I was gonna get the better of this bad boy. But I know he only has one bullet in that gun. And I know The Bull has got a big head. He believes his own local legend. And I says, “O.K., boy. You like gamblin’? You like shootin’? You like playin’ with pistols?” I remove my hat and I pick up a shot of rye and balance it on my dirty, sweaty head. “I bet you you can’t shoot this shot glass clean off the top of my head.”
“Yeah? What do I get out of it?” The Bull slurs.
“You get to prove to alllll these folks watchin’ that you’re half as good as they say you are. But if you lose, and I fall dead right here, then everyone will talk about what a lousy shot that Bull really is and you’ll have to find some other gold town to gamble in.”
I saw the hell come to life in his eyes and doesn’t hesitate, takes aim, and fires the shot glass clean off my head. The crowd cheers.
Then I draw my .45 and shoot The Bull straight through one eye. Blood and brain all over the dealer. Bastard was dead before he hit the floor. The crowd stops cheering.
“Anyone else wanna play with pistols?”
And everyone real quick-like turns back to their cards and their chips and their bags of gold ‘cuz in the end that’s what really matters.
“Don’t worry, Clem. I got him.”
Well, it’s like I say. The law is hell law. And we’re its keepers.
