Where’s my seven shot six shooter?

The ten of clubs, now this is going to get real dangerous real quick. Wyatt’s luck was running hot, real hot, but sometimes being this lucky got a man a stomach full of lead. No one was going to believe him and it would take just one accusation of cheating and this was all going to hell. Wyatt looked up from his cards and slowly took in his surroundings, paying special interest to any potential exits. A slow blink and a check of his cards showed the royal flush sitting prettily in his grubby little fingers. It was unbeatable, the best possible hand, but that might not be enough for this game, the six shooter on his right hip may be his best next play. Where was the trouble coming from? Just about any bloody where he’d bled all 3 of the other players dry and any one of them was a possible killer.

Across the table sat the local thug Charles Craddock, a brute of a man. Well over six feet tall and built like a bison his physical stature was far scarier than his poker skills. Well over half the stack of money that sat before Wyatt came into the saloon in Charlie’s wallet, but a fool and his money were easily parted. The thing you notice about Charlie wasn’t his size or even the strange mismatch of Indian and prospector clothes he wore, it was the smell. The stench defied belief, it smelt like the coyote skins he was wearing had been ripped from a rotting carcass sometime last summer, dipped in horses piss and then been hung from his shoulders ever since. No one said anything because his temper was shorter than a rattle snakes left leg and he seemed to resolve every argument he ever had with one of the two pearl handed pistols that hung either side of his fat gut.

On my right was Seymour Close the local undertaker, tall, thin with a pasty complexion, if anyone looked like an undertaker it was Seymour. Dressed all in black Seymour didn’t have any obvious signs of a weapon, but early in the evening Wyatt had caught a glimpse of what looked like a pin fire pistol in his jacket pocket. His coat had flapped open as he groped one of the bars' working girls. The grope had earned him a slap as even working girls had standards. Seymour was a slimy, cretinous letch who had a reputation of sexual depravity. He was also rumoured to sometimes personally drum up trade when times were hard. His poker was decidedly average.

 And that left Clifton Boodabaker, the local business big cheese. Now Clifton would definitely do what ever it took to win and the talk on the street was that he often did. By far the richest man in town, Clifton's sharp city suit, silver topped cane and bowler hat were testament to that fact. Clifton enjoyed the finer things in life, but today luck was something he hadn’t enjoyed, his had been retched. Wyatt had quite quickly put a sizable dent in his cash flow projections. Rich people liked losing money even less than those that couldn’t afford to lose it. His mood was vile; the size of the veins on his neck gave that away, even more than the way he always coughed when he was bluffing. The worst tell Wyatt had ever seen.

So what to do, how to get out of this alive, there was no way he was throwing this hand away. Okay something blatant and obvious seemed in order, an error that everyone would spot. Everyone would fold their hands, he could muck his cards and everyone would walk away alive. A short pause for dramatic effect, “$500” Wyatt declared. Seymour whistled, nothing from the other two. He felt that would be too rich, no one would go for that and he didn’t have to die in this flea bitten frontier saloon bar. It was a dump and not worth a dime all except for Mary Lou, she was always worth a visit. Worth every penny. Two folds then nothing, come on Seymour he thought, don’t be a pratt. The silence seemed to drag on for ever and just as Wyatt thought he was scot free it came “Call”.

 Shit.

Anyway back to reality, Friday was rubbish, seemed like someone had injected concrete into my thighs and I was walking like I’d broken my arse. The roads were crap, work was a pain, we won at cricket which was good, but I only got 1 run which was bad. Saturday my legs were worse, seven miles seems even more stupid now. Plus I couldn’t walk down the stairs. I got wet watching football, my back door cracked (not a euphemism), I’ve got to pay the Barclaycard and West Ham conceded the winning goal in the 88^th minute. All in all a decidedly average kind of start to the weekend, but then I do average pretty well so that’s life I suppose. I hope I win the lottery tonight, maybe I’ll remember to buy a ticket this week.