Dead Man's Hand by Peter
It was a dark and stormy night. As I sat on the couch hoping the storm would pass, I heard a loud noise and jumped. What could it be I thought? Maybe the captain hit a gator or some other debris floating in the Big Muddy. Occupational hazard for Mississippi river boats at night, I supposed. I shrugged it off as no alarms sounded and the boat paddled on its way. I picked up my H.P. Lovecraft novel and continued reading the adventures of Cthulhu and hoped something like that did not exist, especially considering my current location. Why did I pick this book to read on a water-borne excursion anyway? Next time it is zombie genre for sure! They cannot swim, as far as I know.
I just started relaxing again, as was my aim for this trip, a little R and R away from my occupation as the superintendent of a major metropolitan prison, when a knock came upon my door.
“Come in”, I called. A porter opened the door, stepped in and said, “Sorry to bother you Mr. Lemond, but a gentleman is requesting you to play some poker with him.”
“Me? Now?”, I asked quizzically.
“Yes sir. Shall I tell him you have retired for the night?”
I pondered his question for a moment then decided, “No, I’ll play. I’ll be there in 15 minutes tell him.”
“Thank you, sir. For disturbing you so late, I have been authorized to comp you a drink.”
“Excellent porter! Your finest martini please.”
“Yes sir. See you in 15 minutes and good luck.”
I got dressed, walked to the poker room and found my caller sitting at a table with the porter next to him. Our eyes met and he stood up extending his right hand. I shook it and almost got frost bite his hand was so cold!
“Mr. Lemond, a pleasure to meet you. I am Monsieur D’ath.” His breath raspy, skin pale all six feet of it, he was very creepy dressed in a long, black cloak and not at all familiar to me.
“Are we acquaintances?” I asked as we sat down at the table.
“Yes and no. I have been through your prison on occasion.”
“Ah. Same church different pew?”
He smiled a blood-chilling smile, “Yes. Something like that.”
I sipped my martini as he dealt the first hand, the porter having slipped away leaving only us gentlemen to our game.
“During my time through your jail I heard you played poker with the inmates.” Monsieur D’ath rasped.
I looked at my hand-a pair of aces and 3 discards, “Yes I did, never for money though.” I discarded and was replenished.
“No, but you played for souls though.” He grinned a ghoulish grin. He must have been referring to the times the inmates challenged me and placed their sentences into the pot.
I raised an eyebrow, “That’s your opinion. They were not forced to play and if they could not pay the stakes, they should not have bet.” He laid down his hand-full house kings over queens.
“By the way what are our stakes?” I asked. I flipped over my cards, both black aces, both black eights and a queen of spades kicker. The proverbial “dead man’s hand”.
“We are playing for souls too.” He extended his right hand again but this time it was all bone, as if the flesh had fallen off. Likewise, his face was no longer a face but simply a skull with maggots crawling out of the eye holes. His touch turned my blood literally to ice, my heart stopped pumping as simultaneously my brain exploded inside my skull, which fell to the table and spilled my martini all over the cards.
Monsieur D’ath rose from the table, floated out the door as if suspended on air and into the night disappearing with a loud bang like the lid slamming down on a coffin.
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