An Aye for an Aye

The candlelight reflected off the old man's eye and the boy's look suddenly changed.

“What's wrong with your eye?” the boy asked.

“Gimme' ma' beer,” the old man growled.

The boy dropped the mug and ran off. The old man drank, and continued to drink. For two hours, he sat in the corner and sipped while the boy placed the mugs on the table and slinked away.

After the hands of the clocked marched past midnight and the tavern emptied, the old man grabbed the boy by the wrist.

“What's y'er name, boy?”

“Silo,”

“Ye' want ta' hear about me eye, Silo?”

The boy nodded and the old man grinned.

“It was a long time ago...”

***

I rubbed my chin and looked at the captain.

“Are ye sure we should take this one?” I said.

“Quiet,” the captain said. He pressed his heel into the lass' bosom. She went all still. She couldn't move or talk from fear.

“Now, lass, tell me where the doubloons are,”

The young woman pointed at the poop door.

“Go, ye rat,” the captain told me.

“Are ye sure?”

“Yes, ye squiffy,” The captain barked.

The woman whimpered and looked at me with the sea's own eyes.

“Do something,” her eyes seemed to tell me, but I stepped through the door. A chest sat against the wall of the cabin with an iron lock hanging off the clasp.

“Ye find it?” The captain yelled.

“It's locked,”

“Well unlock it!”

So I got thinking about what he could open the chest with, and that lead to me thinking about whether or not I liked the captain. I thought I didn't. I had no problem with steelin'. I was a pirate after all, but the captain just seemed mean in general, and then there was how the captain be treatin' the lass. It wasn't civil.

When I opened the poop door, the captain was forcin' a kiss on the lass. I felt rage boil up inside me like a very swells that sink ships.

“Ah, matey,” the captain said. He pushed the lass' face to the deck. “Did ye get the chest open?”

“No,” the first mate said. The sun shined off my knife.

“Ah, so it's bein' that, is it?” the captain said. He drew his sword.

“I think this'll be unfair for ye,” the captain said.

“Ye've ne'er been concerned wi' fair,” the first mate said.

“Right ye are,” the captain said.

Then the captain's cutlass flashed, and the fight started. It seemed we fought for days, knife on sword, with neither takin' a wound, but that couldn't last.

“Why are ye fighten' me?” the captain asked.

I caught the captains blade and pinned it to the mast.

“Because I'm a man, and yer a monster, and it's a man's duty to fight monsters.”

The captain's mouth broke into an evil grin.

“Duty's a squiffy's word.”

“Than call me a squiffy.”

The captain's grin widened as he dropped his cutlass and jammed his thumb into my eye.

“Aye squiffy,” he said.

Something crunched deep in my head, and pain shot through my skull like a cannon ball. I screamed like hurricane winds, but the captain pressed harder. I could barely control my limbs, but then the captain stopped and stumbled backward holdin' his gut.

“I gut yer eye,” the captain said.

A red stain spread through his shirt and he staggered back.

“Aye,” I said. He wiped blood from his face. “But I gut yer gut.”

“Aye, squiffy,” the captain said.

Then he tumbled over the side and splashed into the drink.

***

The old man stared into the bottom of his mug.

“And then what happened?” Silo said.

The old man shook off his daze.

“And then I talked to the woman. She was a messenger for the crown. She opened the chest for me, and showed me the booty.”

Now the tavern was empty.

“And then what?”

The old man slid his mug across the table.

“She gave me the treasure.”

“What?”

“She was a messenger. She cared not a wink about the doubloons.”

“And then?”

The old man smiled.

“And then she kissed me and sent me on my way.”

So that's how you lost your eye?”

“Aye,”

Silo picked up the old man's mug and put it on a tray.

“I don't believe you,”

The old man shrugged.

“The night be over, huh?”

Silo nodded.

“Then I should pay up.”

The old man pulled something from a pouch and dropped it on the tray, and the boy's jaw fell just as fast. There it was, a gold doubloon with the royal crest. Silo stared at it while the old man stood.

“G'night, Silo,” the old man said.

And the boy stayed silent as the old man walked out.

Evil in Mind

When Michael woke up, his head pounded. The concrete, cold, wet and sticky, felt good against his head, but something stank of copper—something familiar, but he couldn't place it.

“Where am I?” Michael said. He flopped on to his back.

Night pressed itself over the suburban sprawl. Orange light formed a line on asphalt and tires buzzed overhead. Michael lay on a concrete incline, and his beige Volvo sat on the side of the road with its hazard lights pulsing, and the passenger-side door open.

“How did I get here?” He said. Another car buzzed on the highway overhead, and Michael swore he heard a chuckle—the dark kind.

Michael rubbed his face and felt something smear across his skin. He swung his hand away and the coppery stench invaded his nose.

“What is that?” he asked.

He shook his head and pushed himself up. His hand slipped on the concrete and he tumbled to the bottom of the slope face first. His forehead smacked asphalt and a new shock of pain fired through his head.

“Am I drunk?” He said. He grabbed his head. He hadn't been drinking, he didn't think. He wasn't sure.

Michael pulled himself up by the hood of his car. He didn't feel drunk.

He shut the passenger door and looked around. A dark streak marked his path down the concrete, and a sign down the road declared “welcome to Levi.” His clothes stuck to him. He pulled at a wet spot on his shirt and it sucked at his skin, but the orange light drowned out the stain's color.

“Ugh, I'm filthy,” he said.

He got into the car and stared at the sign.

“What am I doing in Levi?”

He strained to remember.

“I think I visited Dad earlier,” he said. “I must be going to see Mom. I don't know anyone else in Levi.”

He torqued the keys in the ignition and the car kicked to life. Over the rumble of the engine, he swore he heard someone say “yes” with greed.

Michael snapped his head around.

“Who said that?” He said.

No answer.

“Am I losing it?” Michael asked himself.

He pressed the gas and puttered into Levi.

***

An old man in Burlap robes grabbed Michael's arm on the sidewalk.

“You!” The old man yelled. He stared at Michael with wild eyes and wild hair.

“I don’t have any change right now,” Michael stammered.

The old man laughed darkly.

“Heh heh heh. I don’t need your money,” The old man said. His voice sounded like a coffin's creek.

“I want to ask you some questions.”

“I’m really busy right now. My lunch break is over. I have to get back to work,” Michael said. He pulled toward mirror-faced tower, but the old man held tight.

“It will only take a moment,” The old man said.

“Okay,” Michael said. “Just let go of my arm.”

The old man released.

“Would you be a man of family?” He asked.

“Umm… yes. I’m married and have two kids if that’s what you mean.”

The old man grinned. “Good. Good, but tell me, are your parents still alive?”

“Yes,” Michael said. His palms sweat and he shifted from foot to foot.

“One last question. What’s your name?” The old man said. He grinned with brown teeth.

“Michael,” he said.

“You're full name,” the old man said.

“Michael John Gray.”

***

“Oh, it’s you,” John said.

He lay on the couch watching the glow of the TV. A news anchor chattered about a murder in the inner city. His walker waited for him by the reclining chair.

“It’s nice to see you,” John said. He smiled and sat up. Dust stirred and mixed with the stink of old cigars, body odor, and air fresheners.

His visitor thumped forward with heavy steps and a grin on his face.

“Something wrong?” John asked. He shut the TV off and dropped the remote on the table. The visitor shambled closer.

“What’s wrong with your eyes? Why are you so quiet?” John said.

He stood up, but his legs wobbled. He stumbled a step toward his walker.

“Is everything alright?” John said.

The visitor stood still, breathing lightly, slowly, and deliberately.

“How did your eyes get that color?” John said.

He reached for the walker, but the visitor snatched it away.

“Stop playing with my walker,” John said.

The visitor lifted the walker above his head.

“What are you doing?” John said.

Then the visitor cracked the walker across John's face and he fell forever silent.

***

The pounding at the door made the night worker jump and drop a box of screws. The box slammed on the floor and a hand full of screws jingled out. The night worker picked it up and continued his sorting. One inch screws went in one place, two inch screws in another, and so on.

The pounding at the door intensified.

“This guy’s persistent,” The worker said. He stepped back and checked the door. He dropped the screws again.

“Jesus!” The worker said. He rushed toward the glass door. Outside, a man in bloody clothes rattled the handle.

“LET ME IN!” Michael shouted. The worker fumbled with the deadbolt while he stared at Michael's blood-caked hair. His thumb caught, the lever spun, and Michael burst in.

“What happened to you?”

“It’s in my head! It’s in my head!” Michael shouted.

“What's in your head?” The worker said.

Michael shook his head.

“I need three hundred feet of strong metal wire,” The worker stared at the slash shaped wound on the side of Michael’s head. It started as a small semi-circle, and then traveled up in a narrowing path to the top of his skull.

“Store’s closed, I can’t sell you anything,” The worker said. “Let me get the first aid kit for you.”

“Forget the first aid kit,” Michael said “I need that wire, right now.”

The worker scrambled behind the register and opened a cabinet. The hinges screamed, and he pulled out the first aid kit. It slammed and chattered as it hit the counter.

“Are you listening to me? Don’t worry about the blood. Just get me the wire.” Michael said.

The worker pulled out a roll of gauze and some medical tape.

“We’ve got to get you patched up and to the hospital.”

The worker unrolled the gauze, but he stopped when he heard an ominous click. Michael leveled a revolver at him.

“I told you not to worry about the wound. Get me three hundred feet of strong metal wire. Now.”

***

Michael felt damp cloth on his face and scissors in his hand. He flipped himself belly up and looked around. He saw cloth, suits and dresses on hangers, and a red streak that disappeared under a door.

“What the hell?” He said.

Then he looked at the scissors. Blood coated the blade up to the handle. He threw them with a spasm and the clacked against the wall

“Oh god,”

Then he heard a voice. It was quiet and sinister.

“Not quite,” it said.

“Who's there?” Michael asked, but he heard only forbidding silence.

Michael swallowed and stood up. He smelled blood and guilt all over himself.

His feet shuffled across the floor as he followed the streak. He clicked the door open and the hinges screamed.

His eyes followed the streak across the tile to a shoe, the shoe to a foot, the foot to a body, and the body to the face of his mother. A ragged hole tore her throat apart and her eyes froze open in horror.

Michael lurched forward and vomited a gut full of terrible stink hard knowledge.

“Oh Jesus,” Michael said.

A dark chuckle rolled through the world. Michael stopped. He sat on the tile and held his temples.

“It's in my head,” he said.

***

Michael wrapped the wire around the tree four times and tied it off. He threw the coil on the ground and threaded the other end into the space between the window and the top of the car door.

“Put the wire down,” the voice said. “Let's check on your children.”

Michael shook his head.

“No.”

He got in the car and wrapped the wire around his neck twice and tied a knot. Then he hit the gas.

The engine roared. The tires spun and the beige Volvo took off.

The wire unwound, cutting the air with whistling sounds before snapping taught. The loop from Michael’s end gouged the paint on his car, then whipped out the window, still tied.

A minute later, the car drifted off the road to the right, collided with a tree. The engine stalled and blood spattered the windows like inkblots.

#

Michael Gray slid open the bottom drawer of the dresser next to his bed. He found a box under the clutter of crinkled receipts and canceled checks, and flipped it open. A long nosed revolver lay inside.

He popped the cylinder out and checked for bullets. Bullets plugged all six chambers. Slapped it shut and a light on the other side of the bed clicked on.

“Honey?” His wife said.

“Kill her,” The voice said. “You've always wanted to.”

“What are you doing honey?” His wife asked. She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

“It's in my head,” Michael said. His voice came in strained gasps.He stood up, put the revolver muzzle to his temple.

“Stop,” the voice said.

Michael shook his head.

“I’m sorry honey. I love you.” Michael said. His wife froze in voiceless shock.

As he pulled the trigger, the force in his head pulled his arm. The gun pointed higher, and bullet glanced off the skull. It ripped through his skin and knocked Michael unconscious. Just before everything went black, Michael head a second gunshot and a scream.

***

A sound in the front of the store startled Mrs. Gray and she cut to deep into the fabric. She stepped out of the back to investigate. A man stood on the other side of the counter with blood on his shirt and face. For a moment, she just stared at him.

“Michael?” She asked.

She put her scissors down on the counter. Michael nodded.

“Was I supposed to come see you?”

“What happened to you?”

Michael heard someone hiss “scissors...”

Michael spun and checked the room. It was just him and his mother.

“Is there anyone else in the back?”

His mother glanced through the open door.

“No,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Were you expecting me?”

“No,” his mother said. “What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

“I don't know. I think I'm fine.”

“Where did all that blood come from?”

Michael pulled at his clothes. The blood still stuck to him.

“I don’t know. I just woke up this way.”

Mrs. Gray inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she said. “What's the last thing you remember?”

Michael grabbed his head and pinched his eyes shut. “I dropped by the house to see Dad.”

Both went quiet.

“Let me call Dad. Maybe he can help.” Mrs. Gray suggested. Michael nodded. Mrs. Gray dialed. A tense silence later she put the phone down.

“No answer.” She said.

Michael felt a shiver in his spine.

“I don’t feel so good,” Michael said.

“You should rest,” she said.

Michael heard a chuckle in a dark corner. He looked around, but still only saw his mother.

“I don't know if that's a good idea.”

Mrs. Gray pulled a bottle of sleeping pills out of her purse.

“Here,” she said. “Take two of these. A little sleep will be good for you.”

“Are you sure?” he said.

Mrs. Gray nodded. Michael held out his hand and she shook two pills into. He swallowed them without water.

“Now, just sit down,” She said.

Michael slumped against the counter. His mother paced, and each clack of her heel brought Michael closer to sleep. He thought he heard laughter somewhere, but he ignored it.

Mrs. Gray paced. She watched saw her son’s eyes drop and his body go limp. We his body was still, she picked up the phone and dialed a nine and paused. She held her finger above the one, and then she saw her son stand up and glare at her. She put the receiver down.

“How did your eyes get so red?” She asked.

Her son grinned and grabbed the scissors. She screamed before the first stab, but it gashed through her larynx. She tried to scream again, but only gurgled.

***

The old man in burlap hunched over a leather book with age-yellowed pages. He flipped pages and smiled darkly.

Then he stood and lit a candle in the middle of the room. It burned black and spat thick smoke. The old shut his eyes and spoke.

“Kazik'ra. I found the subject you need. A good man with a wife, children, and living parents. Use his body to kill them and you can return to this plane.”

The old opened his eyes. They they twinkled red in the candlelight.

“He lives in this city. His name is Michael John Gray. Take him as my gift.”

***

The cruiser pulled up to the drive through window.

“Two large coffees?” The clerk asked.

“Yeah,” Officer Coolidge said. The clerk disappeared back into the shop. Officer McNealson pulled a five dollar bill out of his wallet. The clerk came, took the money, and gave McNealson the coffee. McNealson passed one to Coolidge and pulled away.

“You heard anything about the Gray case?” McNealson asked. Coolidge sipped his coffee.

“Nothing’s happened for the past two months. They’re coming off protection.” “You think they're safe?” McNealson asked.

“Yeah I think they are. All those murders happened within twelve hours of each other. Nothing’s happened for two months. They’re safe.”

McNealson nodded. “You have to wonder what happened to that murderer though. How did he take Gray’s head off in the car like that?”

“I don’t know,” Officer Coolidge said.

***

Fifty miles away, an old man dressed in burlap grabbed a man in a shirt and tie on the sidewalk.

“I don’t have any money,” The man in the tie said.

“I don’t need your money,” The old man grinned. His voice sounded like the creek of a coffin.

“Can I ask you some questions?”

Ed's Cloud

Ed sits on the bathroom floor and wraps his arms around his stomach. The battle's in late rounds, and the monsters are getting tired, but the fight continues.

“Nice of Ryan to take Andrea to get her stuff,” Sandy says. She rubs Ed's head, and Ed nods. It was nice of him, a point in his favor.

“Are you okay?” she asks. Ed thinks of another wrinkle: his adopted mother found out he's looking for his birth parents. She slims his chance of finding someone to cosign his loans.

“Yeah,” he says, “not really, but yeah.”

He takes her hand, kisses the back of it. He sucks on her index finger and Sandy groans.

“That was the first thing you said when you saw this shower,” she says “that you'd like to have sex in it.” She sucks on his ear. He kisses her neck, and then his stomach clenches again. He wrenches forward.

“Not yet,” he says.

***

Ed touches water streaming out of the shower head. Hot. Hot and good. Steam billows through the stall, and for a moment Ed feels like a porn star. He presses Sandy to the wall, her legs wrap around him, and he thrusts.

He feels the sexual high coming. Sandy moans and undulates against him, but then a knock comes from the door. Ed pauses. It sounds like thunder from his cloud.

“Ed?” Andrea calls from outside.

“What?” Ed says.

“Dana needs to use the shower so...”

“What?” Sandy says.

“Fuck!” Ed yells.

***

“At least you succeeded at one goal today,” Ryan says. His hair tangles to one side, and frizzy knots bunch Andrea's head. Ed's face twitches. Point against Ryan.

“No we didn't,” Sandy says.

“What?” Andrea says. Ed rubs his face.

“We didn't finish...”

Andrea's jaw drops.

“You were in there for an hour and a half!” she says.

“I thought you were working on three or four,” Ryan says. Another point against him. Ed shakes his head. Sandy kisses his neck.

“What were you doing in there?” Andrea asks.

“We were talking.” Sandy says. She wraps herself around Ed and nibbles his ear. Ryan watches Sandy crawl all over Ed. Her hands slip inside his shirt.

“Ugh, we still have to go shopping, don't we?” She asks.

Andrea shoots up a finger, then lets it sink.

“Yeah,” she says, “I need to finish my Christmas shopping today. I can't get it done at home.”

Ed leans forward and grabs a shoe. Frustration plays across his face.

“Did you two need to do any shopping?” Ryan asks. Ed shakes his head.

“We were going to tag along,” Sandy says. “We didn't need anything.”

“What are you thinking?” Andrea asks.

“Why don't you and me go into town, and they can stay here?” He says.

Ed and Sandy look at each other. Both nod. Point in Ryan's favor.

“Would that be okay with you?” Ed asks Andrea. She nods.

“That would be great then.” He says.

Ryan and Andrea shuffle their coats on.

“Finish this time,” Ryan says, and then closes the door behind him.

***

When his phone rings, Ed grunts. The ring tone seems so far away, but it drifts closer. Something under him moves and familiar lips kiss his neck.

The phone rings again and he remembers where he is.

“I should probably get that,” he says.

“Our time's up,” she says.

Ed snuggles in and kisses Sandy's neck. The rain blew over, and the clouds parted for a little while.

***

The car door thunks closed and Andrea shuffles oat with the last bag. Ryan loads it into the trunk and closes it. Ed stares though the windshield, only dimly aware and Ryan's hugging Andrea goodbye.

Somewhere out in the night, the black cloud's shit storm waits for him, but for the moment he smiles. He approved of his friend's new boy, and got sexed to his fill, even if it wasn't in that shower.

“You okay?” Sandy asks. She kisses his cheek from the driver's seat. He breaks his daze and looks at her, the one thing the black cloud hasn't fouled.

“Yeah I'm okay,” he says, “I won today, didn't I?” Sandy kisses him again. He smiles, and she smiles as well.

“I guess you did,”

Then she steps on the gas and the house pulls away into the night. Before long they're cruising down a sea of red lights while a black cloud thunders beyond the horizon. Tomorrow will bring more gut pain and maybe another wrecked car, but at least Ed had today.

Price of Protection

2.

By the time the congregation finished their prayer and raised their heads, Bradon had watched the girl's last death spasm. Now her body stilled, her blood flowed into the drain, and Councilor Walker mounted the platform.

He gazed at the young girl for a long time. The congregation murmured about how compassionate he was. Bradon wasn't so sure. He thought he saw a smile.

The councilor looked back to the crowd sad-faced and spoke.

“To see this young girl die pains me,” Walker said.

The crowd muttered agreement.

“In a perfect world, we wouldn't need this, but unfortunately we require protection, and protection requires sacrifice.”

The crowd nodded.

Then Councilor Walker cleared his throat and cited the Laws section of the Holy Book that Councilor Herbert wrote. The wall would require another sacrifice before sunset the day of the next new moon. At the full moon, they would determine the subject—a prisoner if there happened to be one in the jail. If there wasn't, they would choose a group of five by lottery. From that five, the council would test their purity, and the least pure would take the platform.

“We must follow The Book,” Walker said. “Our forbearers knew better than us.”

And at all this, the congregation nodded, but Bradon grit his teeth. He knew he would see another youth dressed in rags in a month. It was always the poor.

“Is there a problem, Citizen Bradon?” Councilor Walker asked.

Bradon twisted his mouth, hesitated, and then stood. Rice put her hand on his arm.

“There is, Councilor Walker.”

The congregation turned toward Bradon.

“Sit!” Rice hissed. Bradon shrugged her off.

“No, Citizen Rice, let your brother speak.”

Rice sat. She twisted a handkerchief in her hands so hard her knuckles turned white.

“What is the problem, Citizen Bradon?” Councilor Walker asked.

Bradon set his teeth.

“Two things, Councilor Walker,” Bradon said. “First, do we still need the wall? A score of years have passed since the attack and...”

Bradon kept speaking, but he couldn't even hear himself anymore. A nervous shiver went through the crowd, and it shook out shouts of protest.

“Quiet,” Councilor Walker said. The crowd didn't hear. He raised his hands above his head, and little by little, they silenced. All the time, Walker smiled. He didn't show teeth, just a warm serpent's grin.

“I understand your thoughts, young Bradon, but you do not understand our enemy,” Walker said. “When they attacked our market, you were but a boy. Check your Holy Book. Councilor Herbert's chapter shows that they hate our way of life, and that hatred will not die. They will not negotiate.”

Bradon grit his teeth as the crowd hollered agreement. Councilor Walker silenced them again.

“You had a second question, citizen?”

When the the crowd turned to Bradon this time it felt like they turned on him.

“Yes, Councilor, I did,” he said. He pulled a long, hard breath and then spoke. “I noticed that todays sacrifice was poor, dressed in rags. Were not the last three as well? Why does it seem that all the sacrifices are poor?”

Silence.

The question hit the congregation like a blow to the stomach. Each looked like they had just discovered they forgot their clothes at home. A trickle of blood ran out of Rice's hands, and Councilor Walker looked sick.

Then the crowd broke. Some screamed at Bradon. Some screamed at Councilor Walker. Some screamed at each other. Some simply chewed their lips. Councilor Walker sneered at Bradon.

“Quiet,” he yelled. The crowed chattered on.

“Silence!” but they kept going. Councilor Walker's eyes blazed, and spittle burst forth when he yelled.

“By your mother's heart, shut your mouths!” He bellowed. And then the congregation shut up and turned to their councilor, who seethed against the backdrop of the thrice impaled girl.

“Bradon lies,” Councilor Walker yelled. “He's a—a...”

And Walker went quiet. He looked at the congregation, and they looked at him, wide-eyed and shocked. He closed his eyes, sucked a breath, and then that serpentine smile came back.

“What I mean to say is, your fellow citizen is mistaken. Not all of the sacrifices are poor. Don't you all remember when Advisor Luther's daughter submitted as a sacrifice?”

The townspeople nodded, and the shock dimmed.

“And perhaps there are more poor sacrificed, but wouldn't it stand to reason that they are furthest from God, and less pure? Isn't that what The Book tells us?”

And the congregation nodded more firmly. Their shock evaporated. He had them again, and his snake-smile showed it.

“Thank you,” Councilor Walker said. “The congregation is dismissed.”

3.

“How could you?” Rice said.

Bradon bowed his head and pushed through the crowd. Townfolk glared at him against the backdrop of the setting sun. Behind him, Councilor Walker waded through, shaking hands and smiling as he headed in Bradon's direction.

“Like I said the last five times, sister, Walker is lying to us.” Bradon said.

Rice slapped him. Her palm cracked against the flesh of his cheek. It left a streak of blood from her palm. People around stopped and stared. A few grinned smugly.

“Stop this,” Rice said.

She showed him her palm, raw and bleeding in the middle.

“Do you see this?” she said. “This is what you're doing to me. You keep speaking your silly ideas. I'm worried what's going to happen to you and me and our family.”

“But sister,” Bradon said, “can't you see that the last three sacrifices...”

He didn't finish. Councilor Walker spoke nearby.

“Dear Citizen Bradon,” he said, “what's happened to your cheek?”

He stepped out of the crowd and looked at Rice.

“Such violence,” he said.

“I'm sorry Councilor Walker,” Rice said. “I didn't mean to...”

But Councilor Walker laid his hand on her shoulder and Rice quieted.

“Don't worry, young lady. Everyone transgresses now and then.”

Rice curtsied. Bradon bit his tongue.

“Thank you, Councilor Walker,” she said.

And Walker's snake grin crept back.

“You're welcome child,” he said. “But if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to your brother in private, just to make sure there are no hard feelings.”

Rice blushed. Bradon's gaped.

“I don't think I'd like that,” he said.

“I insist,” Councilor Walker said.

Bradon took a good look at the man right then, and he saw something. The serpent grin still spread across his lips, but his eyes weren't smiling. They showed an expression of “don't defy me.”

“I'd still rather...” Bradon started. But he stopped. Rice glared at him, but he stopped because he heard armor clinking closer.

“Okay,” Bradon said.

“Good,” Councilor Walker said.

And Rice smiled.

4.

As soon as the door closed, Councilor Walker changed. While they strolled to his office, he chatted with Bradon, and greeted every citizen he passed with that smile, but now he fumed and stomped.

“What are you trying to do, Bradon?”

“I just thought that—” Bradon started.

“Shut up,” Councilor Walker said. “I don't want you to open your mouth unless I tell you to. Get it?”

Bradon considered his position. He remembered seeing two guards outside. Both outfitted in leather and armed with swords. Bradon nodded, but Councilor Walker wasn't paying attention by then.

“I don't appreciate your accusations, and I really don't appreciate you stirring dissent.” Councilor Walker said.

He stomped to a cabinet, opened it, and poured a glass of brown liquid that stank of liquor. He sipped, and by the time he swallowed, his smile came back.

“Tell me, Bradon, do you love your sister?”

5.

His brush with Councilor Walker didn't stop Bradon. He had to know more. He thought the library might help him.

The old books smelled musty—bitter almost, like a warning: let these lie, but Bradon read on. Before long he found a record of every citizen sacrificed to the alter in the last 20 years. The book only listed them by name, age and date. A mark showed which were prisoners, which were volunteers, and which were selected by lottery.

In an hour, Bradon reviewed the last ten years. He didn't need a guide. The family names told him all he needed. In 123 sacrifices, only 13 had been from anything above the poorest classes: eight volunteered at an old age, and four came from prison. That left Adviser Luther's daughter who got chosen by lottery at the beginning of Walker's reign.

He found what he was looking for. 90 percent of the sacrifices were poor, and the poor only made up 30 percent of the town's population. Evidence enough, Bradon thought. He put the books back and stepped out of the room, but froze in the lobby.

Councilor Walker sat in a chair next to the door. He didn't bother with the serpent-smile.

“Don't you take a hint?” Councilor Walker said.

“How...” Bradon started, but his words trailed off as he saw the librarian cower. Councilor Walker stood from his chair.

“Save it, Bradon,” Walker snapped. “I have eyes everywhere. And apparently you don't take hints, so we'll have to go with a clearer lesson.”

6.

After a week and a half, Councilor Walker hadn't done anything else, but now that he sat at temple, Bradon knew what was coming. His palms sweat, his chest felt tight, and for once, his lips actually served prayer.

Then it was time. Councilor Walker mounted the altar. Deacons had removed the body and polished the steel and granite so it sparkled in its own glow.

“The moon is full,” Councilor Walker said. “As you all know, that means we must choose a new sacrifice. We don't like to do it, but the marauders outside the wall would kill us if we gave them the chance, so The Book reminds us.”

As he spoke, a pair of deacons carried wooden box on a platform to the top of the altar. They set it before Councilor Walker and scurried away. Councilor Walker stuck his hand in the box. It rustled, and he pulled out a wooden disc.

“Arla, daughter of Morgan,” Councilor Walker said. A woman in a pew walked to the front of the room and stood in front of the altar.

Councilor Walker chose three more names and each lined up next to the last.

The whole time, Bradon clenched his pew.

“What's wrong with you, brother?” Rice asked.

Bradon looked away.

“I'm sorry, sister,” he said.

Councilor Walker dug into the box for the last time. The discs rumbled like a thunderstorm. Then Councilor Walker seized one.

“Rice, daughter of Kren,” Councilor Walker said.

Blood rushed in Bradon's ears, and the world turned red, but then he look at his sister and saw a curious thing. She smiled as she walked to the front of the room.

7.

Bradon wore a shepherd's cloak and waited outside the door. He didn't have much time. He just had to hope.

He knocked.

A moment later, the latch let go. A stooping old man looked out. He squinted for a long second before opening his mouth.

“I knew—” the old man said, but he fell into a coughing fit.

“Are you okay Adviser Luther?” Bradon asked.

Luther held a hand out.

“Don't call me by that title,” he wheezed. He coughed more. Bradon offered an arm, and Luther leaned on it and finished his cough.

“I knew you'd come,” he said. “Come in.”

Luther hobbled into the apartment and fell into a chair that seemed as unsteady as the man that sat in it. Bradon stepped in, clicked the door shut, and pushed his hood back.

“So you decided to oppose Councilor Walker, and what did it get you?” Luther said. He labored through every word.

Bradon sat in the chair opposite Luther's and stared wild-eyed.

“Adviser Luther—” he started.

“I told you not to call me by that title,” Luther said. “It's the wrong title anyway. Walker doesn't want people to advise him. He just wants the image. He makes all the decisions.”

“Sorry,” Bradon said. “Elder Luther. I need to ask you—”

“You need to ask me why he sacrifices the poor, and why he sacrificed my daughter,” Elder Luther said. “You know the answer, or you wouldn't be here. Yes, he's using the sacrifices to control the village. There you go. He sacrifices the poor because they don't pay him, and he sacrificed my daughter because I opposed him.”

Bradon looked up.

“You know,” he said.

“Of course I know,” Elder Luther said. “I'm old, half-dead even, but I'm not stupid. After your stance two weeks ago, Walker took you back to his office and warned you, but you kept on looking and now your sister's up for sacrifice. If you don't, it'll be your mother, your father, and your best friend.”

Bradon's jaw set.

“Why not just kill me?” Bradon said.

“He'd much rather beat you into submission.”

Bradon drew a long sigh. The weight of responsibility hung on his shoulders. Elder Luther went into another coughing fit. Bradon offered a hand, but Elder Luther waved him off and continued to sending hacking tremors through his chair. Finally, he weezed to a stop.

“Why did you come to me?” Elder Luther Asked.

“I thought you could help me,” Bradon said.

The elder laughed so hard he coughed.

“Me? Help you? I'm an old man. I have trouble opening my own door, and you want me to what? Rescue your sister? Take on Walker?”

“You know things.”

“I do, and I know that you can't fight the monster. It will only get worse. You'll wind up an old man with no loved ones who can only wish...”

Elder Luther trailed off. For a second, his eyes sparkled. Then his head and the hope in his face faded.

“Too late for that,” Elder Luther said. It was more to himself then to Bradon.

“Tell me how he managed to choose my sister—how he managed to choose your daughter.”

Elder Luther chuckled.

“You are a dumb one,” Luther said. “What are the two parts of the choosing ceremony?”

“The discs, and then the ritual of purity.”

“Right. Who sees the discs aside from Walker?”

Bradon's eyes shot open.

“No one.”

“Right. He can announce whatever name he wants to. Nobody checks them. The same goes for the ritual of purity. Who makes the announcement? Walker.”

Bradon sunk into his chair under the weight of new knowledge.

“If you want the real truth, Citizen, that altar never needed but the first sacrifice.” Elder Luther said.

Bradon sat straighter in his chair.

“What?”

“Yep. The ritual required one sacrifice—the blood of one of those to be kept out. Everyone else has been nothing but control.”

Elder Luther went quiet.

“Tell me more,” Bradon said.

Elder Luther gave Bradon a history lesson he couldn't find in the library. Herbert decided sacrificing prisoners would keep the people in line. He decided, for consistency, that he'd have to run all the sacrifices through the same two-hour long preparation rite as the first one. He was right about the crime reduction, but when his son took over there weren't many prisoners left. Elder Luther thought they should end it, but Walker wanted to keep on sacrificing.

Elder Luther threatened to tell the townspeople. Then Walker sacrificed his daughter.

Bradon listened intently, but his mind stuck on sundown.

“Do you still want to stop the sacrifices?” Bradon asked.

Edler Luther coughed.

“Child, I'm too old.”

“No. You just need to help me.”

8.

During the first two hours of Temple, a Deacon prepared Rice at the base of the altar. Another deacon lead the town in prayer. He sermonized and they prayed. All save Bradon and Elder Luther.

Elder Luther sat in the back with the other elders and strained his hands between coughing fits. Bradon sat in his family's spot and pawed at the empty place next to him.

When Rice finished her ritual, the Deacon took her away. An hour later Councilor Walker appeared near the front of the room.

It's time, Bradon thought.

The doors at the back of the hall opened, and Rice stepped in. The guards merely dressed her walk down the aisle.

Councilor Walker gazed over the crowd and spotted Bradon. That grin flashed across his face, but this time it dripped malice like Bradon had never seen. Bradon met the Councilor's eyes. He challenged the councilor with his stare.

Now Rice stood about half-way between the door and the altar. She made her way slowly.

As soon as she touched the bottom of the altar, Bradon burst from his seat.

“I order the ceremony to stop,” he yelled.

Rice turned. So did the guards, and the rest of the congregation.

“Brother...” Rice started. Councilor Walker held a hand to her and she silenced.

“Citizen Bradon,” Walker said, “I know you may not like me, but will you really defile your own sister's ceremony?”

“This shall not be my sister's ceremony,” Bradon said. He finally broke his gaze to raise his Holy Book. “Friends, if you would turn to Laws, Chapter seven, verse 12.”

Councilor Walker mouthed the chapter and verse. He blinked, and his expression turned to shock.

“Citizens,” Walker said. “surely you're not going to entertain the requests of this trouble maker.”

“I am only citing The Book,” Bradon said.

One by one, the congregation turned to the section Bradon indicated. Pages stopped rustling and then Bradon spoke.

“Here you'll see a law written when Councilor Herbert created the altar. It says that any citizen may, at any time, may replace another as a sacrifice.”

The crowd read and grunted agreement. Councilor Walker scowled at the front of the room. The townspeople looked at Bradon, not sure what to expect.

“I wish to replace my sister,” Bradon said.

Councilor Walker faked a smile.

“But, citizen,” he said, “your sister has already undergone the rites. They take time, and sunset will be approaching.”

“At any time,” Bradon said.

He snapped his book shut, and the sound echoed like thunder off the stone structure. Elder Luther smiled in his corner.

Councilor Walker sucked a long breath.

“Let me discuss the matter with my advisers,” he said, and he stepped through a door.

The whole room went quiet. A few townspeople looked at Bradon. He glanced at Elder Luther. “Now or never,” the look said. Then the whispers started.

“What's he doing?” one said.

“Is this his repentance?” another said. Another dozen darted past Bradon's ears.

Then the yell came from inside the room.

“...can't stop him?” Walker's muffled voice said. A moment later, he came out with his snake grin. His eyes weren't smiling.

“Well, Citizen, it appears you are right,” Walker said. Bradon could see a vein pulsing in the side of the councilor's head. The councilor looked at Rice.

“You can return to your family's pew. Your brother will take your place.”

He turned back to Bradon.

“If you can join me, we'll prepare you for the sacrifice.”

“Thank you Councilor,” Bradon said. He couldn't suppress his smile.

9.

Walker smiled and asked the deacon to give him a moment with Bradon. Walker watched the deacon leave and the door clicked shut. When he turned from, he scowled.

“I don't know what your game is,” Walker said. His voice stayed low, even, and evil. “but it's not going to work. You're going to die up there on that altar today, yes, but you're not saving anyone. Next week I'll arrest your family for not paying their tithes—that's a four month sentence. Long enough put them all on the docket.”

Bradon only turned to the councilor with a smile.

“You had better start the rites,” Bradon said. “You're wasting daylight.”

10.

When Bradon stepped through the doors in the back of the hall the sun hung low in the sky. It's light passed through the stained glass windows and bathed the congregation in red. It mixed strangely with the golden glow from the altar, and the combination unsettled the town.

Bradon could feel the tension in the room. Not once in his lifetime could he remember a sacrifice this close to sundown. Some had been delayed in the past, yes, but never this much.

He glanced at Elder Luther, who nodded, and took his first stately step down the aisle. Half way to the altar, the guard on the right jostled him.

“Get moving,” the guard said. Bradon only looked at him and grinned. He continued his slow pace. When his foot touched the bottom step, Elder Luther stood.

“I will replace the young man,” Elder Luther said. Then he fell into a coughing fit.

“What?” Councilor Walker said. The vein throbbed on the side of his head.

The elder held up a hand and finished his coughing.

“Citing Laws chapter twelve, verse seven, I wish to replace Bradon as the sacrifice.”

The crowd turned and murmured.

“You can't,” Councilor Walker said.

“Oh?” Elder Luther said, “you shall defy The Book?” The hall suddenly seemed a darker red.

“You are endangering your townspeople,” Councilor Walker said. “There's no time to perform the rites on another sacrifice. Sunset is almost here.”

At that the crowd exploded into a cacophony. Insults flew at Bradon and Elder Luther. Another coughing fit seized the old man, but he shook it off.

“Silence,” he boomed, “you are in no danger.”

“No danger?” Councilor Walker said. “Those barbarians out there—those that would destroy our way of life are not dangerous?”

“That's not what I'm talking about, and you know it,” Elder Luther said. “You silenced me once. I'm done being quiet.”

As the argument continued, Bradon stared at the window. Just a little longer, he thought.

“We shall leave it to the people,” Councilor Walker said. “We shall vote, with a show of hands. All in oppposed?”

The vein pulsed huge on the side of his head. A forrest of hands raised.

“The ayes have it,” Walker said. “Bradon, mount the—”

“I demand a secret ballot,” Elder Luther said.

Walker froze, then turned, slowly.

“What?”

“I demand a secret ballot, per town law, allowing the townspeople to vote without their neighbors knowing what their decision was.” Elder Luther said.

Walker's face turned redder than the light filtering through the stained windows. His lips smacked, and his mind ground away.

“I declare emergency executive override to overrule your request for secret ballots,” Walker said, but it was too late.

Half the congregation had already been watching the windows, knowing that the sun would set any moment. The other half saw when Bradon shouted “look at the sun!”

The flaming disc dipped below the horizon, and the town's collective eyes immediately shot to the altar. It's glow pulsed on without so much as a flicker.

“The altar never needed more than that first sacrifice,” Bradon said. “Walker and his father kept the sacrifice to keep us in line. They lied to you.”

The congregation boiled.

“They lie,” Councilor Walker yelled. “Any moment now, if we don't offer a sacrifice, the light, the wall...”

The crowd closed in on him, a giant mass of angry faces.

“If he believes it so much,” Elder Luther yelled, “let's sacrifice him!”

At that, the guards started. They pushed through the crowd toward the Councilor, who offered money and power to anyone that got him out. No one listened. The guards seized him and dragged him up the granite steps.

“Anything you want,” Councilor Walker said. “Stop this madness.”

By then, Bradon closed the first manacle around Walker's wrist.

Elder Luther wobbled to the front of the room. Bradon snapped on the remaining chains.

“I deem you a proper sacrifice to the cause of ending your reign.” Bradon said.

“You're all worms,” Councilor Walker barked. “Worthless. Week. Stupid. Worms. I hope—”

But he never finished the statement. Elder Luther, in the midst of a coughing fit, fell on the lever and metal spikes crashed through Walker's body.

11.

Elder Luther never recovered from his fall. Two days later, he died. Bradon spoke over his grave.

“Elder Luther gave his life for this village twice,” Bradon said. Once when Councilor Walker's pressure made him turn recluse, and once when he killed the monster.”

Bradon continued, framing Luther as a frustrated hero. He didn't know much about the man. He knew only the historical record, and the help he got from Luther in his last two weeks of life. Sadly, that was the most anyone knew of him, even the Elders.

“We should honor Elder Luther as a hero,” Bradon said, “and forever remember his last actions. Thank you.”

Bradon walked away. Citizens filed up to the open grave and dropped flowers in. The piled on the lid of the casket—a compost memorial.

Rice caught up to him away from the funeral. Bradon wiped his eyes.

“Brother,” she said, “are you still leaving?”

Bradon turned to her with red eyes and a runny nose. He nodded.

“Why?” Rice said. “They wanted to make you councilor.”

“No,” he said, “let the people decide for themselves.”

“But, brother, you still don't have to go.” Rice said.

Bradon wiped his nose and stared across the cemetery. Trees lined its boundary, the leading edge of a forest. Behind that lay the wall, and behind that?

“I need to find out what's out there,” he said. “We may be able to bring the wall down. We may be able to work with them.”

Rice sniffled.

“Brother,” she said. Bradon looked at his sister. Her eyes burned red.

“Be careful,” Rice said.

Bradon opened his arms and Rice fell into them. He hugged her with the fierce tenderness that only family can show.

“I will, sister,” Bradon said into her hair.

And then he walked on, across the field, and disappeared into the trees.

Rough Deal (1st revision)

The door clicks shut behind me. The players look up from their cards. Most look back to them after a brief glance, but Eddie's gaze lingers.

“Hey Rob,” Eddie says. “Pull up a seat.”

Eddie. There's history there. History I'm running from, but he's the first friendly face I see, so I yank out a chair and sit down.

“What's the buy in?” I say.

Eddie grins.

“It's a C. It's always been a C. You think it'd change in six months?”

I nod. Stupid.

“Right. Give me my stacks.”

“You want to wait for the big blind?” Eddie asks.

I look around the table. The dealer button sits in front of the player to my left. With eight people, I'd wait five hands before playing.

“No. Deal me in on the next,” I say.

Eddie gives me a look.

“Alright,” he says. He was right. It was a dumb move. I should have waited, it would give me time to watch the other players—figure out how they played, but instead I push in a $2 chip and wait for my cards.

I lose that hand, and I drop another $15 to pocket trips. I wouldn't have lost that if I had waited until the big blind. I would have seen that the guy with the mustache doesn't push his chips around lightly. I would have known that when he raised me $10, he had two pair or better.

After that, I chill for a while. I fold a lot and watch the play. Fatty bluffs—he bets a lot harder when he doesn't have anything. No one's called him yet, but I can see the relief on his face when the last player folds. He had squat. Four-eyes delays his raise most of the time. If he catches something on the flop, the first three cards, he waits until the fourth to make his move. Then there's mustache. He took the $15 off me. He doesn't push chips unless he feels he's safe. The other three are easy to read. Eddie and I keep out of each other's way.

Once I get my read on everyone, I start playing. In an hour, I'm up $50. I need $300 to cover bills, so I need to keep going. A year earlier, I might've taken all I needed off the table by now. I folded to a couple moves that were probably bluffs or people overvaluing their hands. I called a couple raises I shouldn't have.

“You're rusty,” Eddie said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It's been six months since I touched a deck.”

Eddie shuffled a pile of chips together.

“Rusty, and you're still ahead.”

“Like riding a bike, right?” I said.

Eddie grins. I know that grin. He has an idea.

My second card slides in front of me. Ten jack, both diamonds. I like ten jack suited.

“Four,” I say and drop two $2 chips in front of me. Eddie folds, followed by four others. That's about right. Fatty and Mustache pony up.

Eddie deals the flop: seven nine jack. The seven and nine are diamonds. The jack's a spade. I'm in good shape. Top pair, a long shot on a straight and nine outs for a flush.

“Eight,” I say. I drop another four $2 chips in the pot. Fatty folds. I raised too hard. I look at the flop cards and wait for mustache to drop as well. Then more chips clink into the pile.

“I call,” he says.

My face is stone, but I smile inside. Odds are good I have this one.

Eddie deals the turn, ten of clubs. Now I have twopair with a flush draw. Mustache was in before, so I raise harder.

“$20,” I say.

Mustache picks up two $10 chips and pauses. He taps them on his stacks, checks his cards, then picks up two more.

“I raise,” he says.

I toss my chips in and call. Eddie deals the river: five of hearts. That's not helping anyone.

I push my stacks at the pot.

“All in,” I say.

Mustache glances at his cards again. He jitters, and then pushes his in as well.

I flip my cards and a smug smile comes across my face, but it slips away when I see him grin. He turns his cards over, pocket nines.

“Trip nines,” he says.

My lips go dry.

“Tough break,” Eddie says. “Pay up.”

I stand and lick my lips. My mouth feels like cotton.

“About that,” I say. “I'm a little short. Could you cover me Eddie?”

“How short?” Eddie asks.

I swallow.

“All of it.”

Eddie's lips part in a snake's smile, teeth and dirty plans.

“Sure,” he says. He turns to Four-Eyes. “Cash me out. Leave $100 in. I'll be back for my part.”

Then he turns to me. “Let's talk about payment.”

“I can get it to you as soon as—”

“No,” he says. “Let's talk outside.”

***

We step out in front of the little bar and Eddie puts his hand on my back. It pushes me forward and we walk down the street. That's always a bad sign. It means he's about to screw you.

“So you're having money troubles, eh Robbie?”

“Well I—” I start, but he cuts me off. He's going to go on one of his rants with questions he doesn't expect answered. Doesn't matter. I don't have anything to say.

“Yeah, money troubles. That's what happens when you try to go straight. You've been out of the working world for five years. You've been a card shark, and you've been making your money that way. Employers don't really see that as job experience.”

“I know, Eddie, but—”

“Nah, hold on Robbie. You owe me a C. Now, I'm guessing you're broke, otherwise you wouldn't have come down here, and I'm sure you don't have a job. Now, you know the normal procedure in a situation like this, right?”

“Yeah, you'd start—”

“That's right, I'd start the juice at five, ten points a day. Fifteen or twenty if I thought I could squeeze it out of you, and before long you're trying to pay off a grand on the hundred you borrowed. If you didn't, I'd have someone break your legs. Maybe just a kneecap.”

Eddie stops talking long enough to let it sink in. Ten percent interest a day would ruin me—never mind fifteen or twenty. Yeah, I might be able to borrow the money from someone else to cover it, but that could take a couple days. I'd still be in debt, and someone else would know I'm flopping like a cut fish, and if I couldn't find the money... It'd probably be real hard to find a job with two busted legs.

I suck in a breath and get exhaust and brick dust. A newspaper rustles down the sidewalk, and I wonder how funny I would look rolling myself around in a wheelchair and saying “would you like fries with that?”

“Look, Eddie—”

“Hold it Robbie. I got another solution. You got some bills, right? Some of them are over due, pilling up late fees? I'm gonna pay them for you. In exchange, you're going to get back into the game for a little while. You come to my place during the day, we get you back into practice on trick deals and chip placement—basic mechanic stuff—and then we get you back into practice at some chump games. When you're ready, I got a game I want to take down.”

Light shines at the end of the tunnel, but it's dim. And dirty.

I think about Grant. He was one of my friends when I played for a living. He was Eddie's friend too. Then one day he went to a game and never came back. After a month, we all figured him for dead. Eddie took it hard. I took it harder. He's the reason I got out. “What game?” I ask.

“I'll tell you that when it's time,” Eddie says. Then he pats my back.

“Go home Robbie. Be at my place tomorrow. Two o'clock.”

“Alright,” I say.

“Good,” Eddie says. “This'd make Grant happy.”

***

When I get to Eddie's place, he yells “come in.” I open the door and I see four decks, a six-pack and two dozen stacks of chips waiting on table. Eddie shuffles a deck.

“Right on time,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say.

He cracks a beer and hands it to me. I take a swig, and then he hands me a deck.

“Show me your bottom dealing,” he says.

I deal into four piles. I deal three of them normal, and the last one I deal from the bottom. My hands feel rusty, and my deal is sloppy and clunky. I even drop a card. Eddie just grins.

“A week,” he says.

“Huh?”

“A week and you'll have that again,” he says. “Now show me your chip placement.”

He deals me a pair of cards. I glance at them: two of spades, ace of diamonds.

For a second I close my eyes and think. What was the old system again? Then I pick up two chips, a white and a blue and place them next to my cards. One's a little further ahead than the other.

“Ace two unsuited,” he says. “Spade and heart.”

I look at the backs of my cards again.

“Spade and diamond,” I say.

“Reds are diamonds,” he says.

He's right.

“You remember it, though. You just need to be smoother. A lot smoother.”

He takes two cards off the top of the deck and looks at them. He puts his hand on a pile of chips and starts playing with them, picking up the top of the stack and then dropping them one at a time. They click together cleanly.

“What do I have?” he asks.

“How should I know?” I say.

And then he plays with his chips again, and I hear it. Two clicks. Eight clicks. Tap tap. Three clicks. Five clicks.

“Eight five,” I say. “Club heart.”

“You got it.”

Eddie's right. It takes me about two weeks to get everything down again. On the last day, he has me practice my bottom dealing. He stops me half way through.

“Robbie, you going to work on your bottom dealing or what?”

I look at him and I'm confused.

“Eddie,” I say. “Those were all off the bottom of the deck.”

And Eddie grins.

***

We play a bunch of college games. We zip around the eastern half of the state and drop $5-20 per person for buy ins. Eddie always shows up first. I walk in 20 minutes later, so it doesn't look like we're together, and then we start working. We get kicked out of a couple games because I catch a hanger, or I get caught peeking. Sometimes I'm too slow putting the cards on the bottom of the deck.

It's different, you know? You can practice all you want in private, but when you have eight people watching you, it gets harder. Sweat moistens the back of your neck. You get clammy, and everything goes jerky. It's hard to stay cool, but by the end of the first week, I'm getting my feet under me again. By the end of the second, I'm getting cocky.

We play our last practice game in an apartment near Harvard University. It's us, some trust fund kids, and a couple older guys. This one's a $100 buy in. That's fine with me and Eddie. I haven't blown a deal in three games, and we could eat these guys alive without the tricks. Little by little we collect their cash, and one by one they leave. By the end of the night, it's down to me, Eddie, and two trust fund kids.

I deal out the hand. One of the trust fund kids peeks and sucks in a breath. I've seen him do that four or five times tonight. He has a pocket pair. Probably nines or tens. Eddie clicks his stacks and tells me he has the eight of clubs and ten of diamonds. I have pocket Jacks. I place my chips to tell Eddie.

While the second trust fund kid decides whether he's playing this hand or not, I peek at the top card of the deck. It's a jack. The other trust fund kid calls. I second deal the kill card and flip the jack as the first card on the flop. It's followed by a the king of diamonds and a ace of spades. The second trust fund kid raises. The kid with the pocket pair calls, weakly. Eddie folds and I peak at the top card. Nine of hearts.

Perfect.

I call, second deal the kill card and flip the nine as the turn. Trust fund one has aces or kings. Trust fund two has three nines. Both think they have the top hand.

Trust fund one bets $10. Trust fund two raises to $20. I call. Trust fund one calls as well, but the raise unsettled him. Trust fund two is so giddy that even trust fund one knows he has something.

I peak at the last card. Another ace. I don't want that to hit the table. I deal it as the kill card and a six of spades takes its place.

Trust fund one doesn't think he's top dog, and he's right, but he tries to buy the pot. He pushes his stacks at the middle and says all in. Trust fund two calls it, and then they both look at me.

“You,” I say to trust fund one. “Have aces or kings.”

Then I look at the other one and push my stacks in.

“And you have trip nines.”

I flip my cards over. Both trust fund kids turn to ash.

“But they both lose to my trip jacks,” I say. “Now cash me out. I'm done.”

***

We meet at Eddie's an hour later. We took down a grand between the two of us. He said he'd pay my bills, but, really I'm earning this money. We split it 60/40 in Eddie's favor, just like all the other games we cleaned up and crack a couple beers.

“I think you're ready,” Eddie says. I agree.

“So,” Eddie says. “You remember that factory you worked at?”

I spit out my beer. How could I forget.

“No,” I say.

But Eddie just grins and nods.

***

It's dark when I pull up in front of the factory, and my hands go clammy. Eddie's been in there twenty minutes, and it's time for me to walk in and take my spot. After this, I'm out. After this.

I pull the keys out of the ignition and jam them in my pocket and go to the door. It's locked. I knew it would be. I bang on the steel. Three hollow thumps, pause, then two more.

The sound disperses into the trees and crickets around me and I wait. I could leave. I could get in the car and go, but I already tried to tell Eddie I wouldn't do this game. It was too dangerous. And he told me that, the way a lot of people see it, he got me into those games we cleaned up in the last two weeks, so if he decides he wants a bigger cut, he can say I owe him and start the juice. That'd just lead to me with broken legs.

The image of me in a wheelchair serving fries floats into my head when I hear the door click open. I peak through the crack and see a crew cut and a mustache. Mr. Dalton looks back at me, and a smile creeps to his lips.

“Are you here to play, Rob?” he asks. There's something sick in his voice—bigotry and ignorance and malice.

“Yeah,” I say. “I'm here to play.”

Mr. Dalton chuckles and I hear ten-hour workdays and oppression.

“You're lucky. We only have one seat left.”

He opens the door the rest of the way and lets me in. I step through and we walk through stacks of finished material and giant rolls of foam on thick cardboard tubes capped at both ends. I recognize one. It's vomit green on an abnormally large tube—big enough to fit a man, and I'm don't think it's ever moved.

We head toward the glow from a pair of florescent tubes over the poker table. It's the only light in the room. Eddie sits there two men wearing the same tan short-sleeve button-down Mr. Dalton wears and five more in green—two women, three guys. Those five have two things in common: poor English and justified fear of the three in tan.

“Look who I found,” Mr. Dalton says.

The tan twins look up and smirk.

Mr. Dalton points to an empty chair three places away from Eddie.

“Sit,” he says. I follow his orders, and it feels too familiar.

He looks at his seat. Then he looks at the guy in green across from me.

“Feliciano,” Mr. Dalton says. It's a bark, not a word.

Feliciano jumps and yelps. A shiver runs down my spine.

“Ah, yes?” Feliciano says. Even in just the one word, you can hear the accent.

“Call me sir,” Mr. Dalton says.

“Yes? Sir?”

“Sit hear,” Mr. Dalton says.

He points at his chair. Feliciano fumbles with his stack of chips and hustles over. Mr. Dalton picks up his stacks and sits across from me.

“Post,” he says to me.

I glance around the table.

“What's the buy in?” I say.

“Five hundred.”

I dig out my wallet and look in the bill-fold.

“I got four,” I say.

“Fine,” Mr. Dalton says. He looks at another one of the tan shirts. “Give the man his chips,”

***

20 hands in, Eddie's playing strange. I bottom deal him a full house, a nut hand, and he plays it too fast. He knows I'm going to toss him a winner on the river, and he still raises $100 at the turn. Everyone folds. What could have been a $2-300 pot turns into $50.

“Must have had something good,” I say.

He tosses his cards face down into the pile.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says.

***

A couple hands later Mr. Dalton goes all in and glares at Feliciano.

“You had better call this,” Mr. Dalton says.

Feliciano calls. So does Eddie. I stare at my hands to keep from glaring at Eddie. He has a pair of aces. That wasn't worth a call like that.

Mr. Dalton flips over his cards and shows his ten through ace nutbuster. Eddie slams his fist on the table, and stacks tumble.

“God damnit!” Eddie yells.

Mr. Dalton counts his chips. Eddie still has $200 or so.

“Afraid we're going to clean you out again?” Mr. Dalton says.

“Again?” I say. Stupid.

Mr. Dalton stops. Suddenly the room feels silent.

“Yes. Again,” Mr. Dalton says.

He looks at me quizzically. He wants to know why I'm so surprised by that. I let the look linger a little longer. No matter what I do, he's going to be suspicious for the rest of the game. He'll watch me and Eddie a little more closely, but I have to make sure it's not too much.

“I just figure if you get cleaned out at a game, you wouldn't go back,” I say.

Then Mr. Dalton grins. It's that same grin I saw when he had harder work waiting for us. Work where you might get hurt.

“Well, Eddie here likes a beating, I guess.”

Feliciano looks at Mr. Dalton stacking up his new piles. Mr. Dalton catches his look.

“Go home,” Mr. Dalton tells Felicaino.

***

We're down to one green shirt, and Eddie's back to his starting stacks when he plays another hand too fast. Everyone folds again, and he misses out on a possible $100. He gets $40 instead.

Eddie's piling up these new chips when I stand up.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Dalton asks.

“I'm going to have a cigarette,” I say. I want Eddie to follow my lead so that I can find out what's wrong with him.

“Then cash out,” he says.

“Huh?”

“If you leave this table, you cash out,” he says.

I don't know if that's their normal rule or not, but I know Mr. Dalton's not so fond of me at the table. He tries to suck every factory newcomer into a game where he'll take their paycheck. I was no different, but I said “no” and got a tougher work load for it. Now I've got $1500 in front of me. I'm cutting into his profits.

“Nah,” I say. “I can wait for a cigarette.”

I sit back down.

***

Half an hour later, things go bad. We're down to me, Eddie, and the supervisors when it's my deal. I've lined Eddie up with a flush on the bottom of the deck, but it's late. I'm getting tired, and I botch the first card off the bottom. It flops awkwardly in front of Eddie. Mr. Dalton and the tan shirts notice. I see them cocking their heads to listen for the difference, but I deal him the second card anyway. He needs this pot.

Mr. Dalton clears his throat.

“Stop dealing,” he says.

My hands go cold and shaky. I stop.

“Give me the deck,” Mr. Dalton says.

I freeze.

“Give it to me.”

I can't. I can't even move.

Mr. Dalton rips the deck away from me and looks at the bottom. He fans out the three diamonds I collected after the last deal. His lip pulls up on one side of his face. I only saw that once when I worked at the factory. Shortly after that, he hit a Brazilian immigrant in the face with a hammer. He told his bosses it fell off a shelf.

He reaches in front of Eddie and flips his cards over. Two more diamonds. Mr. Dalton's snarl gets worse.

Eddie meets my stare, then Dalton's, and then he's out of his chair with a gun in his hand.

“Nobody move,” he says.

Dalton and the tan shirts freeze. My jaw drops open.

“You brought a gun!?”

“Last resort, Rob,” Eddie says.

“What, what...” I say. Whatever was supposed to come next doesn't. I shake my head.

“Why?” I say.

“You know what game Grant came to the night he disappeared?” Eddie says.

I think for a second, and then I know. Eddie sees it in my face.

“That's right,” he says. “This one.”

“You two are dead,” Mr. Dalton says.

“I got the gun,” Eddie says.

“I can find you,” Mr. Dalton says. “I can get his address from company records.” He points at me.

“Don't think I won't do to you what I did to your friend. You've been playing dirty all night.”

“Yeah. Yeah we have,” I say. I have an idea.

“Take the money,” I say. Eddie glares at me.

Mr. Dalton laughs, and it sounds like bones rattling.

“You think that's going to be enough, boy? I want to watch you bleed.”

“I wasn't finished,” I say. “We play heads up, you and me. If you win, you kill us. If I win, you let us walk out and we spread that word that mechanics should stay away from this game.”

Mr. Dalton thinks on it. Eddie thinks too.

“No tricks,” I say. “We can have one of your guys deal.”

“The alternative is I shoot all of you right now,” Eddie says. Looks like I have him on board. “If I have to choose between you and the cops chasing me, I'll take the cops.”

“Boss...” one of the tan twins says. Dalton points at him.

“Deal 'em,” he says.

***

Fifteen hands in, neither of us has made a big move. I'm a little up from pulling a bluff here and there. I've got Dalton's tell. When he's not sure of his hand, he chews the inside of his bottom lip. It's a tough one to catch, and I'm sure I'm missing it half the time, but it's something. Then he turns on the heat.

“You're friend,” he says. “He wasn't the first.”

He drops $50 in the pot. We're not at the flop yet, but I have ace-ten offsuit. I match his $50.

“No?” I say.

“No. We had two mechanics before him. When I caught the first, I strangled him to death.”

Tan shirt deals the flop. Three-nine-seven rainbow. I'm not making a flush or a straight on this one, but he probably isn't either.

“You ever felt a man die in your hands?” Mr. Dalton asks.

He raises another $50. He could have a pocket pair, and maybe he has a nine, but it's not likely. I call.

“It's a rush to feel a man's heart stop,” he says. “but then we had a body on our hands.”

His man deals the turn. It's a king. Mr. Dalton puts another $100 in the pot. It's a tough call.

“We hid the body in that old roll of material—the puke green one. Didn't know what else to do with it. 'Took about three days to find a good dump site. Now we got it down to a science.”

I stare at his lip, but I can't tell if he's chewing it. I fold. Mr. Dalton rakes his chips in.

“No one's ever found any of them,” he says. And then I feel ice in my veins as he grins that grin again.

***

I can't seem to catch a break and I'm getting behind. Eddie's getting nervous watching me. I can almost feel the sweat on his palms, and the tan-twins grin with predator teeth.

But there's an upside here. Mr. Dalton's starting to feel invincible.

Tan shirt deals us another pocket each. I get aces. I check and Mr. Dalton raises. I call. We get a rainbow flop with no straight possible. Unless he happened to raise with six nine, I'm in good shape. I check again. He raises. I call. There's $200 in the pot right now, and we started with $500 each. I only have $100 sitting in front of me.

The turn gives me another ace. It's my hand. I check. He raises. I go all in. Suddenly that slave driver grin falls off his face. Suddenly, he's chewing on that bottom lip.

“Call,” he says.

I flip my pocket aces. He has second pair. We don't even pay attention to the river. It doesn't matter. I take the pot, and suddenly I'm $200 in the lead.

***

In 20 minutes I shave another $150 off him. Mostly I'm taking the blind. I push my chips all-in every other turn. Half the time I have nothing, but I see him chewing his bottom lip. Losing $300 in one shot took the wind out of him, and he's folding everything.

Then his guy deals me two seven offsuit. Worst hand in the game. I call and we see the flop. Ace queen nine—all diamonds. I go all in. He hesitates, and for a second I think he's going to call. Then he folds. I show him the two seven.

There are two reactions you get from that kind of power play. Most often, the player you pulled the move on becomes utterly scared of you. They won't play any hand you're in because they know you're just better. The second was Mr. Dalton's reaction.

“How dare you!” he yells.

He bolts out of his chair and kicks it across the factory floor. It clacks to a halt against some racks.

“How dare you pull that on me at my own game,” he says. “I ought to kill you right now. I oughta.” His hands curl into claws by his sides and he positions his legs to lunge at me. Then Eddie clears his throat and waves the gun in the air.

“Sit down,” Eddie says.

Mr. Dalton turns his killer's eye toward Eddie, and Eddie points the gun at Mr. Dalton's face.

“Sit down,” he says.

Mr. Dalton turns to the tan shirt that isn't dealing.

“Get my chair,” he says.

***

From then on, I bide my time. Mr. Dalton plays a lot less timid. Now he's just mad, and he's playing like it. He's pushing chips at everything. I let him. Mostly I fold. He creeps back to about $400, but that's fine.

Showing a two seven after a bluff in a heads up game is a set up. If they turn timid, you slowly bleed them out. If they turn angry, you wait for the killing hand. They'll go all in whenever they think they have something. You wait for trips or better and trap them.

Then his man deals me ten jack of spades. Mr. Dalton raises $10 before the flop, and I call. The ace and eight of spades come up on the flop, along with the queen of diamonds. Didn't have anything yet, but 18 cards in the deck would give me a winning hand.

Mr. Dalton raises another $25. I call.

The turn gives me the nine of clubs. Still nothing, but now I had 21 outs. Mr. Dalton raises another $25. It's a tough call. If the river fails me, he's ahead and I'll have to play risky. He's going to push at everything. If I turn meek, he'll bleed me dry, but if I call the wrong thing, he'll kill me outright. I call.

And then the river gives me the two of spades. I have a flush. Now I just have to play out the trap.

I glance at my cards and hesitate before touching my stacks.

“I raise ten,” I say.

“I raise you forty,” he says.

I hesitate again and re-raise him $50.

“All in,” he says.

“Call,” I push my chips up. Now I'm confident. If he noticed, he'd probably be worried, but he turns his pair of aces with triumph.

I show him my pocket, and he goes red. His hands come up ready to attack and he heaves long, heavy, angry breaths.

“I'm gonna... I'm gonna...” he growls.

I just stare him straight in the eye. I don't stand up. I don't even move. It's confident stillness.

“Choke you so hard...” he says. A vein pulses in his temple. It looks like it's going to pop.

“Don't forget the gun,” I say.

It doesn't sink in. He just keeps seething. Then Eddie whistles and Mr. Dalton looks. The muzzle points at the middle of his chest. He takes another angry breath and stands up straight.

“Did you win it square?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

He looks at the Tan Twins.

“Get out of here. They won. They get to walk.”

One rises slowly. The other one just stares slack jawed.

“Go,” Mr. Dalton says. Now they move. The door slams shut and we hear engines start. A minute later they fade into the distance.

***

Mr. Dalton wants to talk to me before we leave. We stand in the pre-sunrise glow by the factory door. Eddie's at his car with his gun ready if anything goes bad.

“You're a good cheat,” Mr. Dalton says. “I don't ever want to see you at a table again.”

“I'm done,” I say. “I don't want anything to do with poker anymore.”

“Not anything?” he says, and I can see he has an idea.

***

I watch blue shirt deal the cards at a table in the back of Charlie's. He'd been raking in a couple too many pots, so I lean against a wall and wait. And now he's doing it. His thumb twitches, and the top card slides in the wrong direction. I put my hand on blue shirt's shoulder and he looks up at me surprised.

“Something wrong?” blue shirt says.

“The sign on the door says 'no mechanics,'” I say. He looks at me stunned. “You're second dealing. I'd like you to leave.” I say.

And he cashes out.

So I'm not out of the game altogether. Not yet. Turns out Mr. Dalton knows the guy who owns Charlie's, and the connection got me a job busting cheats. In just a month they've mostly learned to stay out. Now I'm only catching about one a week, and business is booming because of it. Word got around this is a safe haven. Sure there are sharks here—there'll be sharks anywhere there's cards, but there aren't any mechanics.

Eddie's been in here a couple times. He's still working games over. I don't let him play—I won't even let him near the tables. He knows that. He just comes by to ask me to take down this game or that one, but I don't play anymore. I just watch. That's enough for me.

Officially, I'm a bartender. I don't think I've ever touched a bottle in here, but in a couple years I'll be able to leave and put that on my resume. For now, I'm covering my bills and living closer to straight than I have in half a decade.

There's light at the end of the tunnel again, but now it's brighter and cleaner.