Dort sat at the felt and undressed his hand with his eyes. Three nines. A trio of
pulchritudinous, swollen orbs atop sensually curved stems. He didn’t see much paint
among the cards already on the table. Nary a face card. Ergo, his hand looked like a
winner.

I should interject that this was no casino. The felt was not a richly upholstered
mahogany tabletop complete with chalk-like outlines of playing cards lined up like a
crime scene. Dort was sitting in his threadbare kitchen with a swath of green felt
purchased from the Crafting Barn laid atop his Formica dinette. The kitchen’s defining
feature was its blue striped wallpaper which gave the appearance the room was
sporting a seersucker suit, and therefore fashionable for only about one season per
year of the intermittent years it was an acceptable style at all. The paper curved away at
the corners as if the walls were embarrassed to be so clad. There were no chips on the
table. Other than Pringles. Instead of classy ceramic markers the boys made their
wagers with actual Benjamins. American greenbacks, fivers and sawbucks.

A disinterested tomcat slalomed among the players’ legs under the table. His condition
was appropriate for the wallpaper.

Back to the action. Half of the combatants had folded. Scooter and La Reve
surrendered their cards to fight another day. The last holdout was Randy. He had called,
hoping Dort was bluffing. Randy looked at his cards with the earnest intensity of a
magician trying to make them change. Or disappear.

Dort flipped down his hand. “As the German virgin said, ‘Nein, nein, nein’.”

Randy took a deep breath. He showed two kings and a queen among other scraps. He
was surprisingly upbeat for the owner of a losing hand. “Trips,” he declared. “Three
monarchs. That puts me somewhat North of your nines, I’m afraid.”

Dort was confused. Maybe Randy was having him on. If so, it was nothing to joke about.

Not to Dort. Maybe Randy’s vision had failed. Maybe he’d lost his mind. God knows
things microscopic are easily misplaced.

Dort played along with the levity. To a degree. “That may be a ménage, but it’s not three
of a kind.”

Randy had already crept onto the ice floe with his full weight so figured he could do no
real further harm by jumping up and down a bit. “You see,” he intoned, “it is only
antiquated patrimony that distinguishes between kings and queens. In the real world a
crowned head, male or female, has equal weight. Has for centuries. You’ve heard of Queen Elizabeth. The broad not the boat. For instance, they should not give separate
best acting Oscars for men and women.”

“But they do,” said Dort, losing patience.

Randy then reached for the pile of lettuce. Unwisely.

Dort grabbed the extended arm and turned the wrist into a two-way hinge causing the
back of the hand to slap against the top of the forearm with a wet snap.

“Time and place, Randy. We can discuss gender equality in the proper forum. Not in the
context of redefining on the fly the sacred rules of poker. Not while I’m holding a
monster. Well at least a winner. No sir. Or madam for that matter. Time and place.”

The cat jumped up and lapped at the bloodstain left by Randy’s ruined metacarpals.

Randy gingerly limped away holding his bad paw. Leaving his meager remaining cash. And his coat. He’d have time at the ER to reassess his strategy at cards. He vowed in
the future he would keep things on the fairway and leave distractions like current events
safely stowed away in his bag. And for at least a while, he’d be doing it left-handed.

Contributor Bio:

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com