Fiction
Treys
By Brendan Murphy
“Your poker face is shit,” the moustached man muttered. “I can read you like a book. Just fold already.” Jeremiah did not like being told this. He was fully convinced that his poker face was impeccable. His hand consisted of a three of clubs and a three of hearts. A low pair, but with enough luck he could make it work. If he maintained his composure, perhaps he could fool the moustached man into folding. Jeremiah smirked as he stared at his cards. “I didn’t think you could read, old man.” Jeremiah looked up and began to study his accuser’s face. It was a little more red than it was a second ago. The cartoonishly large handlebar moustache attached to the man’s wrinkly face twitched. Jeremiah saw his chance. “And while we’re talkin’ about faces.” The saloon grew quiet. “I’d wager that a heifer’d be more eager to spend a night with you than any woman on God’s green Earth. Hell, I’d say get a clean shave, but you’re doing everyone a service by hiding that unfortunate mug.” “I’m giving you one chance to apologize.” “Or what? You’ll shed on me? I’m real scared.” “I’ve had it with you, boy.” The moustached man stood up and slid a revolver across the table in one swift motion. “Meet me outside,” the moustached man huffed. Jeremiah’s stomach sank further than he thought possible in that moment. The moustached man stomped outside and stood in the middle of the road, waiting. Jeremiah gingerly picked up the gun and stumbled through the doors. “Are you serious, old man? It was a game of poker!” “You afraid you bit off more than you can chew, boy? With a mouth as big as yours, I’d have thought that was impossible.” The moustached man’s face was no longer red. He spit his tobacco into the dirt. It became increasingly apparent to Jeremiah that the moustached man was in his element 70
