Cards and Claws

A Chance Poker Game

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All rights to Wolf belong to me. She is my character, and I would be very sad to see someone stealing her. Besides. We all know that's illegal. However, Remy LeBeau (AKA Gambit) and any other X-Men I may use in this story are owned by Marvel. I do not claim to own them; I am merely using them for fanfiction.

With that said, I hope you enjoy the story!

~WG 💙

There were plenty of common mistakes in the world. Some mild, some deadly, and some just plain stupid.

One plain stupid one was trying to win a hand of poker when you're playing against Wolf.

Grinning like a cat, Wolf raked in her new winnings as men slapped their cards down in frustration. One man muttered curses under his mustache.

"Sorry, boys," Wolf said, the grin never leaving her face. "You just suck at bluffing."

One man slammed his meaty fist into the table, a scowl twisting his scarred face. He flexed his massive bicep, making the tattoos wriggle as if they were alive. "Girl," he growled, his breath smelling like alcohol and cigarette smoke, "don't test me."

Wolf let out a harsh laugh. "I ain't 'testing,'" She made air quotations with her fingers, "no one, all right?" She never stopped grinning as she dealt a new hand of cards. "You all still in?"

The men anted up, but none of them looked happy about it. Most of them were almost cleaned out of any chips or cash they had.

Wolf picked her cards up and glanced at them. Outside, the Canadian winter winds blew harshly, seeping through the cracks in the bar's old and stained walls. The other patrons at the bar ignored the chilly air and kept enjoying their drinks.

Being underage, Wolf stuck to water. She didn't mind; alcohol had never sounded appealing to her, anyway. To her, it seemed to be a way to escape your troubles by getting drunk. Since she possessed the mutant ability to heal, she couldn't get drunk.

The man Wolf had dubbed "Tattoos" shoved all his remaining chips to the center of the table. "I'm all in," he said, a particular gleam of malice in his pale eyes.

Wolf watched his body language closely. Another mutant ability she had: super senses. She could see, hear, and smell things no one else could. In this case, she could smell the pheromone releases that indicated when someone was bluffing.

All the other men at the table put their cards down, muttering things like, "No way," "I'm out," and, "I fold." Wolf, however, merely quirked an eyebrow and matched Tattoos's bet.

"I call," she said, hiding a grin. "Show your cards."

Tattoos shook his head. "Ladies first."

"Fine." She laid her cards down, showing her full house of two aces and three queens.

Tattoos gaped at the cards. "But I... no, this can't be!" He threw his cards down hard on the table. They scattered all over, falling from the table and onto the warped wooden floor. "You cheated!"

"Luck of the draw," Wolf said.

Growling, Tattoos started to reach across the table, aiming for Wolf's neck. She shot to her feet, closing her hands into fists, preparing to fight back.

"Whoa, dere, mon ami," an accented voice said. The owner, a man in a black fedora and matching trench coat, placed a gloved hand on the tattooed man's shoulder and got him to sit back.

"Now, dat's no way to treat a lady, is it?" the second man asked. His eyes were hidden under the brim of his hat, but Wolf felt him glancing at her.

"She hustled me!" Tattoos said. His anger was evident. He was seething.

The first man, Wolf decided to call Fedora, clucked his tongue. "Come now, mon ami, don't be such a sore loser, non? No one hustled ya. Just leave b'fore I have to get rough with ya."

Tattoos shook Fedora's hand off his shoulder. Then he glared at Wolf. "You'll regret crossing me, girl," he said. "I'll come back for you, and when I do, there won't be any blasted Cajun to save you." With that last remark, he stomped out of the bar.

Fedora took Tattoos's seat. He took his hat off, setting down on the table, and combed his gloved fingers through his unkempt brown hair. He looked at Wolf directly, and Wolf tried not to show her shock when she saw his eyes. Where they should have been white, they were solid black, and his irises were the color of pure rubies.

"De name's LeBeau," Fedora said. "Remy LeBeau. It's okay if dis Cajun joins de game, non? Dis seat seems ta be unoccupied at de time."

"By all means," Wolf said. "I just hope you can back yourself up, Mister LeBeau."

LeBeau proceeded to pull a wad of money out of his coat pocket. "Is dis enough, chere?"

Wolf nodded. "Welcome to the game, Mister LeBeau."