You Can't Hurt Me

So many bad things happen while gambling

Race put his legs on the table and leaned back with a cigarette lazily dangling on his lips, the smoke smell filling the room, and right now? Race was winning. His hand was alright, not bad, but certainly could be better. However the other guy was nervous, sweaty, he had a wedding ring on, simple one at that. Just a silver band. It was obvious he was drinking, and it was starting to wear off, and that's when the guy realized he was in too deep to stop. 2,000 dollars was a lot to just give away.

Race would feel bad, but gambling wasn't for the faint of heart, either you left with a new car or you have to re-mortgage your house. Ain't his fault everyone sucks at poker expect for himself.

Still, he was nice. Only putting in small bets so the poor guy wouldn't feel obligated to spend his own money, he doubted the guy noticed, from the small twitch on his nose it seemed he was just having a freak out. Bad hand, it figured. He guessed the only reason the guy was still in is because Race looked so young, while the other two guys folded a few games back.

Race took a swing of his beer, "if you're gonna take ten years you minus well fold."

The guy wiped the sweat out of his balding head, with thin wisps of disgustingly long hair gelled down as a cheap attempt at making it look fuller. "Scared you're gonna loose your allowance."

Race leaned back, "something like that."

The guy swallowed, and made a ballsy move. He put down 5,000 dollars, looking a little smug about that too.

Race just lazily pushed over 10,000 dollars, maintaining eye contact the whole damn time.

Race almost felt guilty when he saw tears form in the other guys face. But it was his own fault, Race didn't take prisoners and he warned the guy he wasn't no damn rookie. He's played more poker in a week, than this guy probably has in his life. His dad never let him get off, often when Race first started he was constantly in debts he had to pay off before he got the hang of it.

"It's not personal." Race said collecting his chips, scanning them with a lazy smirk.

The guys hand shook, "I- I need that money. It's my wife's emergency fund. I'll do anything."

Race rolled his eyes, "I've heard that before, I'm not some cheap fool. You come to poker to gamble and when you suck you loose. That's just playing."

The man shook his head, "I've got kids I need to send to college."

Race raised his eyebrows, "out of your wives emergency fund? Nice try."

The man's eyes glossed, and he reached down for something, and Race immediately jumped forward to tackle him, but it was too late. The man quickly pressed the barrel of a gun to Race's forehead.

Ice chilled up his spine, but Race immediately unclenched his muscles. This was just a game of poker, and Race never folds.

He chewed on his cigarette and leaned back against the poker table. Then Race took maybe the riskiest move he'd ever do, he looked this man holding Race's life in his hands, one simple flinch ending it all, and he smiled, smile large, wide, and worst of all, cocky.

The man faltered, the grip on his gun loosing up, limp in his arms. Race called his bluff and he was winning.

"You think this is the first time someone pulled a gun out on me?" Race laughed. Fake fake fake fake.

He was confident, fake fake fake fake.

Collected, fake fake fake fake.

Relaxed, fake fake fake fake.