Fate and Death

Dark stranger

Mr Amos Ratford was not an attractive man. With thinning hair, a severely receded hairline, oily face and horribly yellow teeth, he was not what one would call a forty year-old who aged prettily. In fact, anyone who ever happened unfortunately to be within a metre radius from him had the misfortune of being caught in the cloud of smokey putrid odour that hung around him like an ominous cloud, which was constantly mixed like a poisonous concoction with the strong smell of liquor. In all: just not attractive at all.

But was he well-to-do? Yes indeed. Ratford was filthy-rich, something which he attributed of his own opinion to his intelligent and savvy ways with money-making. To the good and honest people of Paris, however, his ways were nothing but corrupt thievery with a not-so-subtle pinch of foul manipulation.

On Thursday nights, he liked to enjoy three beers or four at Frog and Rosbif Brew Pub, down the shady street of Rue St. Denis where he would meet his clients for a crude conversation before they dispersed and headed towards their next destination of merry-making. On this night, Ratford ambled into the pub, squinted at two youngsters by the door who were kissing heatedly before Ratford bumped roughly into the large tattooed youth, who was not at all pleased and raised his fist at the forty year-old; crossed the pub from the entrance, shoved a skinny, bearded drunk out of a tall bar stool and took the seat for his own.

The bartender's wife leaned over the counter, exposing over the top of the plunging neckline her impressive rolls of flesh, which looked like they would burst out of their lacy restraints at any time. She gave Ratford a lingering grin, then asked how many bottles he wanted, and whether he wanted Ms Lucy or Ms Jenny to pleasure him that night. Ratford gave his order, then dug in his pockets for a grubby packet of cigarette, took one out and lit it.

As he puffed on it, he looked at the other customers around the bar table. There was Old Johnny, a beefy man who could rival a professional boxer if he was up to the mood; there was Wayne the solicitor, with two voluminous brunettes straddling his laps; and there was a new one he hadn't seen before.

The dark stranger stood at a corner of the table, near the wall. He was very tall, possibly six foot four, and he leaned against the stone wall, left shoulder tilted slightly lower than his right, in a sort of a slanted hunch, which might be because the top of his head was almost scraping the top of the dingy bar. The dim bulbs on the ceiling cast strange shadows across his face. The stranger kept his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket, and over all in his ripped jeans and spiked choker collar he wouldn't have looked out of place at a rock festival concert.

The stranger moved abruptly from the corner of the bar towards the counter. In relaxed but long strides he reached Ratford, and took the seat to his right. Ratford squinted with his beady eyes at the tall man, whom under the better illumination could be observed to be quite good-looking, with a high aquiline nose and a piercing above his left eyebrow.

"Ms Lucy's here, Mr Ratford," the bartender's wife called, and to the young girl sauntering over to the counter she added in a whisper, "Be good to old Ratford, Lucy dear."

Ratford turned his eyes on the blond who was making her way coyly towards him. His greedy little eyes swept from the bare thighs up to the full chest that bounced with every step, and his hands twitched with the urge to caress her all over.

Lucy wrapped her arm around Ratford's shoulder, reached across and snatched the bottle of beer playfully out of Ratfold's grip, then took a swig out of it. The man snuffed out his cigarette and began planting kisses from her cheek down her slim neck, hands moving around her waist.

"Amos Ratford."

The forty year-old paused, lips on the girl's nape. The tall stranger was standing over him.

"What do you want?" he growled and shoved the blond aside.

"Play a game. With me." The stranger placed a strong iron grip on the old man's shoulder that told him that he would not appreciate "no" as an answer.

With his free hand, the stranger took two poker cards out of his pocket. The edges were scruffy from overuse, but what was more bizarre was that the cards emitted wisps of smoke, though faint and hardly noticeable in the dim light of the pub.

"Ace and Joker. Pick one," said the stranger, staring directly into Ratford's quivering eyes. "Pick the Ace, and you win. Pick the Joker, and you lose." The stranger smiled. "And your life will be the wager."

"You crazy man," Ratford muttered, starting to perspire. "You complete lunatic..."

"Come on, we don't have all day," said the stranger with a hint of disinterest in his voice, speaking more to himself than to Ratford. "They always take so long to choose but they're all going to die anyway..."

"Let me go!" screeched the old man all of a sudden, whose face had gone pale. He brandished a pistol and with two shaking hands pointed it at the stranger towering over him. "Let me go, I say! Or I'll shoot! I swear I'll shoot!"

The pub broke out in chaos when the people realised what was going on. Screams filled the air and some customers started running for the exit, knocking over and smashing bottles in the confusion.

The dark stranger laughed. "You cannot shoot me. You will shoot, but you will not shoot me."

"Crazy madman," Ratford breathed. He held the pistol tighter and continued to squint at the towering man. All of a sudden, his mouth opened in terror, and his eyes widened till one could see the thin vessels in the whites, like he saw something horrifying in the face of the stranger. Out of fear he wheeled around and opened fire. The wife of the bartender fell to the floor behind the counter with a fatal crash, blood already starting to pool.

More screams filled the pub, and the terrified people scrambled to leave the dangerous scene. Ratford's breath became stertorous and laboured, standing up and facing the stranger, though only coming up to as tall as the height of the stranger's mid-chest. "Monster..." he muttered with eyes wide in shock.

"Your time is up," the stranger said, amused. He held up a card and turned it so that Ratford could see which card it was.

"Good night, Ratford."

He stowed the cards into his pocket and walked out, stepping over the broken glass. At the counter, the wretched old man dropped his gun and clasped his hands to his throat, evidently choking and out of breath, before falling to the ground with a twitch, and then no more.

Outside, the moon was out. A wave of ominous clouds rolled in and covered the glow slowly, swallowing up the light.

"You know better than to play with Death, but you cannot escape him," mused the tall stranger, walking the dark streets with his hands in his pockets, hunched slightly, left shoulder tilted slightly lower than his right.