The Game #4

 The man sitting at the table looked up at me from the stack of disheveled cash. He huffed and tilted his head off the side as I fumbled in my pocket for my wallet. I pulled out a ten and handed it to him and he grabbed his pen. “Who you putting this on?”

    I looked down into the pit at the six men sitting in a circle. I had talked with the one wearing the red headband earlier, and I hoped he would make it. “The red headband.” I said. The man nodded and gave me my receipt as I stepped off to the side to take my seat.

    Next to me was another man, a corporal like me, dressed in an identical uniform. He nodded as I took out a pair of cigarettes, offering him one; he refused.

    “Another Tuesday night, huh?” the man said.

    I lit my cigarette and took a puff. “Yea. You got a leave coming up anytime soon?”

    “Nope.”

    “Me neither.” I looked down at the ring. “Who’d you got your money on?”

    “Nobody.”

    “What do you mean? You’re not betting?”

    “Nope.”

    “Why not? It at least makes this a little more interesting.”

    The man nodded his head and turned towards me. “Can’t do it. I don’t even want to be here.”

    “You spend your entire check already?”

    “No. I just can’t bring myself to bet on this.”

    “You one of those Mormons or whatever?”

    “Nope. Just don’t like this.”

    “Why you here then?”

    “Nothin’ else to do.”

    We stared at each other for a moment, then he reached towards my pocket and grabbed my pack of cigarettes. “I could probably use one, actually.”

    I nodded.

    He sat there, smoking my cigarette for a minute then turned towards me once more. “You don’t have any problem with what goes on here?”

    I shrugged my shoulders. “What else we supposed to do with them?”

    “I know. They’re all fucked. But it doesn’t seem right. We shouldn’t get enjoyment out of this.”

    “Why not? Either we do it during the day, or they can do it themselves here at night. During the day, we’re the ones doing it and it sucks. Here we at least get some form of excitement.”

    “I know. I know. But what about their dignity?”

    “Dignity be dammed. They could have avoided it. They caused this whole mess. I’d be home right now, bringing in the harvest if it wasn’t for these animals.”

    The man dropped the cigarette to the ground, it was only half-smoked, and crushed it under foot. “How do you know they caused it? Because command told you? It could have been us.”

    “You better be careful. You’re walking a mighty fine line.”

    “Fuck the line. There’s so many damned lines right now I don’t know where to step. Command tells you one thing; your conscious tells you another. Fuck the line, man, fuck it.”

    I turned away from him and stared down into the pit, watching the man with the red headband. He had also been a farmer, lived pretty close to where I grew up too. We talked about how much we loved the land and just wanted to be back home.

    “It’s not like I want this to happen.” I said. “But what am I supposed to do?”

    “You don’t have to make a bet.”

    I turned towards him to say something, but the game was about to start and our commander walked into the center of the ring with a shiny revolver. Our commander spun the barrel and handed it to my guy; he was the first to go. I watched intently, while all around me the crowd chatted amongst themselves. As a group, they only really got into it at the end.

    My guy looked up into the crowd, his headband was covered with sweat, and he found me. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I could see the fear in his eyes. He hesitated and the crowd began to pay attention and boo. The commander kicked him and my guy closed his eyes before bringing the gun up to his head and pulled the trigger.

    The bang filled the room.

    I looked down at my receipt and tore it in half before pulling out another cigarette. I turned back to the man next to me. “You’re probably right.”

The Game #1

I've been inspired to do a couple Friday Flash stories on a certain theme...

This story is rated R.

    On the coffee table, surrounded by the empty bottles of beer, Scott’s single-action revolver begged me to follow through with my boasts. I reached for the gun; Scott tossed a bullet my way.

    It was strange how the weight of the gun felt in my hand. It was heavier than I expected, but it still seemed light for something with that much power. Scott watched me stare at his gun until he cleared his throat and I looked up. He nodded at me and I put the bullet into one of the chambers.

    “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” he said.

    “Of course I am. I’m not going to let some little bitch like you play the ‘but I was in Iraq so I’ve got balls’ card and get away with it.”

    “It’s not because I was in Iraq that I have balls. It’s the other way around dude. If you had any, you’ve been--”

    “Shut up and just let me fuckin do this.” I spun the chamber, the tiny gears whirred away until I slapped the cylinder back into place.

    Scott rolled back on the couch and started laughing. “I never expected you to take this so far. Just put it away--”

    “No, man. No.” I pointed the gun straight down onto my thigh, pulled back the hammer, and squeezed the trigger. I heard a click, and I pulled the gun up; my leg was shaking. “Dude. Oh my god, what a rush. You have to try this.”

    “No fucking way. No.”

    “You pussy.”

    “There’s no way I’m putting a gun--”

    “You fucking pussy.”

    Scott shook his head, leaned forward, grabbed one of the near-empty bottles of warm, cheap beer, and drank it. “Give it to me.” He took the gun and stared at it in his hand. “I’ll show you how to fucking do this.”

    He cleaned off the table with one swipe, knocking the bottles to the floor, and slapped his left  palm onto the water-stained wood. “Leg’s nothin. This takes real balls.” He pointed the barrel on the top of his hand, cocked, and fired.

    “Whew!” Scott jumped up and down, shaking his hand. I didn’t hear anything and his hand looked fine. “Yea man! Fuck yea! That was one hell of a rush.”

    He tossed the gun back to me.

    “We’re going more than once?”

    “Oh hell yea. All the way baby. All the way. Once you start, you can’t stop.”

    “Fuck it.” I put my right hand on the table, like Scott did with his left. “I write with this one bitch. Left hand’s nothin.” I fumbled with the hammer, but once it was back I pulled the trigger. I again heard the soft click, and when I looked down, my hand was fine.

    “Back to you.”

    “Gimmie that shit.” Scott took the gun from me and pointed it at his abdomen. “Hand’s nothin. This shit will fuck you up.”

    “Dude, that’s just stupid.”

    “I’m not afraid.”

    He pulled the trigger.

    I heard it that time. It was unmistakable. I fell off my chair and the gun tumbled across the floor. I looked up at Scott as his eyes rolled back into his head.