The Poker Game From Hell

The following was whispered to me in perfect pentameter by a large black bear that I met in the alley one winter night behind Duckett’s Market in Ouray. Why the bear chose to share the story is still not clear.

Jimmy John Card and pal, Chip McCann

sat at Callahan’s table, dealing out bum hands.

The green felt was honored, a tenderfoot from France

Who brandished fine cutlery and a gun in his pants.

Through shuffles and side bets throats cleared, poker stares

Drinks all around and in the fourth chair a bear.

That was me…the fourth player disguised in a cloak

though my hairy exterior, suspect when I spoke.

But first human misgivings about cheats and bold liars

were confirmed by my chip stack and their gold dust desires.

It started out friendly as the cards came around

and the chatter subsided as the wagers laid down.

It was Card with three aces and the Frenchman with four

that started the ruckus, accusations and more.

Then a blessed distraction of dance hall girl charm

kept the well armed bartender from sounding alarm.

The Frenchman collected while Card bit his lip

and the lady departed with a drink and a tip.

Let Charley sit in, squawked an anxious McCann

Five’s a crowd said the others, poker faces in hand.

I grabbed the deck quickly, calm invited, cards shuffled

crisply, dealing them out, smoothing feathers just ruffled.

This time it was Card who raised up the bets

at each turn he went higher, it was he and I left.

What ya gonna do, bear? chided Card through his cigar

I’m staying I growled. Let’s see the last card.

I couldn’t believe it—Lady Luck’s hand of fate

with the nine of spades down I had pulled a small straight.

You’re cheatin screamed Card, when he saw all the spades.

I stared back at his pistol and death’s felt masquerade.

Now hold on a minute! checked McCann with a stare

This bear here is honest his spades fair and square.

And Card was placated though the loss was a jolt

and under the table he fingered his Colt.

Again cards were delivered and the bets were laid down

Plastic angels with wishes, nothing showin’ but frowns.

The pot’s right, and healthy, let the winner surmise

all the players were drooling at the sight of the prize.

I’ll raise ten said the Frenchman and have no regrets

Hold your horses said Card, the pot’s not quite yours yet.

Card’s hand was one color all diamonds in fact

The Frenchman held three queens, backed up by two jacks.

When the cards hit the table it was Card that first drew

his silver revolver provoking the coup

and McCann pulled his rifle out from under his seat

and fired close range then made a retreat

The bullets dropped Card who had time to react

and his effort on target hit McCann in the back.

The Frenchman then gazed at Gehenna’s plastic treasure

as a bullet tore through him then one more for good measure.

It ain’t me that shot Frenchy, was the bartender’s finger

that pulled the slick trigger—no reason to linger.

The saloon crowd ducked down so the spittoons confide

while I grabbed up the money and made haste for outside

Swiping the pot was not much of a chore

the tin-horn bartender shaking, while he cleaned up the floor.

Three dead men were the bounty, their souls with Old Scratch

and a black bear with money makes quite a nice catch.

I took every penny and bought drinks for my friends

who couldn’t believe I had come to such ends.

Now my fortunate windfall is down to one stack

and I’m hoping that devil don’t want his money back.

– Melvin Toole