writersdigest.com prompt. This is not even close to a complete story. I went all wordy on it, had to cut it short. Flash fiction didn’t work for me. But, I like the idea. I like the characters. Might use it later. No edits.
“There’s no card-counting in baseball!” I slammed my fist hard on the table. Wiley snorted out a laugh beside me. I was drunk, and he was probably a little drunk too. The security team – five guys in mis-matched suits glaring at us from the other side, two seated across Wiley and me, the others standing in various menacing poses behind them – did not get the movie reference. Or the joke.
“Seriously, I don’t count cards,” said Wiley. “I’m just really fucking lucky tonight. This morning. Whatever.”
“He smells like luck,” I leaned over Wiley’s shoulder, took a deep whiff. Cigarettes. Jack Daniels. Sweat. Toffee or molasses or coffee. I licked his cheek and he snorted again. “Lady Lucy’s got balls tonight, gentleman, and those balls are on this man.” I jutted my thumb out to indicate Wiley, just in case they thought I was talking about a different lucky dude with balls.
“Lady Luck, you mean.”
“What? What did I say? I thought I said Lady Luck.”
“You said Lucy Luck.”
“The fuck is Lucy?”
“I don’t know, you said it.”
“Lady Luck is what I meant.” Drunk as a skunk.
“Sir, Ma’am,” the pit boss interrupted. There was a ‘thunk’ and Wiley and I turned in sync, our eyes finding the pit boss’s ugly mug, then trailing down to the surface of the table, finally resting on a large, black, hard object. It was sitting there like, ‘What, like you’ve never seen one of these before, wink, wink’.
“I wasn’t counting cards,” Wiley said, and I swear I heard him gulp.
“You threatening me with a dildo?” I said. Like a lady.
“It’s a gun, Ma’am.”
“Shit,” I screwed up my eyes and the blurry penis turned into a gun. Right. “Ok. Gun. Got it.”
“Listen, man, we’re just betting, like, betting and playing. Normal Vegas shit. No reason to get all hard on us,” Wiley said. My turn to snort. Wiley looked at me and – I swear to christ almighty – he was giving me that, ‘don’t you fucking do it’ look.
But, really, why the hell did he keep me around? Of course I was going to do it.
“Oh, wait, wait, Wiley. Wiley. What if they’re using a shit bullet. No, seriously, what if they’re using shit bullets?” Wiley stared, an adorable crinkling between his eyes like a hobo’s paper sack, all wet and sad like, no, the cops can’t tell this is a beer. “You eat a bullet, then you shit it out, then you shoot someone with it and even if they don’t bleed out or whatever, they eventually die. Of dysentery. Like, fucking dysentery, Wiley. This is some Oregon Trail shit, here.” I turned to the pit boss. “For shame.” He actually looked ashamed for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“No Ma’am. No shit bullets. Just the regular, uh, bullet-bullets.”
I huffed, crossed my arms and leaned back in the chair. “Then you aren’t even trying.”
“Uh, Pearl?” Wiley said.
“Yeah,” and, ok, I may have sounded a little pouty.
“Do you really believe in shit bullets?”
I slammed my fist on the table. Again. Because, fuck yeah, we’re in Vegas, baby.
“How can you not believe in shit bullets?” I let a little spittle fly this time, catching the pit boss on the nose. “This is real life, Wiley. You can’t hide from it. There’s gun,” I pointed to the gun. “There’s us,” I vaguely pointed at my boob. The one on the right. It was the bigger of the pair. “And there are shit bullets.” Check. Mate. Bitches.
No one, not even Wiley, seemed impressed.
“Can we go?”
“Yeah,” the pit boss said.
“That’s right,” I said. Wiley grabbed my arm, pulled me from my chair and we were escorted out of the building.
Outside, I leaned on Wiley, inhaled his lucky musk. The sun was just a peek on the horizon, showing her ever-loving-face to the world like a women wiping the last dusty crumbs of coke off her nose, looking around the room for the first time in hours and realizing, shit, where the fuck am I.