HOME | DD

Description
POKER NIGHT

Poker imported into a Norse civilization can be dangerous.  8)  Firehawk’s viewpoint, obviously.

----------------------------

There’s lots of stuff I’ve imported into the Tribes from Earth.  Generally, though, I claim to
have invented said stuff.  It’s not that I’m arrogant, some views to the contrary.  Naw,
explaining where it all really came from just got complicated after awhile. Forget my ego;
there were things I missed from Earth and I wanted with me.  What’s the good of a talent in
portal magic if you don’t use it?

Rock music was one thing I brought over; flush toilets, another.  Being ultimately practical, my people honored me more for the toilet invention than the new music.  I woulda felt somewhat bad about that, except, hell!  I could see their point, after a hard night of drinking.  A handy crapper’s much more welcome than a dose of Ozzy, when you got a pounding head and churning stomach.

But beyond anything---even beyond being their High King’s boink and the best wizard of the North----I was mainly famous for "inventing" poker.

I was playing now from the comfortable cushion of my lover’s lap, and ready to quit because I’d just lost my last plug nickel.  Carse rarely participated himself; it scared the Riders to win against their High King and there was too much suspicious folding when he was in the mix.  But he enjoyed games and he’d often come along to pose as easy chair and examine my hand, blatantly helping me cheat by whispering advice in my ear.  Or sometimes, if he was in a wicked mood, his murmured counsel would turn slightly to the far left of obscene.  And I’d lose my concentration on the game, plus all my money.  It happens, when your hard-on gets bigger than your brain. Then I’d have the dubious joy of being laughed at, as he lugged me back to our tent and screwed me stupid.

This time, though, he was a little tired and just sat quietly with his powerful arms wrapped around me, almost dozing.  His presence was as non-threatening as it ever gets and the five Riders playing with me were actually drunk enough to forget he was there.

Even without any distractions from the Big Evil, though, my luck was bad this night. “Tapped out, guys,” I finally grumbled, preparing to toss my worthless hand, awaken my easy chair and stagger on home.

“Ah, come on, Hawk.  The night’s young!  And you got something left to bet with----yourself for the night, you redhaired devil of a cock-tease!  C’mon, I’ll add my three best horses to the pot, though they’re worth less a fortune than you are, with those angel lips!”

Angel lips!  Kiss my ass.  Gawd, being an elf *sucked* at times like these!

It was a blond guy named Windcat who said the above piffle in a gooey, come-hither voice, and I wasn’t too surprised.  He could be an obnoxious bird with a little booze in him, and he tended to think a lot of himself even without it.  Plus he’d been winning all night and was consequently even fuller of shit than usual.

But his laughing, half-serious remarks sure dried up when the High King of the Twelve Tribes raised his head from my shoulder and looked directly at him.

Now betting sexual favors is a cheerful normality with this bunch; Strip Poker was just too tame for them. But---- Well, you get the picture.  Windcat had just obliquely suggested the boink of Nightwolf the Slayer was equal to a pile of his poker chips.

All the jolly chatter dribbled to a halt. Or maybe that was the sound of five people pissing themselves.  Possibly even six; I had more knowledge of my lover's jealous nature than these clowns ever could.

Carson studied the chalk-faced young guy for a long moment, very calmly.  Then he looked at the pot, which was enormous even not including the horseflesh.  And most of it Windcat’s money, by the way.  Carse then peeked at my hand, which mighta been great if I was playing Go Fish, but flat stunk for poker. By now everyone was quivering, including me.

“Bet it,” Carson commanded, still expressionless and cool as dammit.

We had to borrow a pretty large bag to tote the poor Cat’s money home.   A couple of his so-called friends gleefully promised to lead his blooded racers over to our corral next morning.

Yep, that’s right. The dude had glanced at his hand, looked like he was strangling for an instant, and folded right then and there with a full house. That’s how I learned that Carson, too, knew how to have fun.

Though I think my boy kind of regretted that Windcat hadn’t forced the issue and tried to collect my ass.  The results of *that* would have been even more fun.

For everyone except Windcat’s corpse, that is.