Stoat Gambling

It wasn't until I shot a momentary glance into Frankie Marcello's gunmetal grey eyes that I realised this game had the unsettling potential to be my last if I didn't play my cards right. I remembered far too late into the game that Frankie Marcello is not a man to be fucked with. When you fuck Frankie, he fucks you twice as hard; allegedly with the barrel end of a .44, or so the stories go. I tear my eyes away from my cards and see the dimly-lit basement swim in and out of focus behind a grim haze of cigar smoke. Sat on the other side of the smokescreen, Frankie and his boys (Nico & Gino), watch me carefully. The thick Cuban smoke veil is a Godsend; it obscures the truth of my hand more than even my best poker-face could. I quell the faint wriggling in my jacket pocket and try to pull myself together.


I meet the eyes of the dull figures buried behind the smoke screen and decide it's time to bite the bullet. Shit or get off the pot; and when dealing with Frankie Marcello, it's imperative that you don't get off the pot. You shit, man. You fucking shit and then you fucking run.


I reach slowly into my jacket pocket and grab my bet by its tail. I pull the stoat out and slide it across the table. It blinks dumbly in the swirling Cuban haze but makes no attempt to run – it's been bred for the purpose of gambling. Frankie eyes my stoat carefully and sees that it is good. Pure-bred, short-tailed Eurasian Ermine. It's good quality merchandise. Nico & Gino see that I mean business. They both fold; they know better than to fuck with high-quality stoats. Frankie, however, shuffles in his seat as he reaches into a bucket under the table. He sees my stoat and raises me five of his own. Gino's cigar falls from his mouth and onto the mottled, hardwood floor as Nico stifles a small whimper. Five stoats, man. Impressive. God damn impressive. Frankie's poker face is even more impressive still but all the stoats in the world couldn't fool me. I flick my eyes up to meet Marcello's.

"These are weasels, Frank." He realises I've got his number. Piping hot rage wells in his eyes, but somehow he stays cool. The man's got power and I'll be damned if he doesn't know it. The man's got connections. He's got a .44 in his pocket and a bucket of weasels at his feet; he's on top of the world.


With blinding speed he grabs the bucket from underneath the table and launches it across the room at me. Utter pandemonium. Weasels in the air vents, stoats in the rafters. Gino runs blindly into the wall, batting the weasels from his face and knocks himself out. Nico is nowhere to be seen underneath the wriggling stoat carpet. In the midst of the weasel-induced chaos, Frankie makes a break for the fire exit. I don't hesitate. I plunge my hand deep into my stoat pocket and grab myself some ammunition. I'm gripped by a deep cold as I lock my vision onto Frankie's back – I've only got one chance. I hurl the furry projectiles towards him. My aim is true.


WHACK.

WHACK.

WHACK.


Nailed to the wall by stoats. Frankie Marcello's air of authority is lost as the steady scarlet flow trickles from his stoat-inflicted wounds, staining his best jacket. I move slowly towards him on the conveyor belt-like floor of weasels and stoats. I pull the .44 from his pocket and feel its weight in my hand. It's heavy – heavy is good. I crack his jaw with the handle of the revolver and shoot a nearby stoat in the face just for the sexual thrill. Frankie whimpers slightly as I turn back towards him. The stoats in his shoulders are boring deep. An odd pity grips me as I see his face writhing in pain. I put a bullet in his skull and shield my eyes from the mist of crimson and brain matter that ricochets off the wall behind him. The police would have heard the ruckus – they'll be here soon. I scrape myself a modest handful of stoats from the moving rodent carpet and stuff them into my jacket pocket before heading out the fire exit. Same time next week.