A Rigged Roulette

Jenkins fidgeted uneasily with the revolver in his hand. The metal shimmered in the pale light of the moon, and reminded him somewhat of the creeks he would play in as a child. He prodded the hammer of the weapon with his thumb, getting a feel for the weight of the whole thing. As far as he could tell, the whole gun was made from the same hunk of dark gray steel. The hammer felt cold against his fingers, and considering the state he was in, it was a shack that he could feel anything. The only piece there to break up the design of this rather average gun was the pistol grip. The grip was composed of a hand carved set of mahogany grips with incredibly ornate designs running along the sides. Had it been brighter outside, Jenkins might have taken the chance to admire the gun, but sadly the moon was not so kind as to give him that much light.

As Jenkins' acquaintance walked out of the shaded tree line, he could tell the man meant business. Barnabas W. Habernakell was a crude and scruffy man dressed up in his finest lawyer clothes. Tobacco spit drizzled down his chin and collected in his tightly done collar. The previously white handkerchief was stained a violent pink from the frequent altercations he partook in. If old Barb were to pull up his fists right now, it would have been no surprise to Jenkins.

Barb was the loving nickname given to this man by the folks of the town. If you were to ever ask why, your answer would be a concise one. Barb means that the man is a thorn in your side. Of course, nobody ever said that to Barnabas. In this part of the county you wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of a man who knows the law. Luckily, there was one way to get back at the money-grubbing lawyers and such. Almost all of them had a horrible gambling issue, as do most people with money to throw around. This way to get back was not always offensive though. Sometimes, gambling was a less than ethical way to get out of trouble with the law. One such method was a game called “Russian Roulette.” Of course, the common folk simply called it “One in The Gun.”

Jenkins was a man in trouble. During a fairly average bar fight, he had unknowingly punched the wrong man. Jenkins had been knocked down by the fist of an unknown adversary and when he came back up, he missed his strike and hit Barb. Jenkins insisted it wasn’t his fault, and that his actions were meant to be in self-defense, but there was nothing to do about it now. He had bloodied Barb’s teeth and caused him to spill his drink thanks to a fight that the man wasn’t involved with. It was almost certainly over for Jenkins. If he won a court hearing, he still wouldn’t have the money left over to feed his family.

Resourcefulness was something that was going to be important very shortly, and Jenkins had plenty. Instead of going to court, Jenkins bet half of the fine he would have to pay on a game of “One in The Gun” with Barb. Whoever wins gets all of the cash, and the case is dropped either way. Jenkins supposed that even if he died, his family could make it without him thanks to the life insurance he bought. Barb just wanted the quick cash. A prosecution would be expensive to put together, and he probably wouldn’t get much money by the end of the case. This short competition was a faster, and more reliable alternative to get the money. 

The section of the woods that the two men had chosen was well sheltered from all directions by trees. If anyone were looking this way, they wouldn’t see anything other than trees until they got close. It was perfect in that way, but beyond that, the area also had a large grassy plain in the center. If someone had wandered into the designated space, the only thing that would have seemed out of place, however, was the small table and bar stools. They were made of a cheap wood that neither of the men could identify. The table was covered in scratches, and the stools were not in any better of a condition. The set had been found in a back alley of the nearby town and were set up for this moment only. Once the victor was found, the table would be burnt along with the “extra” body. The leftover ashes were to be buried in a nearby ditch.

Jenkins and Barb eyed each other with a violent silence. The two men didn’t need to say anything to know that they were ready for this moment. Barb set two bullets on the table, and Jenkins set down the revolver. Eyeing the weapon carefully, Barb lifted the gun and dropped in a single round. He spun the barrel to test its weight in his hands. His task was successful. One of the two bullets was colored steel as opposed to brass, which made it much heavier than the normal type of round. This bullet was almost certain not to land in front of the barrel. As well as that, he had played this specific game many times, and almost everyone chose to place their bullet directly next to his to raise their chances of surviving in the later rounds. Barb would be going first, and as such would know that the amount of shots would be at least 2 before a bullet hit.

As it turned out, Barb was going to be wrong. His attempt to rig the game was expected by Jenkins, who placed his bullet into the top barrel. The chances of Barb getting struck were suddenly significantly higher, and the disgusting man had no idea. As Jenkins slid the casing in the chamber, his fingers began to shake with adrenaline. If Barb was able to tell the difference in the weight, he would instantly be alerted to the issue, and he may be able to further rig the game. Hands trembling, Jenkins ran his fingers along the edge of the chambers. The deep grooves indicating holes were suddenly much colder and less beautiful than he had perceived them a moment ago. The steel did not have its same vibrant glow that he had come to expect. He handed the pistol to Barb, and the world seemed to stop.

Barnabas was gripping the pistol with complete confidence. Birds flitted and chirped in the trees surrounding the men. A single squirrel darted in the peripherals of Jenkins’ vision that was evidently looking for a good place to stash the walnut he had gathered. Barb’s hand moved deliberately up past his hip, and Jenkins’ breath was getting more rapid. He glanced down at the stack of cash momentarily wondering if this was worth it. If Barb had seen through his plan, he didn’t show it, but there was always the chance that Jenkins would have to take his turn in a moment. Barb’s hand passed up past his ribs. Jenkins felt like he was going to faint. His adversary had his finger on the trigger now, and was cocking back the hammer. The barrel was now level with his head, and there was no hesitation in his eyes. Barnabas W. Habernakell was convinced that he had won already, and he pulled the trigger.

A bright flash erupted out of the other side of Barb’s head. He had lost. Jenkins sank down onto the damp ground, gripped by the realization of what had just happened. The gunshot rang in his ears, but he was not shocked. After all, Barb had not expected the game to be rigged back, but that was part of what troubled Jenkins. He was the one who placed that bullet. In a strange and detached way, he had killed a man. He spun a blade of grass in between his fingers. The revolver was laying next to the body, its barrel covered in the crimson blood of its victim. Jenkins loved his gun, but human blood was not something he had wanted to stain it with. He stood and slowly walked over to the gun. He lifted it with two fingers, as if he expected it to reach out and bite him. He holstered the gun and made a mental note to wash it. 

It did not take long for Jenkins to work through the final steps of the game. He burnt the leftovers and buried them, and he picked up the stack of cash. Dropping the money into his sack, he felt its weight. It was heavy with sin. He may have walked out alive, but it was that day that Jenkins realized that nobody can really win a rigged roulette.