By Ray Wallace
Michael couldn't believe his rotten luck. A royal flush in hand, a million dollars in the pot, and he was having a heart attack! He slumped onto the table, laid his cards facedown next to his chips - - gambler's instincts - - heard one of his three opponents saying “Somebody call a doctor,” then everything faded away… Until he was consumed by darkness…
Then there was light. Michael was seated at a different table, smaller, with only two chairs, his and a vacant one. He was in a room without walls or ceiling, its floor stretching off indefinitely in every direction.
Suddenly there was a figure seated opposite him, a tall figure in a black robe and hood that hid its features. Skeleton hands stuck out from black sleeves shuffling a deck of cards. A scythe stood leaning against the table.
“I think you know how this works,” said the Grim Reaper.
They'd been through this seven times now. The first when Michael was an aging officer in George Washington's army. A British spy shot him during a game of dice. The Reaper came for him, confounding Michael by saying, “I see you like to gamble.”
Terrified, Michael nodded.
Death offered a proposal. “One game. I win; you come with me. You win; you get to live. I'll even give you a few years back, let you live longer.”
Michael was stunned. “What do you get out of it?”
“Some good old-fashioned fun.”
Michael won and the Reaper kept his word. He came to and checked where the bullet had penetrated. Not a scratch. A glance in a mirror showed a man twenty years younger staring back.
Each time Michael died, there was another game as Death apparently became obsessed with beating him. Seven straight wins. Could he make it eight?
“Five card draw. Aces high,” Death said and offered the cards for a cut. Michael passed.
The Reaper dealt. “Nothing's wild. With an ace you can discard four.”
Michael picked up his cards.
Two of hearts. Five of diamonds. Nine of hearts. Jack of clubs. Ace of spades.
Garbage.
Michael discarded four, got four more.
“I'll stay,” said Death.
Michael looked at his new cards: Eight of clubs. Eight of diamonds. Ace of hearts. Ace of diamonds.
Michael laid out his cards. “Full house. Aces and eights.”
Death nodded. “A good hand. But not good enough.”
Death showed his cards: Ten of clubs. Jack of clubs. Queen of clubs. King of clubs. Ace of clubs. A royal flush!
Death chuckled, grabbed his scythe then reached toward Michael. “Your luck has finally run out…”
As those bony fingers touched him, Michael remembered his discards. Jack of clubs! He grabbed the Grim Reaper's sleeve, gave it a shake. The cards hidden within tumbled out.
“I've heard of cheating death,” Michael said, “but this is ridiculous.”
Death howled and then darkness. Michael heard someone repeating, “Somebody call a doctor!”
Michael sat up. His three opponents gasped. Apparently they'd never seen a man keel over then get up looking twenty years younger.
They think that's something, Michael thought, wait until they see my hand…