The town of Uz was a little black stain among the green lush of the Midwest. It had been a horribly constructed factory town but promised salvation for many poor souls. But like any miracle its luster had long since fallen and was now a little tomb covered in soot and oil. The grease permeated clothes, hair, and skin and if a citizen of Uz went over to a neighboring city or town, the native inhabitants would know of their origin with one sniff in their general direction. It was small but not claustrophobic, with enough people that most everyone was familiar with one another, but not so small that your actions were documented hour by hour unless all the men spilled their liquor filled guts at the corner store or bar. There was only one bar, one supermarket, a handful of shops, a hospital, a bank, a corner store that had two pumps for gas, and a motel.

There were never any habitants at the motel just like there was never a new house being constructed. There was no room for growth in Uz, only decay. Which is why the appearance of a certain man perplexed even the most reckless of the townsfolk. A veteran, freshly discharged from the ranks, a handsome young fellow who always dressed in the most enticing suits even though no one knew of any occupation he kept. His hair was always freshly combed back, a little on the long side so when it fell forward, it caressed his chin in a pleasant way. He looked like a statue compared to the softer framed inhabitants, which only made him stand out more. He was the only patron at the old motel and soon negotiated with the owner to allow him to reside permanently in his room of choice: seven. That was the very room he walked out of, checking twice to make sure his door was locked to head towards the humble town bar. He stepped confidently through the midnight drizzle just as he did in any condition, with a whistle on his lips. He pushed the creaking door open as his ending note harmonized with bell the door crashed against and he skipped up to the bar. 

He flashed a practiced smile and said to the bartender, “Hey old fellow, give me a Black Russian, will you?”

Abaddon Moore was a man forever enticed with the game of chance. It was a morbid fascination sprouted from childhood and fertilized by his mother, who never attempted to shield him from this obsession, nor at least teach him the consequences. It started with rolling dice and making silly bets on playgrounds based on the outcome, but it wasn’t innocent for long. As he grew up in Las Vegas, the stakes grew higher and the games more elaborate. This didn’t phase him. Whether the wager was over a tournament of pool, a match of spades, or a deal of blackjack, he cared not. It all amused him the same. One might think he loved the fast money one can get from gambling. That wasn’t necessarily false. It wasn’t as if the soft lull of expensive clothes, cars, jewelry, and women didn’t interest him. Yes, he liked the thrill of not knowing when the next bust was around the corner, but he would get irrevocably drunk on the envy of the people he won money from. Every rare loss made people doubt him, which only led to their surprise at his calculated victory even more appealing. The sight of fear in a man’s eyes after he loses a bet, especially one he was sure he could overtake was the greatest pleasure Abaddon had ever experienced. He found the impoverished citizens of Uz the perfect audience. They had some money from their old factory days but were presently as bored as Abaddon nearly always was and thus more willing to engage in these games. And in these games against the comparatively poorly educated people of Uz, Abaddon never lost.

The bartender stopped polishing his glasses and began to prepare the drink. Abaddon leaned against the bar as some weary patrons stopped nursing their beers to glance at him. The man slid the drink into Abaddon’s hand with a wink and sudden enthusiasm.

“Caffeine? Planning on a long night?” The man mused.

Abaddon took a long swing of his drink, pursuing his lips as though he was in deep thought about the bartender’s words.

“You know I never leave till I make every man’s pockets my jester,” Abaddon said with a twinkle in his cadence. He gestured for another drink and enjoyed the faint grimace of the men sitting next to him, the memory of his victories still dancing in their minds.

“You’ve never made a fool of me,” a scruffy voice said.

The bartender’s lips curled in a grin as Abaddon set his empty glass down more harshly than intended. He steadied himself on his feet and turned towards the many tables and chairs that littered the lounge. His eyes roamed the men sitting in the dim light, recognizing most if not all of them. He didn’t recognize the timber of that voice, one clearly caused by age, and thus didn’t know the source. This ignorance caused him to soon become enraged.

“It’s horribly offensive to say such a bold thing and then to hide amongst the shadows,” Abaddon leered.

He heard a dry chuckle and followed it to a man who was holding a cigar, barely being illuminated by the pale moon, and fading neon lights.

“Relax young chap, I meant no offense. Come sit with me,” the older man said. He patted the chair to his right with his free hand and Abaddon narrowed his eyes. He stalked across the room and sat in the chair to the older gentleman’s left, much to his amusement. He scooted in close, allowing the wood to scrap against linoleum.

“Surely an old dog like yourself is all bark and bite.” Abaddon said, once only a particle of air separating his leg from the man’s. The man huffed out a laugh and smoke spilled onto Abaddon’s face. He tried not to notice that the smoke pointed to a rather exotic blend, one definitely from overseas and did not allow this knowledge to stir him but instead rally his boldness.

“This old dog is called Richard. Don’t you have any taste for chit-chat?”

At the admission of his title, Abaddon’s heart swelled. His suspicions were correct, and ignorance no longer plagued him.

“So, you’re the old banker with pockets lined with golden foil and lavish velvet coats accentuated by silver button trims and even a house on the outskirts of town lined with decadently shaped hedges that haven’t been muddled by even a twinge of soot. The old man whom everyone in town, even your late wife, cowers under the feeling of your price tag attached to the back of their necks. The tax collector too good to lie with his debtors,” Abaddon claimed with a smirk. He slouched in his chair as he relished in how the atmosphere of the bar shifted back into his favor as they remembered of who the old scruff was beyond these cigarette slick walls.

Richard cleared his throat and in a quiet voice uttered, “Yes, that’s me.”

Abaddon launched out of his chair and ordered a shot at the bar, triumphantly downing the glass without a chaser. The bar erupted into its normal chatter as the men grew drunker, even the bartender was slurring secrets into Abaddon’s greedy ears.

“Don’t tell me my money makes you fearful Abaddon,” Richard grumbled as he suddenly appeared beside Abaddon, expectantly.

The suited man let out a curt laugh. In the great game of life, he knew he had won against the old man. He was young, not horrifically wealthy but comfortable, handsome, charming, and most of all free. Richard was bogged down by the dealer of time, dealt all of the worst cards from half-baked decisions and laughable poker faces. And this meant that even though Richard had all the chips on his side, it was useless because he couldn’t appreciate the weight of each disc. He truly had nothing and so thus bet nothing, and that fact made him retired. Abaddon half-heartedly composed himself as he looked sideways at the man, who now in the more illuminating lights on the bar seemed what he truly was: a frail old man.

“There are very few times I have been afraid in my life, and tonight is not one,” he said when Richard did nothing about his staring, “but I will indulge you. Let us play a game of jacks for a round of drinks for all the men here on this night.”

The men in the bar lifted their drinks at that notion but Richard shook his head.

“Come now lad, don’t insult me so. I know that’s not what you truly desire. Be on with it,” Richard said against the roar of the crowd.

Abaddon’s eyebrows raised in the man’s refusal of his mercy and then scowled, “Alright Richard. Then, I want to own the bank. It’s ownership and all its affairs be signed over to me.” Lightning flooded the room with white light as if to punctuate his sentence and lock it in time and its accompanying thunder rocked the air.

Richard beamed and slapped his knee. “That’s more like it boy! Now let me think of your wager in return.”

“Save yourself the trouble old sport,” Abaddon said as he lazily gestured for the bartender to hand him the jacks and bouncy balls that he knew he kept under the counter. “I don’t lose.”

“Then let me at least have my pride boy.” Richard let out a sickly cackle that ended in his body wheezing like a broken accordion. It made Abaddon shift on his stool uncomfortably. “I know,” Richard said, slapping the table in earnest, “If I win, you’ll marry my poor daughter Lucille as soon as I pass on.”

“Your what?” Abaddon cried out incredulously.

“My daughter. She’s about your age I believe, a bright and caring young woman,” he stared solemnly at the wood of the bar as if he wished to disappear in the grains. “There was an accident when she was six with a bear on a hunting trip of mine. Her face has never been the same.” His wry fingers curled into an angry but utterly weak fist, “Blokes these days too conceited to see what a fine girl she is, and I should like to see her in the safety of a man before I leave this earth.”

Abaddon listened to him with intense boredom and began to set up the first round with Richard spoke. He felt pity for the man bogged down with more regrets than he had guessed five minutes prior, though it was a shallow pity. Still, he understood what it means to be a child under someone so consumed in their own misery and how this usually pointed to a long lineage of continued mistreatment: each diverging of the tree only discovering a new method of torture.

“You should prepare another avenue for her, because I do not intend to leave here with a bride,” he said with some tinge of sincerity.

Richard let out a wet laugh before his eyes settled on the jack before him. He grabbed them all in his hand as did Abaddon, “Perhaps but let us play.”

Each man threw their collection of jacks into the air. Abaddon caught five in his right fist, but Richard caught six in his left, which meant the old dog would go first. All the jacks went onto the bar as the patrons watched for the game to begin. Richard smiled as he bounced the ball in the air with right hand as he grabbed a jack with his left before the ball landed back in his hand. The first three rounds went well with each man grabbing their jacks and not letting the ball bounce a second time. It was the fourth round that the air grew a bit tenser as alcohol and sleepiness became to weigh on the two competitors, with Richard nearly falling off his stool to make sure all four jacks remained in his hand. In the fifth round, each fouled a couple of times, making the exchange of turns speed up. With Abaddon not absolutely leaving his opponent behind at the halfway point, the patrons of the bar one by one began to gather around the match, only making the heat in the room rise. In the next few rounds, foul frequency increased: balls bouncing twice, jacks slipping out of hungry fingers at the last moment. The crowd grew rowdier, people placing their own bets on who would win. Most money was logically on Abaddon’s side. By round nine, Richard was now standing, and Abaddon was stripped out of the outer layer of his suit, hair disheveled, and teeth gritted. Each man would taunt the other, shouting meaningless curse words to knock the other disoriented. They used napkins in between turns to wipe off the sweat accumulating in their palms, needing their hands to grant as much friction as possible. Everything was a distraction: the storm raging outside, the breath of the crowd, the careful refereeing of the bartender. But then soon each man grabbed the elusive nine jacks and then on another consecutive grabbed the remaining one.

It was the last round which was simple: grab all ten jacks in a single bounce of the ball. The crowd got much larger, some people had left to bring in the friends of their friends or family to witness the game of the old banker and cocky gambler. It was sick fascination to see who would triumph, though the townsfolk cared not for either. The whole matter was rather sadistic. Abaddon downed a glass of water before he returned to the match, standing beside Richard with a determined gleam in his eye. He thought momentarily of offering Richard an out now, before the check of their wager had to be deposited. He shoved that thought into the furnace of his heart and allowed it to shrivel until not even its ash was useful with self-satisfaction. He dried his hands with a napkin and took up the bouncy ball in his hand. He took a deep breath and everyone else held theirs at the base of their throat. He bounced the ball against the bar with a fury and didn’t hesitate to stretch out his hand to its farthest dimensions to collect all the jacks. But only eight were within his grasp when the ball struck the wood a second time. The crowd exclaimed and doubled over in anxiety, but Abaddon merely set the jacks down calmly and rolled the ball over to Richard. He had played so many games of jacks in his life and he knew there was a seldom a time he won a round of ten instantly. Richard held the ball with a strange softness before looking Abaddon in the eyes. But it was not the look Abaddon had gotten to accustomed to seeing across from him after all these years. His eyes appeared like black swallowing holes. It dizzied him completely and before he could will his face to respond, the ball was gone from Richard’s hand and in the other held all ten jacks.

The crowd was silent for a beat before erupting into pure chaos as the few who had betted in Richard’s favor nearly fainted in surprise. Many laid a hand upon Richard in pure congratulations while Abaddon stood still in utter shock.

“No!” he screamed like a grieving mother. His hand held the edge with a vice grip as he desperately searching under and over the bar for a spare jack anywhere, praying to a god he didn’t believe in that Richard had not just bested him. But there was no jack that wasn’t in Richard’s fist. Abaddon took up the old man, clutching his shirt in tight first and the crowd quieted down at this violence.

“You’re a lying cheating old man! Where is the last jack?” Abaddon leered, spitting in the man’s face as he shook him.

Richard let out a cold chuckle and in rage Abaddon threw the man down into the crowd and turned away from him. His laughter grew is a grand crescendo until his whole being, his organs, blood, and soul was joining him. His lungs lunged out spatter, trying to get him to calm his convulsions but the laughter built up a life of its own. It was louder than that raging storm, certainly louder than the crowd, and louder than all the mistakes and regrets Richard had every had in his life. He started to howl and claw at his sides, fingernails becoming full of skin as his breaths growing shorter, and his head filled with the effort of the noise. He sputtered once then twice and then with a long-elated groan fell onto the linoleum floor.

“Would you stop gloating you old geezer!” Abaddon yelled, finally turning around to face his superior. But all annoyance left his face as the patrons swarmed Richard’s now eerily still body only to discover his pulse was no more and no breath would enter his guilt weighted body again.

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