Slinger

Marcus set down his cards, face up, and pulled the stack of coins toward himself without bothering waiting for the rest of the players to show their own hands. After several hours of playing, the pot had become more than a man could need in life for the next several years, and many men had backed out a long time prior, so as to save themselves from bankruptcy as the values raised and they could no longer afford to play. With only three players left, he had goaded the others into going all-in - a final move to end the game once and for all. The most dangerous bet, but one that he had no doubt his undefeatable royal flush could win.

There was silence from the other two as he thanked them for their time, slipping the coins into his bag to be taken to the front and exchanged for cash. And to no one's surprise, as he stood and turned away, there was the abrupt noise of a chair being kicked over, and the click of a gun ready to fire. Marcus stood his ground, but did not turn to look at his assailant. He had expected as much to occur. After all, the chances of pulling that hand were less than one in five hundred thousand. A mere fraction of a percentile.

"The hell do you think you're going, you cheating son of a whore?" The voice was that of the man who had been sitting on Marcus's right - a nervous looking fellow who, though he had started the game with the most cash, had become continuously more irritable as his measurable wealth become increasingly modest. He had had all the confidence in the world at the beginning of the night. Just not the cards to back it up. "You're going to sit back down and play another hand."

"And what, pray tell," Marcus asked without turning around, "are you going to bet? If you haven't noticed, you just lost the rest of your money. All-in is called that for a reason, you know."

"You owe me another game."

"I owe you nothing. If you have something to bet, then you owe me something."

The shot rang loud and clear through the mostly empty hall, accompanied by a bright flash of light. The man was most certainly less than a foot behind Marcus - an impossible distance to miss from, even with the way his hands were shaking. Yet the bullet had penetrated the wall across from them a good two feet to the left of where Marcus stood, a fading blue light tracing its path through the air after it curved away from his body.

Marcus was pushing a cigar into his mouth as he finally glanced over his shoulder at the man, who stood stock still, his eyes wide, the gun still smoking in his hand. With a snap of his fingers, Marcus summoned a spark of flame into the air, with which he lit his cigar. He took a long drag, and puffed the smoke out into the air. "For what it's worth," he murmured, "the only magic I used during that game was to see through the barmaid's dress. Much fresher a sight than your sorry ass. Winning was nothing more than a matter of counting."

And with that, he slipped away.