The Gambler's Lucky Feather
By Mark D. Rogers

"No luck, Jack," said the man sitting next to me.

He was referring to the fact that my last dime was snatched away by the merciless slot machine. Lighting a Camel Filter, I watched in hungry wonder as the stranger hit the jackpot again. This guy must be rich. I had seen this man winning for the last two hours I had spent at the Digger's Nugget Casino (the name always reminded me about picking one's nose). For some strange reason I thought that his winning streak would rub off on me if I played the remaining portion of my paycheck on the "Adam's Family" nickel machine nearest to the lucky bastard.

Why am I spending all my cash in a shitty casino like this? The answer to that question is quite simple: I was dumped yesterday. Shari and I had only been dating for three months. She is the lead checker at the QFC, and unfortunately she is my boss. Apparently I couldn't satisfy her in the sack, but her square bum and stretch marks didn't exactly crank my lever. Honestly, she was no real catch, but who wants a stumpy, beer bellied, freckle-face like me? I guess, in a perverted way, surrounding myself with casino regulars doesn't make my life look so dim.

"Cheer up guy," said the gambler, trying to wrestle the untamed river of quarters vomiting from his machine. "Some days you got it and some ya don't."

"That seems easy for you to say," I said, while pondering what it would be like to have laundry money for the rest of my life. My name is Clifford O'Connor, but most people call me Red, because of my Irish hair color. Actually, most people call me, "Fire Crotch" or "Leprechaun," behind my back.

The old gambler was ugly beyond measure but an extravagant dresser. A plethora of chains decorated his hairy neck. I think that he was of Native American descent. His skin looked like weathered leather, and his hair hung like dead twigs from underneath his cowboy hat. It looked heavy on his frail head. It was covered in black bird feathers and decorated with a star-shaped belt buckle that rested upon the rim. Draped around his shoulders, he wore a crimson cape that offset his blindingly ivory suit. He was garnished with gold jewelry, and walked with a slight limp.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, tapping me on the knee with the head of his cane.

"Bobby Brown," I said, lying. As a rule, I never use my real name around strangers, and he was certainly strange.

"Nice to meet you, Bobby Brown. My name is David Letterman!" He grabbed his bloated gut and laughed uncomfortably close to my face. His breath smelt of yeasty mold. The stranger sat back upon his stool and smiled a toothless grin after regaining a small bit of composure.

"You have been watching me, Jack." He jabbed the head of his cane into my knee again, and this time I noticed the handle was made of some small skull, like a monkey's. "Haven't you been watching me, Jack?"

"No man, I am just here to lose my money, I wasn't watching you."

I was about to open my mouth when he flicked me on the forehead like a mother does to a naughty child. "Never lie to an old man, boy. I can see it in your eyes." I was starting to feel very uncomfortable as he moved even closer so that my face was only an inch away from his. I would have left the scene, but I had unfortunately chosen a stool by the wall, so he had me cornered. The crazy old man pointed to his cowboy hat and smiled.

"I got lucky feathers," and again, hideous laughter exploded like a fart in my face. I tried to duck around the man, but he jammed the skull head of his cane into my crotch, pinning me to my stool.

"Hey listen mister..."

"Shut up, Jack." The man reached up and plucked one of the feathers from his hat and held it up in front of my face. "This is a magic feather. You can't lose with this. It enables the holder to kill their enemies, seduce any woman, and become rich beyond their wildest dreams. Sounds interesting don't it, Jack?"