Multi-textured leaves blew off the monotone trees as the players gathered on that cool, wispy Autumn night. The clouds were heavy and thick, they'd stolen the moonlight ~ If you don't easily scare and can handle the mind-sight, please be my guest, grab a scotch, and settle yourself for a hors concours thriller of fright!
If I remember well the date, the hour was wee, and they'd been playing for 63 hours straight. The tasty hors d'oeuvres Raven Riley had long since ate, and Thee Ol Shadow, the dirty whore from Baltimore had left to find another 2 cent mate ~ When did come from the attic a most disturbing sound. Describe it I must . . . pound Pound POUND, pound Pound POUND. Then silence! Yes silence fell upon the dry attic dust.
Not a word. Not a creak. Even the chip riffling did stop as terror paralyzed the freaks. Then, as if in slow motion came this flop: 666 with not one spade. Wolfman checked. Gimp checked. Without hesitation, without a flinch The Man bet pot. Then, unable to contain himself, Wolfman howled with pleasure as his hand was made!
more to come . . .
As The Man grinned with his deep-set eyes, content and sickly, he dragged the pot of mostly dead butterflies. The Autumn was passed by Winter, and Winter by Spring. Then, as Spring became June, The Man not only won their souls, but also their fortune ~ And before I knew it just like that he was gone. Vanished! Not near, not far. On the old oak table, he simply left the letters carved E d g a r.
No comments:
Post a Comment