Fiction: Game Night With The Fellas

By Chris Brady

 

Iron rolled doubles twice in a row and had to pay out the ass cause I had hotels up on those brown, slum motherfuckers that everyone underestimates but always seem to land on.

“This some bullshit,” he whined while paying up. He was out of hundreds except for the two he got for sliding around the Go corner. Told him I wasn’t gonna take no tens or fives, so he handed me the rest in twenties. Those Andrew Jacksons looked good atop my pile. 

“Roll doubles again, your ass going to jail,” I said. 

“Man, fuck you, Thimble,” he barked back. “Quote the rules to his ass.” 

Iron nodded at Battleship whose corpse lay on the floor next to an overturned folding chair. Half his head had been blown off from the double-ought buckshot loaded in Driver’s sawed-off pump. 

Part of me thought it served Battleship right since it was his own self who wanted to play in the first place. Play for real, the fool. 

Five days stuck indoors with no phones, no TV, and nothing to do will get you thinking like that, I suppose. Especially when you’re oogling a duffle bag full of money that you can’t spend. So, Battleship got bored and looked around the safe house. Came back with an old Monopoly game he found in some closet. 

“Let’s make this interesting,” he’d grinned, shaking the box like a damn piggy bank. 

Driver agreed real quick cause he was sitting closest to our firearms. He grabbed the shotgun and declared that his share would be the game’s bank money. Winning player would become his sole partner. 

“Rest ya’ll shit outta luck if you lose.” Then he racked the pump for emphasis. 

Didn’t take long before Driver’s bank was flush with deposits. Especially since Battleship had bought up property like a motherfucker, betting he’d get ahead by cockblocking the board. But it’s hard to win when you spread yourself thin. Can’t afford no houses, hotels. And when he went tits up, he turned bitch. Claimed we was cheating.

To silence the pouting, Driver pulled the trigger. 

“Sore loser is problematic,” he had said while his hands worked another rack that kicked a smoking shell down to the hardwood floor.

After tossing the tiny metal boat back in the box I asked Driver if he wanted the rest of Battleship’s money to go in the bank. 

“Nah,” Driver said. “Put that shit in the kitty. Maybe you’ll land on that lucky parking.” 

I complied while the shotgun’s muzzle followed my hands. 

With the board opened back up, I capitalized while Iron’s luck spoiled. 

Now the dice crackled in his hand. He threw them again. 

They landed nine, five with four. 

Driver chuckled. 

“Looks like your electric bill’s come due. Give those dice another roll.”

Tears streamed from Iron’s eyes as he picked them up and dropped them limp-handed on top of Battleship’s blood-stained bills. 

Boxcars looked back at him. He slumped in his chair and sobbed. 

I took pity on the man even though I didn’t know his real name. 

“Come on, boy. Mortgage your shit.”

He shook his head violently and wailed like a baby, his spirit tapped along with his bankroll. 

I reached across the table and flipped over his property cards, counting their depreciated values out loud. 

That’s when he bolted, attempting a run for the door.

The shotgun roared before he could touch the knob. 

Iron dropped, body damn near cut in two.

I looked over at Driver who had the sawed-off pointed at my chest. 

I raised my hands in surrender.

But he surprised me by pumping the gun, shucking the last three shells out from its ejector. Then he tossed it onto the table where the pistols sat along with our crew’s boogeyman masks and sweat-stained coveralls. 

Driver told me to grab my money. Said that I was either a strategist or lucky. Either way, I’d proven myself valuable. We’d pay off our handler before starting our own thing. Him behind the wheel. Me doing crash and grab.

I looked at the two dead bodies. 

“And in the meantime?” I asked. 

“Shit,” he shrugged. “How about tic-tac-toe?”

 

 

 

 

 

Chris Brady writes historical pulp and crime fiction. He lives in Nebraska where he teaches history.