Tevun-Krus #22 - Best of 2015

There aren't really any tried and true strategies for winning at cards against a six armed alien with a vicious temper and poison spit.

Rip'em Jarkaroo had the reputation of a sore loser, possibly due to a bad habit of relieving his opponents of their limbs when he lost. Despite this, I refused to fold. It wasn't my choice to make port on this back water swill of a planet, twenty light years from the whisper of the law, and I'd be damned if I was going to lose any spank money to a slavering moronic mess like Rip'em.

The bugger couldn't hold his drink, already three sheets to the wind after a couple shots of frontier moonshine. Two of his arms kept grabbing at the unfortunate Vargosian chained in the corner.

It was rare seeing one out this far and judging by the swollen state of her lady parts she would be in heat soon. I needed to be far from this piss hole before she flooded the bar with hormones. Lonely, horny people were good for business. They drank more. If I wasn't on such a tight schedule I might have indulged in a few memorable indiscretions, but my load of goods was due on the Gallows in two days time. Those people didn't appreciate tardiness. If I wanted to leave with my payment and no grievous wounds, I had to reclaim my stack of chips from this drunken idiot without losing my remaining good arm in the process.

"Come on, Hiroshim, call it or draw a card," Rip'em snarled, haucking a dollop of spit on the table. It sizzled, slowly melting into the wood.

Rip'em was ugly even for a Triniad. His normally angular face was dented and scarred from one too many fights. One of his eyes stalks was crooked. His breath reeked of month old garbage and rotting vegetable matter. For all their strength and biological advantages, the Triniads were mostly vegetarians. Angry, savage, vegetarians.

I forced myself to stop looking at the chunk of Rip'em's previous meal wedged between his teeth and studied my hand. It wasn't a great one. Strata was an old game, not like the sleek multi-dimensional games played on the inner ring. It was similar enough to Poker that it could be played with a deck of human playing cards. The terms were different, and the winning hands were much harder to figure out but I studied this game inside and out on the long hours between ports. What else was there to do in space.

"Draw me a card."

Rip'em slid a card from the top of the deck in front of me. I took a moment to peek at it, praying for a face card. A nine of spades. Damn. It wasn't a complete loss. Spades was the highest suit. I glanced at at the Triniad. His other eye stalk was drooping, dulled by drink. The hands that held his cards had a slight tremor while a third errant arm brought another a third shot to his lips. My brow raised at that. Reputation or not, Rip'em was drunk, stinking drink, repent for your sins drunk. Not the sort I could see ripping my arms off if he lost a hand, unless he fell on me in the process.

"I call," I said, giving him a confident smirk as I added my last chips to the pile.

That's when it happened. The six arm, the unoccupied one, casually slipped up from under the table to rifle a few 'new' cards into place. Did he think I wouldn't notice it? Probably too gone to care. That does it. I was willing to do this the tried and true proper way but if he was going to cheat, he needed to be more subtle about it. Two could play that came.

I have one good arm, the arm I was born with. I also have a great one. A bad skiff accident a few years back and a mechanic's refurbishment left me with a replacement. I happen to add a few upgrades myself. Keeping my eyes up on the Triniad, I pressed a hidden pocket of my wrist against the table. The hologram gave off the dullest sheen before settling into place over the cards. A hand full of face cards, with a pair of smiling Royal Ladies to take the pot. Why it was my lucky day.