Saint of Whales - Chapter VII
Cards flicked quickly and directly across the table, landing in front of the five card players in the smoky back room of the cramped, smoke-filled back room of the Brickman Alehouse in Turner Valley. Gentle whirs and hisses sounded in alternating fashion as the dealer’s cybernetic wrist moved in precise fashion. Two guards stood at each exit—one door leading from the tavern, and one door leading out back to the alleyway—each looking to be cut from the same bolt of cloth: six-ish foot in height, big but not muscular, energy revolvers at their hips, bandanas hanging down just beneath their eyes, and dressed in black from head-to-toe with duster jackets stopping just above their ankles. The dim light and smoke in the air made it hard to get a sense of the colour of the guards’ skin. There was a good chance with the Brickman being a Sargent Boyz joint, the guards could have been white or Black or Indigenous, Métis, or Inuit. While absolutely as criminal as criminal could be, they didn’t discriminate when it came to membership, something that absolutely rankled the constabulary and other gangs. Even their name, the Sargent Boyz, was taking the piss, with their leadership mostly comprised of by women and nonbinary folx. The Cooke Boys, on the other hand—the Cook-E’s, to those who wanted to grind their gears—and most systems within imperial Canada, spent too much time caring about the colouring of someone’s skin, even when every skin suit vaporized the same way under a laser blast. Of course one’s identity and physical presentation mattered in a thousand-and-one ways, but skin and body was all the same when it came to the business of stand-and-deliver.
When it came to cards and the dealings thereof, however, cyborgs were preferred over someone non-augmented. Gambling, unless explicitly and expensively authorized by the imperial government of Canada, was grossly illegal. No one really trusted cyborgs, though most people couldn’t even really decide when someone became a cyborg or when they were still human. For some, it was as soon as someone got their first implant, for others it was when they were more mechanical than biological. At the end of the day, like most things related to judgment, until someone knew someone else had implants, they didn’t care. Poker, however, was a different thing. The standard cybernetic fare for dealers was a wrist replacement that ensured cards were distributed with the same throw, same speed, same everything every time, and at least one eye implant to watch for cheating. Every player wanted to feel like they had a chance to win, even when they didn’t, and while they might not trust a cyborg with their children, they’d trust a cyborg in the smoky back room of a down-on-its-luck alehouse a day’s ride out of Calgary.
The dealer’s hydraulic wrist hissed as a second card flicked out at each player, landing perfectly atop the first. “As we know, the game is Texas Holdem and since we’ve been playin’ all night we all know the rules at the table,” the dealer said, turning its metallic skull from player to player, looking each one, from first to fifth, square in the eyes to emphasize the importance of the rules. “We also all know the rules of the joint we’re in, but it never hurts to go over them again before we resume play,” the dealer said, repeating the slow turn from player to player. The dim glow of the electric lights glinted off cords and cables running up the silver spinal column supporting the metallic head rest at the top. “There’ll be no cussin’ and no spittin’. Smoke all the cigars you want, but leave that chew in the pouch. Drink your liquor, or don’t, but don’t get the courage to be someone you’re not. You all know the price—fifty dollars—to buy back in if you bust. All the money stays in this box,” the dealer said, tapping on the lockbox to its side, “until it’s time to dispense the winnings.”
With its right hand, the dealer removed the green visor from its perfectly round head and adjusted its horsehair with its left hand before replacing the visor. “Of course, we’re all aware that there ain’t to be any trouble here neither. You know this a Sargent game and the Sargents ain’t in the business of messin’ around. Not to mention, the last thing we need is imperials making themselves known. We all understand that?”
The dealer looked around the table at the players. The white settler man to the immediate left was pale and gaunt, his face thin from malnourishment. Raggedy coveralls hung off him, looking like they ought to have been worn by a man carrying an extra fifty pounds. The weight of a pistol in the front pouch didn’t help with the fit, with the pocket sagging forward and exposing even more of the man’s skinny, liver-spotted chest. His hair, while looking as though it hadn’t seen a wash in months, appeared surprisingly thick and lush, falling to his shoulders, and being held back with a leather thong. He held up a dirt-encrusted thumb and nodded while his lips pulled back and his licked at brown and rotting teeth. As unkempt and undesirable as he looked, the stacks of chips sitting in front of him told a story of a cutthroat at the poker table.
Beside the settler, a tall, broad-shouldered Indigenous woman leaned back casually in her chair. She wore a finely made black button-down shirt with a similarly crafted vest over top. A tailored, armoured suit jacket of leather and chain mail rested on the back of her chair. Intricate red beading ran from one shoulder to the other. Dark glasses sat on her face, and a wide-brimmed ten-gallon hat rested atop beautiful, black hair falling to the middle of her back. Two intricately detailed holsters rested at her armpits. The revolvers’ grips looked well-used, and her deadly confidence—even with her relaxed posture—was plain to any looking at her. The stacks of chip sitting in front of her dwarfed those of the pale man to her right, and also presented a sizeable advantage over the other three at the table.
Beside the woman, two more white settlers sat at the table. Both looked nervous, both had dwindling chip piles, and their Sunday-best clothing had seen better days. From an objective standpoint, the two men looked like they were in a game they shouldn’t have been, like they’d begged to play out of their league because they thought it was their league. Unlike the first man on the left of the table and the Indigenous woman beside them, they did not carry any degree of confidence. Maybe they were confident in whatever jobs they held—banker, storekeeper, postal worker perhaps—but with cards on the table, money in play, and around people who made it their business to mean business, the two white settler men had the same poise as snowballs in a furnace. A lack of firearms likely didn’t do much either to address their lack of confidence, though it certainly spoke to being in totally over their heads.
At the final seat of the table sat a female-presenting cyborg dressed in a bright yellow, western dress shirt buttoned all the way up with a cornflower blue vest over top, and a pair of blue jeans and cowboy boots. Unlike the dealer, the female-presenting cyborg wore smooth, grey-tinged, pink synthetic skin over its metallic frame. Grey leather gloves extended midway up the forearm, leaving the question open as to how much augmentation had been done. Its hair seemed of higher quality than the dealer and fell in gentle curls midway down the chest. The stack of chips in front of the cyborg was closer, though considerably shorter, to that of the Indigenous woman than anyone else at the table.
“It's good to see we mostly have an understanding here and while I don’t want to bore none of y’all, going over expectations is always a good thing. While my friends at the doors are here to help us keep the room nice and quiet, I ain’t no flower neither,” the dealer said, holding its right arm out across the table. More gentle hydraulic sounds rang out as the right hand folded straight up off its wrist, displaying the wide mouth of an energy blaster. “If anyone wants to start any problems, this is how I sort problems out, and I don’t ask questions. We all got this?”
All five players nodded, and the dealer’s hand folded back over the mouth of the blaster. “Good, glad to know we’re on the same page,” it said. The dealer straightened its vest and string tie before picking up the deck of cards, and nodding at the immediately man to his left, and the Indigenous woman. “You’re the small and big blinds, so get those in.”
The man sucked at his rotten teeth and threw his chip in. The woman rocked forward slightly to push in her forced bet before leaning back. She looked cool as could be, while the man with rotten teeth wore his nerves plainly on his face. The two poor settler men nervously set their opening calls in front of them, while the other cyborg casually tossed their own chips in to complete the opening round of betting. The dealer didn’t care who had nerves and who didn’t, and dropped a card from the top of the deck before flopping three cards: three of spades, ace of spades, queen of clubs.
“A trey, a bullet, and a lady willing to play here on the flop,” the dealer said, looking around the table. “What do we think?”
A series of knocks rang around the table from left to right.
“Not a lot of action, but maybe that changes on the draw,” the dealer said, dropping another card to the table and flipping a card down to the right of the three flop cards. A queen of spades. “And we’ve got another lady in the mix. This one with a shovel and three other shovels in play. Who’s digging a grave today,” the dealer commented, eyes flicking to the left.
The pale man didn’t hesitate in throwing in a half-dozen chips, passing the action to his right. The Indigenous woman added the requisite number of chips, her expression not changing in the slightest. The first man beside her shook his head but still met the bet, as did the man beside him, while the cyborg on the far side of the table who folded its cards.
“Three shovels, a pair of queens, what comes down the river, only the gods know,” the dealer commented, burning another card before flipping the river and setting it beside the other four on the table. A king of spades. “And here we are, folks. A king to fill out the table. Four shovels. A pair of ladies. Will we dig, or will the ladies rule the table?” The dealer’s gazed shifted again to its left.
Failing at hiding his obvious excitement, the pale man pushed in a larger pile of chips and turned his rotten smile to the Indigenous woman to his left. He licked his lips and shot a wink. “What you say, baby? When I win we can split from he—”
The answer came in the form of an extended index finger, and a cold stare. “Shut your fucking trap, you fucking pig.” The woman pushed in a matching amount of chips, and added another pile, sending the man’s confidence running down his leg. A lot of white settlers were the same. Lots of talk, lots of swagger, lots of barking and lots of leg-humping. When it came time to be counted, however, white people were usually trying to find a way to weasel out with what didn’t belong to them.
The action moved to the out-of-their-element settlers, the first of whom appeared to do everything within his power not to look to his partner beside him. From his body language, the small pile of chips in front of him represented more than just his gambling funds. Whether it was rent or grocery money was anyone’s guess, but it most certainly was not discretionary spending. However, another classic symptom of the white settler complex was wanting more than one had and more than one needed, and, with a deep breath, the man pushed all his remaining chips into the centre of the table. The bet drew a mechanical whistle from the dealer.
“And we’ve got a brave player going all-in here, folks,” it said.
Beside the now all-in white man, the other man swallowed hard, his eyes flicking between the chips at the centre of the table, his own chips in front of him, and the man he was with. He licked his lips quickly. His nerves showed plainly to all in the room. At this point, it almost didn’t matter what cards he held. The man was afraid, but he, too, pushed in all his remaining. Fear of missing out, fear of being unable to share in an experience, these were two things that shook the settler—untethered to any culture beyond that of greed—to the core. If he didn’t play, he wouldn’t win, and if he didn’t win he was a loser and his pride wouldn’t allow him to be a loser.
The female-presenting cyborg folded its own cards and threw them into the centre of the table, giving a wave to the dealer.
“The time has come, my dear players. Let’s show our cards and see what destiny has in store,” the dealer said.
As the words finished falling from its mouth, however, the back door burst off its hinges. A flurry of activity saw a person dressed black-on-black-on-black drill the two guards in their respective temples with the butt of a pair of revolvers, dropping them to the ground. In a smooth motion, the bandit levelled the guns at the guards on the opposite side of the room and fired two shots, each striking a guard in the head and sending them to the floor. So fast and so smooth it was hard to catch the motion, the person spun the revolvers to shoulder holsters and drew a pair of sawed-off blackened steel shotguns from holsters at the hips, black leather wrapped around their tobacco stocks. The shotguns aimed straight ahead at the table.
“Stand and deliver, motherfuckers. Your goddamn money or your goddamn life.”
The dealer whirled in its seat as it stood, right hand folding up and over the wrist exposing the barrel of the laser cannon, a green glow building around the mouth. Without hesitating, the bandit pulled the trigger on one of shotguns. The slug blasted the dealer in the chest, sending it flying back across the table, and splashing the card players with chips, green coolant and red blood. The others at the table—the three packing heat, at least—burst up from their seats, guns drawn, seeing enough of a chance to make a stand, though the four downed guards and one dead dealer saw the female-presenting cyborg and the Indigenous woman lower—though not holster—their guns.
The figure at the door calmly aimed the remaining loaded sawed-off at the dirty white settler. Without adjusting their gaze, the bandit holstered the depleted shotgun and grabbed a bag from their belt and tossed it on the card table. In a smooth motion, the bandit drew one of the revolvers back out and levelled it alongside the sawed-off. At just about five-feet-seven-inches with a slim build, it wasn’t like the robbery was being conducted by the most intimidating person in the world, but the black-on-black-on-black-on-black ensemble—duster, western shirt, jeans, and boots—along with the black bandana pulled up over a finely structured face underscored this was not a first time affair. Of course, the brutal efficiency of the robbery made that clear, too.
“Tut tut, motherfuckers. Someone best put the lockbox in that bag or it gets a whole lot messier in here.”
Unsurprisingly, one of the poor white men broke first and took the lockbox and put it in the bag.
The bandit nodded a few times, the corners of their eyes squinting as a smirk spread underneath the bandana. “Alright alright. Good to know one of y’all ain’t deaf or stupid. Now I want y’all to put any remainin’ cash or valuables in there, too. I do accept gold in case any of y’alls is wonderin’.”
The Indigenous woman sucked at her teeth and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, unclasping a gold watch from around her right wrist before sliding the rings off her fingers and tossing them all into the bag. “You do know you’re in Burner Valley, yeah?”
“Oh you goddamn right I know where I’m at,” the bandit said, nodding a few times and making eye contact before looking around the room. “Hustle up, y’all. This ain’t the kind of thing where slow and steady wins the race. Get that money in that bag and you’ll do okay. Waste more time and you won’t have time to waste.”
To the right, the female-presenting cyborg shifted a bit. The soft whirring of hydraulics brought the bandit’s focus quickly over, and pointed the revolver at the cyborg’s head. “Don’t make me spray your oil everywhere. I’ll do it and if you know who I am, you know I mean it because you know I’ve done it.”
At the far side of the table, the filthy white man slowly lowered his revolver, apparently trying to lull the bandit into relaxing for a moment before he brought it back up quickly, pulling the trigger and missing badly, the bullet firing off high to the right. Unfortunately for him, the bandit didn’t miss. The blast of the sawed-off splattered everyone at the table with another shower of blood, bone, and gore, and sent a bigger spray out behind him. The body dropped to the ground with a thud. The other two settlers looked at each other, their faces turning white as sheets, with the one on the right fainting, and the one the left turning away to vomit at the feet of the Indigenous woman. The woman clenched her jaw and stepped away from the table, hands in the air.
“This here’s a Sargent Boyz card game,” she commented.
“Oh I know whose game it is,” the bandit said, looking at the woman and winking, holstering the discharged shotgun at their right hip. While grabbing the bag from the card table, the bandit looked at the door—where the sound of keys frantically jingling signalled it was time to leave—before looking back at the card players left standing and winked. “Y’all can let anyone and everyone know Mz. X took this game. You make sure everyone damn well know I’m the taxman and I ain’t never forget to collect,” the bandit said, starting to walk backwards, revolver panning from right to left and left to right. “Y’all understand?”
“I heard of you,” the woman said and jabbed her chin at the dead men laying on the on the floor. “You ain’t needin’ any help spreading your name. You best get your ass outta here unless you’re wanting to keep on shooting.”
Mz. X tipped their hat and turned on their heels, barreling out of the back door and into the alleyway. They sprinted down to the street to a hitched horse and holstered their revolver. In a fluid motion, Mz. X unhitched the palomino and mounted up, snapping the reins and digging their spurs into the horse’s side. Shouting and screaming and gunshots followed in the air behind as the horse bolted down the street of Turner Valley and towards edge of the town. Robbing was easy stuff for Mz. X, and, in a lot of ways, it was the right thing to do, especially when it was the Sargent Boyz getting robbed. While the gang might have fancied themselves a lot of things in a lot of ways—pretending to be all Robin Hood when they were really only robbing and extorting people already getting robbed and extorted by the Imperial Government of Canada, acting like their being led by all of types of people from the margins themselves made them some sort of saintly types, for example—they were still lining their pockets with blood money. Mz. X prided themself on being someone who redistributed wealth built from robbing the poor and working poor. While, of course, there was a slight surcharge for their trouble, Mz. X made sure the coin went back to the people who didn’t do a thing wrong except for being born into misfortune.
After the sprint out of town and turning off the road, Mz. X was able to slow their horse to a trot. It wouldn’t be long before they were back at their camp, and then it would be time to count up and start planning the next job.
