They sat across from one another in the smoked filled room. Each looked over the table between them, focused their eyes on the other’s, piercing the very consciousness of his opponent. Despite the roaring crowd of onlookers surrounding them, neither could hear anything but the pulsations of their hearts upon their temples. The room was humid. Beads of sweat began to form at the brow of the first man. The second’s eyelid twitched slightly in the midst of heightened anxiety. Reaching behind him, the first man pulled out his billfold, a light tan, worn leather wallet, from his back pocket. The wallet looked on silently as he extracted the tattered bills from its crevice and tossed them to the center of the table. The crowd cheered on, taunting the second man in cruel expectation to ante up his half of the booty. He traced the thin lined mustache on his upper lip with his forefinger and thumb thoughtfully, a sharp pain of fear in his eye. Thunderous pounding rumbled up from every direction around the small table; restless gamblers stomped on the wooden floors and rocked their chairs. Sweat stains began to form in the deepest crease of his armpits. His mind fluttered back to the bills building at home. His children who were going hungry. His wife who saw his failure. He gave a sigh of resignation and reached into his pocket, pulling out his gold-plated money clip. A few green bills spewed from the fold. He slipped the greens out and tossed them in the pile. The crowd reacted with agreeable chants and reckless ranting. The first man smiled, a gold tooth gleaming in the dimly lit room.

            A man emerged from the sidelines, holding a rusted tin box over his bulbous belly, a dingy white undershirt stretched over the sweaty hump. He carefully placed the box on the edge of the table. The house lights dimmed and a single lit lamp hung over the table, casting long shadows down the men’s faces. Swirls of gray smoke lingered about the room, the smell of booze and sweat pungent. The hinges of the box creaked as the lid was lifted, revealing a polish-stripped black revolver, bearing a splintered wooden handle. Three small thuds clattered in the box as the dull bits of metal rolled aimlessly around the butt of the gun. The large bellied man plucked the bullet of his choice from the box and gingerly scooped the gun up in his other hand. He placed the gun between the two men and let the bullet roll from his pudgy fingers. Gathering up the soiled bills he raised the box above his head for display to the uproarious crowd. The bills were thrown into the box and the lid slammed shut. The man shouted undiscernibly and backed away, signifying the beginning of the game.

            Silence fell like a thick blanket over the crowd. The first man took the gun in his hand and flipped open the chamber. Six deep holes peered out at him. He pinched the bullet between his two fingers, then kissed it before slipping it into one of the dark tunnels. Spinning the chamber, he slammed it back into the base of the gun and placed it back on the table. He removed his rings and set them aside, cracking his knuckles. The second man allowed his eyes to sweep over the crowd nervously, droplets of sweat trickling down his sideburns. His gaze settled on the face of the man in front of him. The Champion, El Diablo, they called him. The who had beaten each and every opponent in the 31 games before him. Was it luck? Was it a spirit that hung about him or an angel that looked over him? He wasn’t sure. One thing he did know: he would die this night.

            The Champion signaled for the game to begin and nodded towards his opponent with a smug grin smeared across his face. The second man closed his eyes, crossed his chest, and picked up the weapon. Unable to steady his hand, he inhaled deeply and placed the shaking barrel to his temple. Cocking the hammer, he squeezed his eyes shut. The click echoed through the room. He carefully opened his eyes and saw the hundreds of faces staring back at him. Letting out his breath, he placed the gun on the table and slid it across to his opponent. Casually, The Champion grabbed the gun, placed it at his temple and squeezed the trigger. Click. Nothing. A few voices arose in the back of the room, strings of provocation and encouragement.

            The gun exchanged hands for what seemed like a thousand times. The man tried nervously to keep track of the shots taken. That’s three…four? Or was it five? It was all a blur. What did it matter? God was with this man, and he was going to die. Numbly he wrapped his palm lovingly around the weapon, beads of sweat the only blanket between the cold metal and his racing pulse. This was it. He knew it. Sensed it. Curling his index around the trigger, he placed the barrel’s end to his temple. Squeezing it, it seemed an eternity before the trigger reached its extent. He heard the powerful blast of the gun, he felt the bullet rip through his skull, tearing tissues, splattering blood. A gleam of polished metal flew behind his eyes. His heart stopped, his lungs fell.

            And the crowd cheered.

            He opened his eyes. The gun clicked. The Champion sat in front of him, a cocky smile shone from his face, but an unintelligible fear twinkled in his eyes. The man smiled, set down the gun and let the hot air flood from his lungs as he breathed easy. More confident that they had reached the last bullet, he sat back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head.

            “Do you wish now? Do you wish you hadn’t played this game?”

            The Champion stared hard at him. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and between his eyes. He reached for the gun silently, and cocked the hammer.

            “Why gamble your life? I needed this money for my family. You play for sport. I had nothing to lose. You have all your winnings from before. Why bet it all?”

            The Champion said nothing. He wiped his meaty hands on his slacks, dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief and stuffed it into his front pocket. Sliding the chair out from the table, he stood, nodded to the crowd, and set his hat on the table before him. He turned to the man, his opponent, his adversary.

            “I played to win. I won. I’ve lived my life. I’ve won.”

            He placed the gun to his temple. The gun blast rattled off the walls, the crowd jumped slightly, and the large man fell to the floor. A puddle of blood formed around his head, seeping through the floor boards.

            The man holding the metal box emerged. He raised the opponents’ hand, declaring his victory. A silence fell over the room. The Champion was dead. A new winner came to take his place. The man took the bills from the box and stuffed them into his back pocket. Taking the money for his family, he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. As he was leaving the building, his eyes fell upon the sign up list for the following week. Thumbing the wad in the back of his pants, he reached for the pen.