Three of Clubs: 'The Limiter'

I was just mindin' mah own business at the time, I wasn't troubling no-one. Jus' dealin' another drink to Boss, the weird-named black man that's a regular at mah bar. This tiny man walks in, no bigger than Miss Martha's boy down the road, the one with the hat. Little man, with a suit. you can tell he's scared shitless by his cold motha stare, as if life is bleak, but he never wants it to end, for fear of what comes after.

Anyway, this tiny man's wearin' a big bowler hat like an accountant or summat. He sits and orders a pint and to keep 'em coming. He was one mah o' last customers that night, and he kept me working right 'till the dawn, always orderin' another drink, never pissin', never gettin' drunk. Ah think that man was tryin' to get drunk to forget, and now I think I know now what it is he wants to forget so much. Finally, some regular tries to speak to the poor drinking, sodden man. He shows me this peculiar lil' thing, a revolver with only three barrels. Mighty odd it was, 'till you looked at the side. Three o' them clubs you get in card games, and I knew he was talkin' to a man who was cursed with the Card that was deadliest to its user. With the cursed black Joker, yeah you die fast, but at least you can't die for a year an' a day, or so they says. This poor ass, though, he was screwed with the worst gun o' them all. See, it has three bullets, and they're unique, says he, 'cause they ain't made o' no metal known to man. They made o' soul juice, and each takes a part of your soul when you shoot it out. When there ain't no bullets left, the poor 'slinger has to take them to the Dealer in three days and they can finally die. For the Three don't let the 'slinger forget, nosiree, what happened since you last fired it 'till you shoot some other poor soul again. That man'd done somethin' bad, and he wanted to forget without killin' a guy. So he came to me. But the beer didn't help, he never got drunk, he never forgot. Finally, in despair, he turned with his Gun to his questioner. What a poor man, I though, dragged from his world of accountin' to kill men and never forget it. He pointed his gun to mah best customer, the Tombstone Kid, and pulled the trigger. The Three went outta sight as soon as the Kid fell to the floor, and the cold corpse of the little 'slinger just lay there. Finally, the poor fuck can rest in peace.

Pour me another beer, and thank God I can still forget.

- Scrawl