Soul of a Gambler

Part VIII - "Last Call"

Part VIII - "Last Call"

A shot rang out, loud as thunder in the enclosed room. Eyes flew open and the occupants sat bolt upright in their beds, looking over each shoulder in the darkness to try and find who had been escorted out of this life. The lights came on at their maximum intensity with the throw of a heavy switch, causing everyone save for the ever-stoic Rocky to shield their eyes and recoil.

Cross, Jacobson, and a masked soldier stood in the doorway. Cross held a significantly smaller semiautomatic pistol in one hand, it's barrel still lightly smoking from the tip.

"One of you sons of bitches thinks they're funny!" Cross shouted to nobody in particular.

Everyone stared back in shocked silence. Jax balled his fists, pressing the edge of his nails into his palms. Arna bit her lip, tearing bits of skin with her front teeth.

Make good decisions. That's what the note said. As Cross and his lackeys moved closer, he had started to believe that was a warning rather than an encouragement.

"One of you, probably named Jax-Motherfucking-Davis, broke into my quarters last night and stole my gun!" He stared down everyone alike with the same icy scowl, but fixed on Jax for probably three or four seconds longer than the others.

"Everyone off your fucking bunks or I shoot Jax in the god damned head." Cross held out his new weapon, a pea shooter by comparison to the old one, and stepped in closer to Jax. As luck would have it, even those who didn't seem to know English at least knew the drill. They slid out of their bunks and held their hands up.

Cross turned his head to his subordinates, "Search fucking everything. Strip their clothes if it looks like they have pockets. If they fight, escalate. Lethal authorized."

The masked soldier warbled in compliance, his words completely unintelligible to anyone not on the local radio channel. Jacobson just nodded and adjusted the stethoscope that he had brought for the occasion.

Of course, Cross went for Jax, being as rough as physically possible. The coat came off first, wrenched from his shoulders and each pocket inspected thoroughly including the ones Jax had sewn into the lining. The Outlaw couldn't help but smirk as Cross' face smoldered with an increasingly intense redness as the Commander continually came up empty.

"You watch that fabric, Cross. It's vintage. Direct from Earth."

Of course, the Commander didn't care, and threw his coat to his bunk with a harsh overhand slam. He looked Jax up and down, then locked in on his beat up cargo pants.

"Your pants, off. Or you die." Cross gestured with the pistol. Jax laughed and threw back his head, inspecting as much of the room as he could in the arc. It appeared that Jacobson had chosen Arna to search, and the masked one was working at removing a Kamadon's six gangly green arms from a homespun shirt.

I bet that Jacobson guy brought that listening tool to check Rocky. Shit! That can't be good, his eyes were normal, did his "Lord" Reassign him?

Cross fired a shot at the ceiling, the muzzle of the weapon sounded a barking crack inches from Jax' ear, singing his greasy blonde hair and plunging him out of his thoughts and into a world of painful ringing.

"Off! Last chance!" Was all Jax could make out under the harsh whine of tinnitus.

He undid his belt and dropped his pants, standing proud in the standard issue undergarments of a prisoner. Cross picked up his well worn pants in one hand and holstered his weapon, rummaging through empty pockets in what appeared to be a mixture of rage and shock.