The Hand as It's Dealt

The lead card turned away with a huff from the waitress, dropping his beady little eyes right on the hem of Caroline's dress as it hung out the end of the booth.  He barely had time for that smug little smirk before the next thing he saw was my fist dealing five fingers of pain into his face.  That ought to learn him, I thought to myself.

Fun thing about cards, there ain't much to them.  The seven, or maybe he was an eight, doubled back over backwards, hit the linoleum and crumpled into lifeless paper.  My boot caught the next guy, probably a two or three judging by the vapid expression that quickly turned to shock and pain.  Being in an ornery mood ever since the jabberwocky, I nailed him between the legs, which launched him up and into the ceiling fan.

Flabbergasted truckers sat with gaped mouths, most of which were still full of biscuits, french fries, or some sort of potato salad while shreds of red and black paper rained down on them.  I caught the last card by the lapel as he made for the door.  With a jerk he was up and over my shoulder, a neat little throw over the counter and onto the grill where he burst into brilliant blue and green flames.

Before the smoke had even cleared I had Caroline over one shoulder and was headed out the door.  Stupification of the general population presented an option just too plumb to pass up.  As they say, luck is one part timing, one part location, and three parts opportunism.

Swiping a bulky set of keys off the nearest table I growled, "I'm takin yer rig.  Which one is it?"

The End

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