Speak of the Devil

Speak of the Devil

By Glen Flensoz

It started like most things do: with a whisper.

The gambler, who had no name but plenty of debts, found himself at a table he didn’t remember sitting at, in a room that smelled like dust and burnt luck. The light was dim, but the cards were crisp, and around him sat six others. Veterans, newcomers, dead-eyed saints, and devil-may-care rogues. All lured in by the same offer: “One game. No limit. Winner takes all.”

And so they played.

At first, it was electric—chips clacked like bones, laughter mingled with lies, and the pot grew fat. The dealer, a man in a black suit with eyes like polished obsidian, said little. Just dealt and watched.

Then, slowly, things began to unravel.

One player, flush with confidence, bet her entire hand on a bluff. She vanished before the river card hit the felt. Another lost track of time and memory, his eyes hollowing out as he muttered old names and cracked jokes no one understood. One by one, the players lost—not just the game, but pieces of themselves. When they folded, they folded out of existence.

The gambler held on. He didn’t bluff. He didn’t boast. He just played. Smart. Careful. Cold. Until it was just him and the man in the suit.

No spectators now. No banter. Just silence and the dry click of cards.

“You’ve done well,” the dealer said, breaking hours—maybe centuries—of quiet.

“Then I suppose it’s time to cash out,” the gambler replied, voice low.

The dealer smiled. “One final hand.”

And what a hand it was.

The gambler’s palms tingled as he peeked at the cards: Ace of Spades, King of Hearts. Strong. A hand legends are built on. The flop came: Ace of Hearts, King of Spades, Queen of Diamonds. Full house. Nearly unbeatable.

But the air had changed.

The table was no longer wood—it was obsidian, pulsing faintly like a living thing. The walls disappeared. In their place: stars spinning in a void, and voices—distant, familiar—echoing all the things he’d given up to sit here.

The dealer matched his every move, eyes locked to his. And then came the river: the final card. Another Ace.

The gambler’s hand was godlike now. A full house, Aces over Kings. A hand that could win him everything—wealth beyond reckoning, eternal fame, maybe even a rewrite of his past.

But there it was again—the whisper.

And it wasn’t coming from the dealer.

It was coming from inside.

Because he knew the truth. Every soul at the table had thought they’d win. They hadn’t lost to the cards. They’d lost to themselves. Pride. Greed. The desperate need to be more than they were.

“What happens if I fold?” he asked again, quieter this time.

The dealer didn’t answer. Just placed a single chip on the table. It bore no value. Only a name.

His.

The gambler looked down at his hand—trembling now, golden under the light.

Was this his moment of triumph? Or the edge of the abyss?

He could win. Or he could lose everything.

He stared at the dealer. The dealer stared back.

And with a motion that split the world down the middle, he slid his cards forward. Face-down.

Folded.

The table disappeared.

Or maybe he did.

Sometimes, in the wind before sunrise, when the world is quiet and the hawks are still silhouettes in the sky, I think I can hear the soft whisper of cards being shuffled again. A breath held. A choice made.

Maybe he made it out.

Or maybe he’s still playing.

All I know is: some games are meant to be lost. And some bets are just masks for something deeper.

—
Until next time, stay sharp. Some tables never close. — Glen