The Queens Stacked

by Barry Goldstein…

My wife is lovely like ruby-red lipstick.  She has the most exquisite, big and bouncy breasts.  Every time she rolls over in bed and kisses me good morning, she gives me a woody, and I’m reminded how she came to be my wife.  She is my queen.  Thanks to her, I finally got off the graft for good.

The whole plan came to me on my last trip to Reno.  This was how I was finally going to get back at Fat Eddie for sawing off my hand.

When I told my oldest and dearest friend, Alex, how we were going to get back at the fat man, he said, “Culling and stacking, with a double duke, that’s how we’ll get Fat Eddie.” Alex and I grew up on the streets together.  We were like Siamese twins; and in Reno, the art of the con was key to survival.  Our specialty was poker: overhand runups, riffle stacking, hand mucking, jogs, crimps, hops; Alex had the quickest hands in the business.

“The Queens Stacked,” I said, “that’s what I call it.” Alex agreed, it was the most diabolical scheme ever concocted: twisted, demented, but genius just the same.  I was taken aback when he said he’d been contemplating the same thing for some time now.  Alex had never forgiven Eddie for chopping off his feet.

Fat Eddie ran a high-stakes poker game down at the Dirty Shame Saloon in Virginia City, just south of Reno.  Last Saturday night found him smooching on some broad with big orange hair.  She wore flimsy pumps that caused her to take gawky, stumbling steps; or maybe she was just drunk.

Eddie was up on chips as usual; his lackeys were about even; I was way down; and Alex was nowhere to be found.  Everything was going according to plan.  My only concern was that Alex did tend to drink too much, and that when the time came he might not show up at all.

Eddie’s wench straddled his lap, rubbing him with her big ass as they carried on shamelessly, her big breasts bouncing everywhere.

Eddie had won yet another hand and his hussy bent over the table and gathered the cards, her hairy crack winking to him from beneath her panties.

“Can I toss the cards, Hoss,” she said.

“That’s not all you’re gonna be tossing,” said Eddie, and he made a vulgar gesture with his tongue against his cheek, laughing as his man breasts bounced all around.

She took the cards in one hand and clumsily drew them off into her other hand.  She obviously did not know how to shuffle.  When she cut the deck, she did so in six different piles, putting them back together like a jigsaw puzzle.  But no one else noticed or even cared; everybody was too busy looking at her big breasts.  Eddie was too preoccupied watching her cellulite jiggle when he spanked her ass.

After the fourth card the pot was up to $50K, way too rich for Eddie’s flunkies.  By the last card, I had never seen Eddie so confident.  He didn’t hesitate to double the pot to $100K.

I reached into my boot and pulled out a wad that would choke a draft horse: $50K in all.

“Call,” I said.

Eddie laid down his hand: four Jacks.

“Bonanza,” he said, and he reached for the chips.

Eddie’s slut yee-hawed and thrust her legs forward, spreading them high into the air; and as she did suddenly the entire room went deathly silent.  Eddie’s Yes men just sat there with their mouths wide open.

All Eddie could see as his whore kicked off her shoes was that she had no feet.

Eddie kicked back out of his chair and grabbed her big orange hair.  She fell to the floor, leaving Eddie with a big orange wig in his hand.  It was then that Eddie saw: she was a HE, and IT had flopped over outside HIS panties.  HE, was my friend Alex.  IT, was his schlong.

One of Eddie’s bootlickers grabbed my hand: four queens. A lot of good they did me now.

Eddie stamped his boot on Alex’s neck, springing his switchblade as he spat.

“Help me, Jimmy,” said Alex, but there was nothing I could do.  I am Jimmy.

Eddie’s toughs already had Alex spread eagle on the floor, with Fat Eddie’s switchblade closing in.  They had me face down on the table.

My wife, Alex, is lovely like ruby-red lipstick.  She has the most exquisite, big and bouncy breasts.   She is my oldest and dearest friend.   Every time she rolls over in bed and kisses me good morning, it gives me a woody, and I’m reminded how she came to be my wife.   She is my Queen.  Thanks to her, I finally got off the graft for good.   With no hands anymore, I wouldn’t be much good at cards anyway.

 


About the Author
Barry Goldstein is a degenerate gambler posing as a financial analyst. Retired from Wall Street now, he wanders the streets of Las Vegas and Reno, always looking for a good card game and a well-endowed tranny to keep him company. Barry lives in a trailer down just past Virginia City, Nevada.


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