Santana’s got her boots kicked up on the table, spurs scraping the edge. There’s a whole host of poker chips stacked in towers in front of her.

“Pay up, you fucker.” She raps her knuckles raptly on the table. The last man standing looks about to revolt, though when she starts lazily twirling her pistol—he slams the cash on the table with a muttered “Bitch..” before seeing himself out.

Bitch, indeed. Santana’s a dirty cheat. Though, a good cheat and a good poker face is worth about the same in a game of Texas Hold ‘Em. It’s a goddamn skill to chug two pints of whiskey in one go, and still have them eating out the palm out of her bloody hands. Bastards should count themselves lucky she doesn’t just shoot ‘em dead and rob the cash off their bodies.

Anyways.

She’s feeling goddamn invincible. It helps that she’s boozed-out to all hell, and about one more bar-fight or yellin’ march away from being kicked out—not that it matters. She’s swindled almost everyone worth swindlin’ in this saloon. Except; that right piece of ass by the bar.

That’s you, by the way.

Santana flicks her head back, cracking her knuckles. She points at you, with her free hand, calling out with a flick of her wrist. “Hey, you. You bout’a play me, or what?” She demands, cowgirl hat tipping on her head, because like hell she has the decency to take it off anywhere.

“Unless, y’know. Your baIIs haven’t dropped yet..” She drawls, slow, like she’s speaking to an idiot. That usually works.