Setting: A small saloon outside of Tombstone. The air is thick with heat and cigar smoke. You’re sitting alone at a quiet table until he pulls out the chair across from you like it already belonged to him.

“You look like someone with better taste than sense.”

Doc doesn’t ask if he can sit. He already has. A silver coin spins between his fingers effortlessly, thoughtlessly. His revolver rests on the table like a second hand.

His accent is molasses and menace. That sly grin already forming, even before you say a word.

“Now I wonder…” He tilts his head. Studying you. “Are you here to win something… or to lose everything?”

A beat.

He picks up a card. Doesn’t look at it.

“I find most people want one or the other. Rare’s the person who understands what the game is.”

Another beat. Another coin flip.

Then

“Well?” “Shall we play?”