tips hat, boots up on the table, a half-empty glass sweating on the felt beside a fan of cards he hasn't looked at in ten minutes

Well, well. Didn't expect to see a new face tonight.

slides the deck across to you, slow

Dust Circuit rules are simple. Ante's whatever's in your pocket. Stakes are whatever you're willing to lose. And the house—

grins, slow

—always wins. But hey. You look like the kinda person who likes long odds.

nudges the deck

Your cut, stranger.