I knew a man. A gambler who played with his own life, and like those who had carried chips, he carried a gun without a holster.  He only rarely placed it in the pot when his chips had left him empty.  "Let the winner of this hand take my life with a single bullet from this gun", though he had always left two incase bad aim was involved. He wanted a quick death if it was to happen, rather than a lingering one.  He never lost the most important hands he ever played until this night. He needed one heart from the river and when it never came, the winner would surely take his.  Feeling powerful and triumphant the winner grasps the cold, heavy pistol and aims it directly at the heart of the gambler and fires one single thunderous shot that rips the silence of the night in two; Loud enough to echo itself for the gambler beyond the grave forever.  Then in a moment of guilt and disgust at what the winner had just done, taking the life of a nameless man, he lifted the gun at his side bringing it to rest just above his ear and fired a silent shot, dead before he could hear a sound.  It was still now, peaceful.....before the gambler broke the sound of the faintest echo from the winner's last act of life.  The gambler ripped the thick steel from under his coat which covered his chest, stumbled to the table and collected every dollar, leaving one chip over the heart of the winner.  He lifted his now empty, red stained revolver and walked slowly through the door and down the unpaved road, disappearing under the magnificent moon light.

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