There were about six or seven of them at a ratty old table in the back. The walls were covered with dusty old comic books and on the floor were the scattered pieces of torn-apart proxies. They boys at the table had your usual skin problems, poor eyesight, and bad teeth. They wore your usual AC-DC and Dave Matthews Band concert t-shirts. But not usual was how quiet they were, staring at me. Usually a gang like this would be talking as loud as a pack of drunken coyotes, on subjects like the internet Hustler site, the latest Terminator sequel, or infinite mana combos. But they stared at me, and I could smell their fear.

One guy sat in the back, a fat guy with beady little eyes a woman's attempt at hair on his chin. He was going bald in a bad way, and I knew- he was the store owner.

"Who are you?" he said, trying to act tough. He had Magic cards all around him- mostly Revised, a handful of Unlimited, some Betas. No Alphas.

"They call me the Wrangler," I said. Everyone but the fat guy scattered, taking their cards with them.

"Hmmph." he harumphed at their lickety-split retreat. "You gotta deck?" He said.

I looked at him for a while. He finally lost his nerve and looked down at his cards. I spat some tobacco juice at a trash can. Bingo. Nailed a Doritos bag. I said, "Yup."

"What kind?" He had a goofy little grin on his phase. I mean face.

"Standard." He probably meant for me to say Necro, or Erhnageddon, or Sligh.

He harumphed again, the only sound a fat man can make in confidence. He went back to fiddling with his cards.

"Play a game?"

He shrugged, said, "Sure," and started shuffling his deck. It looked skinny but I didn't say anything. I sat down and whipped my deck out of its holster. Sixty cards, no sideboard. Don't need one. If an opponent insists on standard floor rules, I just use fifteen land.

Just last week I'd been in this town before, cleaning up. I walked into Todd's Dynamite House of Games, lookin' for a tournament. My boots went from sidewalk clop to rug thump. Rugs are rare in cheap game stores. I was lookin' for a tournament, like I said, and judging from the number of ball-caps and R.E.M. t-shirts, I wasn't going to be disappointed.

I stepped up to the counter and asked the skinny kid behind it, "Tournament today?"

"Yeah," he said, not even lookin' up from his hot game of Hyborian Gates.

His buddy looked up, though. He saw me and my hat, my duster, my handlebar mustache. His eyes grew wide.

"Watchoo lookin' at, boy?" I said, lookin' back at 'im like a wolf looks at a rabbit.

"Nuthin', sir," he said, lowerin' his eyes and scoopin' up is cards. "I'm gonna go get ready for the tournament, Tim," he said, and he left.

Tim, I guess his name was, looked after his pal, watching him go, ignoring me, a pissed-off runt's look on his face. So I said, "How 'bout signin' me up for this here tournament?"

He still wasn't lookin' at me while he fetched out one of them yellow legal pads and a cutesy-suzy little orange pen. "Name?" he said.

"The Wrangler."

He looked up then, and quick. He tried to hide his fear by lowering voice. But a low voice can't hide a shakin' hand. "Cash or check?" he said.

"How much?"

"Ten Dollars, or buy three boosters."

"Cash." I gave him ten silver dollars.

He scribbled some stuff with his prissy handwritin' on the legal pad. I asked him, thinkin' 'bout them booster packs. "This a draft tournament?"

He looked up at me, his greasy hair in his face. He sniffed once, quick. "Type I," he said.

I looked back at 'im. "Well Gah-dam."

Card players are a bunch of no good punks, usually, and this tournament was no different. By the time it was just me and the last feller, Tim himself, there wasn't but a few losers left who needed a ride home from Tim. I whupped him just like the five before him, and he gave me my prize: two Fourth ed. booster packs.

"This is it?"

He smiled as he counted the entry fee money. "Yup." There must have been at least 500 bucks there.

"Boy, I just whipped your ass with 47 commons and 23 lands." I glared at him. "And don't think I didn't notice how some of your moxes came out of the collector's set."

"So?" He said, defiantly, like a rattle snake that hisses right before you plug it 'tween the eyes.

"So," I said, leaning in, grinning at him. "Dick Garfield don't sanction tournaments that don't give up seventy-five percent of the gate in prizes."

"Well, this ain't a sanctioned tournament." he said.

"Not what the sign said," I said.

"Changed my mind." He was sweating.

"Well then, Mr. Tim," I said, drawing out my Wizards of the Coast Official Tournament Ombudsman badge. "Looks like you just lost all your Magic privileges."

"What" he yelped.

I almost gave him the say what again line, but decided against it. "I'll contact the distributor, and see that you're not allowed to sell magic cards anymore." I looked around the store. "I guess that'd be half your bid'ness right there, huh?"

"Wait! I'll give you the prize, here, take it all," He tried to toss the cigar box at me.

I let it bounce of my chest and fall on the floor. "Bribery? Your excommunication just went from five years to ten." I scooped up my boosters and left.

We got done shuffling and cut each other's decks. I could tell by the feel of it his was floating around 52, 53 cards. I let it go. We set up our life counters. I used a twenty sider, him, one of those fancy-nancy Scrye counters. Complete with hand-painted wizard. We rolled my die to see who went first. I rolled a 7. He rolled a 13.

He looked at me. The bulb in the fixture overhead burned down on us.mean and hot. His fingers tapped on his deck. "You ready?" he said.

"Draw."

We pulled out seven cards. I liked my hand. He got a huge grin on his face, practically taking up his entire head. Then he said, trying to be nonchalant, "oh, by the way, I forgot to ask. You play for ante?"

He had that big smile on his face, like he'd just gotten away with stealing his mommy's satin bloomers. So I said, "Sure."

We flipped up our top cards. Mine was a mountain. He scowled. His was a Mox Pearl. He didn't even blink.

"Allright, Wrangler, guess I'll go ahead and draw." He took a card, pushed it in with his others. He said, "okay, here goes." He dropped a Black Lotus and a Mox Ruby.

I looked at his ante, and the Lotus and the Ruby. "Them's Type I only," I said.

He looked around himself. "Is this a tournament? I don't remember sayin'-"

"Nevermind," I said. "You done yet?"

He smiled even bigger. "No. I'm gonna sac the Lotus for three green." He moved the Lotus aside. "And use one of 'em to to cast Channel-"

"Channel's banned," I said.

"This ain't DCI, Wrangler. This is my store. if you got a prob-"

"Forget it. How much you gonna Channel, boy?" He was a meaty little punk.

"Oh, I guess nineteen." He made a big show of spinning his Scrye counter around from 20 to 1. Then he said, "Okay, "I'll tap the Ruby for a red, cast a Fireball, and with the two left over from the Lotus, that's uh." he squinted for a second, "21 points of damage."

His smile opened up, showing tiny little ferret teeth. Just then a boy walked through the door from the back behind my fat opponent. He stopped when he saw me. His jaw dropped. He saw the Lotus, the Ruby, the Channel, and the Fireball on the table, and fainted dead away.

No one seemed to notice. "First turn kill, Wrangler. What do you think of that?"

I didn't say anything.

"A kill on turn one. You wanna play again?" His friends started to drift back, some of 'em walkin' a little more proud than before.

"What now, Wrangler?" he said. He started to reach for my mountain.

I said, "Well, how 'bout this." I dropped a Merfolk of the Pearl Trident on the table. "I'll discard this here blue card," then I dropped a Force of Will, "and counter that Fireball."

His smile dropped right off his face.

Next I drew a card. Then I dropped a Mountain.

"Now I'll tap this here Mountain," I threw out a Lightning Bolt, "and deal ya three damage.

His eyes grew wide.

"Turn one kill, boy. How ya like them apples?"

I reached for my new Mox Pearl. He started to protest but I had it and the rest of my cards back in my holster faster than he could move. I said, "Next time you stack your deck, I'll put a hole in you so wide a Shivan Dragon could fly through it. You got that, boy?"

He didn't say anything, he just nodded. I stood up and left Stew's Game Hut. Outside the sunset was burning purty and orange. I got in my Bronco and rode off into it.