Fin

****

The two opponents had turned over their cards. The client had two jacks in his hand—a four of a kind. Only one hand could beat a four of a kind. Darius sheepishly showed his four card flush, hoping, praying, knowing that it would turn into a royal flush. The client was laughing. The client thought he had Damien beat.

"How did you get in the club anyway?"

"Yeah, you don’t belong here."

Maybe it was the incessant harping of both of the professors that brought it about. Maybe it was the ad hominems and complete lack of academic discussion. Maybe it was because they were right. Damien didn’t know. But at the concurrent moment that the card flipped over, revealing that beautiful queen of hearts, the absolute best hand in poker, the sign that he had finally won—finally triumphed over the client, Darius got up, grabbed a poker violently, and yelled, "I’ll show you Wittgenstein!"

It happened so fast. A swing at the jocular professor, which he dodged dextrously, and the point made contact with Damien’s skull. Damien did not feel a thing except warm, viscous liquid running down his cheeks and neck. He became blinded by white; his ears were ringing. He began to feel that he was falling, and even when he hit the ground, he still felt he was falling. Pretty Mary K. began crying now somewhere in the white which began to fade. Her crying went above the ringing, and made sounds discordant. He called out to pretty Mary K., a call which sounded like a gurgle to the five men (the dealer too stood in shock) who had gathered around him. Damien’s sight faded to black. The ringing stopped, but he heard not the desperate cry, "someone call an ambulance!" The last, dream-like image that passed through his mind (did Damien "see" it?) was rosy-fingered dawn exploding into fire and brimstone, and Mephistopheles, coming forth from the eruption, smiling—forever smiling—and crushing a heart-shaped locket.