April 28th, 1899, Louisville Kentucky

It was the most elegant creature he had ever seen. It was finely groomed, and the white spots complimented the dark brown hair. The hair, in fact, glittered and glistened in the sun as the breeze brushed it through. Had great shape too, muscular and mighty as a minotaur, it seemed like it could drive up to 40mph. But perhaps the crown jewel was the thick, black mane, and long black tail. He needed to have that horse.

Parking just beside the creature at the saloon, he hitched and mounted off of his horse and started to gaze at the creature a moment longer. It sure was a still one too - it only seemed to jerk his tail, but nothing else. The man browsed over to the horse's face and stared into his bottomless eye.

¨What a beautiful stallion you are.¨ he whispered in awe.

The man briefly brought his attention over to the saddle, and right on the cantle there was ingrained a name, James Wilkins.

After discovering someone's property, he headed into the saloon. The saloon wasn't so heavily populated. There stood a few drunks ordering more bourbons and crunching on more peanuts, while some other characters sat by the tables talking about how the family’s been or how much they love or hate President McKinley. Yet, he insisted on calling out the name of the stallion´s owner.

He cried, ¨Is there a Mr. Wilkins at this establishment?!¨

Despite the alarm, barely anyone cared to notice. However, the voice sitting at the table behind the Kentucky Irish American newspaper and the pillows of cigar smoke uttered,

¨I´m Mr. Wilkins,¨

The face revealed to be a man about twice the age of the caller in front of him. He was a little fatter than his counterpart, had a thick, gray musclebar mustache, dressed in a black suit with a red puff tie and a white stetson boss raw edge hat.

¨ …and who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?¨ continued Mr. Wilkins.

His counterpart replied, ¨The name´s William Dickens.¨

Mr. Wilkins extends his hands, ¨Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dickens.¨

He shakes his hand, ¨Thank you, Mr. Wilkins.¨

¨So how can I help you?¨

¨I´m a rancher. I own Dickens Farm about 3 miles down the road. Almost all my life I´ve been raising all kinds of creatures, but I'm most proud of raising my horses - my different breeds of horses: mustangs, shires, friesians. But never in my life have I been most impressed with a steed such as yours. Recently, since last year to be exact, I´ve started a business to breed horses for the Kentucky Derby. However, last year my expectations for my prize horse turned…sour.¨

¨Your point being?¨

¨My point is I wanna buy your horse!¨

Mr. Wilkins put down the newspaper, tapped on the cigar, and itched his eye in thought.

¨Would you like to have a seat, Mr. Dickens?¨ he suggested.

¨Sure.¨ he says casually as he proceeds to have a seat.

¨You see, Mr. Dickens, I´m a rancher as well - I´ve been one for quite a while. I´ve been breeding mostly stallions for nearly 40 years. It turns out my stallion, General his name is, the one hitched to a post out there without moving an inch for the past half hour, has won me 9 consecutive derbies - and my God are we gonna win our 10th. So, it seems to me I´ve been in the pain of your existence since your unfortunate defeat.¨

¨Then I see our business is over.¨

Mr. Wilkins pauses, ¨Not exactly. You see, Mr. Dickens, I like you, but there's no way the likes of you can afford my prize stallion at any reasonable price. So I propose a parlay.¨

Mr. Dickens jerks his head in confusion, ¨A parlay?¨

¨A gamble. A game.¨ Mr. Dickens pauses, and smirks, ¨Do you play blackjack, Mr. Dickens?¨

¨Sure.¨

¨Well then how ´bout this: You beat me in a game of blackjack, you get General. You lose, you ride home empty handed on your own horse. What was his name, again? Gimpy?¨

¨I never mentioned his name.¨

¨Well, that's beside the point. Do we have a parlay, or should I say, bet?¨

¨Sure.¨

They shake hands and prepare to play. Mr. Wilkins hands over the cards to Mr. Dickens.

¨Now, Mr. Dickens, you shuffle the cards. I take you for a player so shuffle them adequately. We´ll play for ten rounds, best six out of ten wins General. We need no chips because the only bet here is that stallion baskin´ in the sun out there.¨

¨Sounds good to me.¨ Mr. Dickens replies.

As Mr. Wilkins watches, Mr. Dickens looks at the cards in hesitation for a moment, then attempts to shuffle the cards as slow and inefficient as possible. It was almost as if he was trying to embarrass himself on purpose. But he wasn't.

It caught the eye of Mr. Wilkins.

¨Are you sure you´re a real player, Mr. Dickens?¨ Mr. Wilkins said with a cynical tone.

¨Well sure, I'm sure.¨ Mr. Dickens replied with a positive tone.

He wasn't sure; he was confused. Yes, Mr. Dickens has played blackjack a few times before. But he was never good at blackjack. He wasn't never any good at playing cards at all.

Mr. Wilkins insisted on finally sparing him.

¨Oh, confound it man!¨ Mr. Wilkins barked, ¨Hand me the damn cards!¨

Mr. Wilkins snatches the cards and shuffles them much faster and professionally. Afterwards, he deals the cards.

Now calmer, Mr. Wilkins says ¨Here, there are your cards. In fact, I´ll let you deal first.¨

Mr. Dickens takes the cards from Mr. Wilkins and deals the cards. They begin to play the game of blackjack, believing that whoever wins the horse, wins the Kentucky Derby.

Mr. Wilkins looks at his cards. They read a King and Queen, that´ll risk going over. Nonetheless, Mr. Wilkins has been in this situation before. As a real card player, he's nonchalant. As an experienced card player, he knows his luck.

¨Hit me.¨ Mr. Wilkins requests.

Mr. Dickens deals him a card. It's an Ace, a 21.

¨Alright,¨ Mr. Wilkins says, ¨let's see yours.¨

Mr. Dickens puts his cards down face up. They reveal a Jack and a 7, a 17. It didn't matter, he would've been forced to stand anyway.

Mr. Wilkins chuckles.

¨Damn.¨ Mr. Dickens breathes.

¨Oh, don´t worry about that! It's only the first round! Here, let's play another. I´ll deal.¨

Mr. Wilkins deals the cards and they continue to play the game.

Mr. Dickens looks at his cards. They read a 2 and a 3, that´ll risk staying under. Against a serious player such as Wilkins, Dickens has never been in this situation before. As a faux card player, he's anxious. As an inexperienced card player, he´s ignorant.

But he hopes this will work.

The pulsing nerves of Mr. Dicken´s brain from the painful stress raises the temperature in his body, thereby activating the sweat glands. The little beads of sweat come out of their homes and decide to take a vacation to the surface of his skin, either on his brows and down his cheeks, the hairs within the armpits, or upon the palms of his hands and up the fingers, which consequently start to mop up the paper at the tips of the cards. But that wasn´t enough. His nose itches. He scratches his head. His leg trembles up and down so rapidly and obnoxiously that even the bartender watching the game feels awkward for him.

His wallet falls out of his pocket.

¨Looks like you dropped something there.¨ suggested Mr. Wilkins as he gestures towards the lonely wallet.

¨Oh,¨ Mr. Dickens jolted, having caught attention, ¨sorry about that.¨

¨No worries.¨ Mr. Wilkins smirked.

Mr. Dickens slowly reaches for his wallet on the floor. If it wasn´t the dropped wallet that intrigued Mr. Wilkins, it was the little piece of white and red paper exposed at the end of Mr. Dicken´s sleeve with the letter A at its top right corner, accompanied by a diamond shape below it.

Mr. Wilkins´ smirk fell blank. Mr. Dickens puts the wallet back in his pocket as he takes a deep breath.

¨I think you´d best relax.¨ Mr. Wilkins says concerningly. ¨You know, the bartender here is a buddy of mine - ´Buddy´ his name is funny enough. He has a fine thirty-year-old Tennessee whiskey that he usually reserves just for me. But, now that I consider you a friend of mine, I think you should try enjoying it with me. What´d you say?¨

¨You have my thanks.¨ Mr. Dickens speaks genuinely.

¨Buddy!¨ Mr. Wilkins exclaims, ¨Two fresh glasses of the reserve! In fact, bring the whole bottle! My friend here needs plenty!¨

Buddy, who basically looks like a younger duplicate of Mr. Wilkins, strolls to their table with cigarette in mouth, and pours them two glasses of fine thirty-year old Tennessee whiskey.

¨Thank you, Buddy.¨ Mr. Wilkins says.

Mr. Wilkins turns to Mr. Dickens, and salutes with glass in hand, ¨To your health.¨

¨And to yours.¨ Mr. Dickens follows.

They swallow the liquor down their throats.

¨Now, then, shall we?¨ Mr. Wilkins gestures.

The two men continue their game of blackjack, followed by a few more sips, and a few more glasses, and a few more bottles of whiskey. The weight of the alcohol started to take into effect, at least for Mr. Dickens. His nerves drastically slowed down and his vision started to blur. He squinted at Mr. Wilkins - perhaps he felt the same. Could he tell for sure? No. He was too intoxicated to care. All he did was allow Mr. Wilkins to refill his glass the whole time anyway.

At this point, Mr. Dickens didn´t know what round it was, if he was winning or losing, or if he was even speaking right. The blurry vision and slow mind was soon followed by drowsiness and dizziness, like he was constantly turning himself around while riding on a merry-go-round. At this time it was already in the middle of the night. No. Mr. Dickens was blackout drunk.

¨Mr. Dickens! Are you alright?¨ Mr. Wilkins says as he smiles down at the motionless body on the floor in front of him.

¨Don´t worry.¨ Mr. Wilkins says as the two policemen step beside him. ¨We´ll take you home.¨

Mr. Dickens was thrown in the jail cell that night for public drunkenness. Mr. Wilkins, the experienced card player and wealthy rancher, has done what he has always loved to do to those who dare cheat him. There was never a day in his life hinted with the slightest feeling of remorse.

But he never won his 10th consecutive Kentucky Derby the next week.