Courtesy Flush

William Campbell and I played poker with Sinatra once, during the original series.

The setting was Vegas, of course. Sin City. Primary vector of American herpes.

Will was nervous, as he knew Frank was humping his wife. Didn't want to start a fight.

I was hopped up on goofballs and wearing women's panties under my slacks, so I didn't care. It had been a good night so far.

It was the three of us and a couple of Frank's goons, who just sat mutely, betting occasionally, and farting like Holsteins.

Frank was laughing a lot - a little too much. Every once in a while, he'd smell his fingers like they were fresh cigars.

I noticed Will was starting to lose it - sweating, and stammering out his calls.

Time to move. I flipped the table over and chips and drinks flew in the air. The goons fell back, making monkey noises as they tumbled.

I took the three queens from my full house and slashed at Frank's throat until he stopped moving.

Will was holding the seat of his pants like a two-year-old, worried he was going to get in trouble. Frank's bodyguards just cried for a little while, poured shots, and left.

The Sinatra that grew old had been grown in a vat in a secret base in New Mexico.

You didn't hear that from me.

I'm a fixer.
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