Uncle Mark's Doomsday Dice

Thanksgiving was usually my favorite holiday, a time for family and good food.

This year, my wealthy Uncle Mark, who constantly belittled our humble family, turned dinner into a display of his supposed superiority, pulling out stacks of cash and daring us to play high-stakes poker, specifically mocking my retired mailman father and me for "pinching pennies."

Fuelled by years of suppressed anger over his taunts, especially towards my father, I stepped up to play, risking and quickly losing my entire Christmas bonus in a series of humiliating dice rolls as he gloated.

But when he kept pushing, openly savaging my father's quiet dignity and mocking my girlfriend, a deep, simmering fury ignited within me; this wasn't just about money anymore, it was a battle for my family's honor.

With trembling hands but unwavering resolve, I pulled out my phone, displaying my thirty-thousand-dollar house down payment fund, ready to risk everything and make this Thanksgiving a lesson he would never forget.

The smell of roasted turkey and sage stuffing usually made Thanksgiving my favorite holiday.

Not this year.

Not with Uncle Mark holding court.

He'd insisted we all come to his rented lake house, a "generous gesture" he wouldn't let anyone forget.

After dinner, when everyone was slumped on the couches, Mark clapped his hands.

"Alright folks, how about a little poker to liven things up?"

A few uncles and cousins mumbled agreement.

We gathered around the big dining table.

Then Mark pulled out a thick, worn leather briefcase.

He snapped it open.

Inside weren't poker chips.

They were stacks of hundred-dollar bills. At least ten of them.

He slammed them onto the table.

The wood vibrated.

"We're not playing with peanuts tonight," Mark announced, his voice booming. "A thousand dollars a hand. Minimum buy-in, ten grand. If you can't swing it, don't sit down."

A nervous silence fell.

My dad, a retired mailman, just stared at the cash.

Uncle John, who owned a small hardware store, swallowed hard.

"Mark, that's a bit steep for a family game, isn't it?" Dad said, his voice quiet.

Mark laughed, a harsh, barking sound.

"This is how winners play, Bill. You gotta risk big to win big. Something you folks should learn. Work hard, get smart, you too could be playing with real money instead of pinching pennies."

He puffed out his chest, enjoying the awkward, forced smiles and mumbled compliments about his "success" with his used car dealership.

I felt a familiar heat rise in my neck.

I stood up.

Walked to the table.

"Uncle Mark," I said, my voice even. "I'll play."

Everyone stared.

My mom gasped.

Mark looked me up and down, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You, Mike? Last I heard, you were sorting packages at UPS. What'd you do, hit the lottery?"

"Got my holiday bonus," I said. "A few thousand. Enough to keep you company for a couple of hands."

I could see the disbelief in their eyes.

But it wasn't just about the money.

It was about last Christmas, when I'd brought a decent bottle of single malt for Dad.

Mark had picked it up, sniffed it, and declared, "Your father wouldn't know good whiskey if it bathed him. He's a beer man, Mike. Wasting your money on fancy stuff for a retired mailman."

Dad had just looked down at his shoes.

I'd almost decked him then.

Tonight, Mark wasn't just playing poker.

He was playing with people's dignity.

My family's dignity.

My father's.

I'd had enough of it.

"A holiday bonus, huh?" Mark sneered, his eyes flicking over me like I was something he'd found on his shoe.

"Probably what I spend on gas in a week for my Escalade."

He leaned back, lacing his fingers over his protruding stomach.

"Don't come crying to me when you lose it all, nephew. Heard you and Kylie are saving up for a down payment on a house. Be a shame if your little nest egg flew the coop tonight. She might just fly with it."

Aunt Linda, his wife, tittered beside him, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

The other relatives shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Even they thought he'd gone too far.

That was Mark, though. Always had to be the biggest dog in the yard, even if it meant pissing on everyone else.

"Don't you worry about me or Kylie, Uncle Mark," I said, keeping my voice level. "I can afford to lose what I put on the table. I just hope you can say the same when the time comes."

His eyes narrowed.

"Is that a threat, kid?"

"Just a statement of fact," I replied.

I looked around the table. "So, who's in for poker? Need a few more than just me and Uncle Mark."

No one met my eye.

Uncle John cleared his throat. "Uh, Mike, Mark, that's... that's a bit rich for my blood."

Cousin Steve, who worked construction, just shook his head. "Yeah, man, I'm out."

One by one, they all backed away, muttering excuses.

Mark threw his hands up in disgust.

"Bunch of chickens!" he boomed. "Can't even handle a friendly game with a little skin in it. How do you expect to get anywhere in life if you're scared to take a risk?"

He surveyed their embarrassed faces with contempt.

I saw the flicker of anger in my dad's eyes, quickly suppressed.

I saw the shame on Uncle John's face.

"Alright," I said, breaking the tense silence. "Poker's clearly not working out with these stakes."

I paused, then looked directly at Mark.

"How about something simpler, Uncle Mark? Quicker. More... exciting?"