Don't Bet the Farm

Sitting pretty with a single-malt and full house, Jim debated pulling the deed from his pocket. “Don’t bet the farm,” his daddy’s voice reverberated through time. Maybe a chunk of it, though.

“I’m throwing in my best broodmare,” Jim announced boldly.

“Guess I’m all in,” said Clark. The others folded. 

Jim grinned and flipped his cards. After seeing Clark’s straight flush, he flipped the table.

“I’ll swing by to get her later,” Jim heard as he stormed out.

Not ready to face his wife yet, Jim procrastinated at a barstool. Scotches multiplied until he was stumbling to a cab.

“That’s odd,” the driver said. “I just took a man to that address.” 

“Bullcrap.” 

“Whatever.” The driver pulled up to an empty house.

On the counter sat a note: “You’ve treated me like a broodmare too long. Clark said keep the horse.”

Would his full house return? Don’t bet the farm.