Top of the Flops

The stench of sweat in the dark and musty room is overpowering, pervading my nostrils with every breath I take. It’s difficult to tell what time it was: we’ve been doing this for so long in the dingy, windowless club that time’s seemed to stop and congeal into an unrecognisable, indecipherable blob.

Opposite me at the table, my opponents stare at me, anticipating my next move. They’re a weird bunch of ‘people’, to say the least. On my left is a smiling rabbit who spouts surrealities like an ornery tomtom in heat, punctuating the fact that he seems to have no idea what he’s actually doing.

Beside him is a strange little man adorned in Luchadore garb and boxing gloves, which he insists are his actual hands. If that’s the case, then how the hell does he manage to so adeptly manipulate the cards he’s been given?

My third opponent is a heavy-set Eastern-European gentlemen, a huge man whose heart seems to be lined with great sadness. The beast’s hulking stature is at odds with the things he’s saying: he seems to have been removed from a group of people that he genuinely misses, although his predilection for calling everyone at the table ‘babies’ at every opportunity is a tad disturbing.

The final individual at the table is the worst of the lot. Although the most conventional looking, he’s snarky, obnoxious, rude and just generally insufferable. I’m not sure what is worse: his cutting arrogance or the smug gurn that adorns his face whenever he thinks he’d laid down a good hand. In short, the man’s a dick.

And right now, this ragtag group of people are staring straight at me, squaring me up and anticipating my next move. I glance at my hand – two kings – and then at the flop resting on the green baize table – a king and a queen. I survey my opponents to gauge what they’re thinking. The rabbit is seeing how many cards he can stuff into his mouth after folding before the round had really begun; El Chupacabre and the big guy are in deep conversation about which type of firearm each prefers; the mop-haired arsehole stares at me, his upper lip contorted into a sarcastic grin.

I make my move:  I raise the stakes by $2,000. Wrestler boy immediately folds and begins to snooze. The big guy matches me and we both turn to our remaining opponent. Without breaking his arrogant smile to me, he pushes every single one of his chips to the middle of the table.

“All in.”

I glare at the bastard as he stares at me, obviously getting some sick thrill from constantly piercing me with his eyes. I check my hand – so far I have three of a kind. One more king and I’ve got this shit sown up. I match his bet, adding to the mountain of chips lying on the table.

The big man utters a Russian expletive, takes a quick look at his hand and folds.

He begins chatting to the rabbit about which weapon would be best for him while Mop-Top and I  begin our showdown.

The tension rises as the turn is revealed – another queen. That’s two pair for so far. If another king appears, then I’m money. The guy to my right is starting to sweat.

After a few tense seconds, the river is revealed – yet another queen. Full house. The other guy seems to be panicking. I try with considerable effort to mask the smile that creeps  upon my lips. The game’s host announces my hand when I reveal my card to the onlookers – or at least the ones that aren’t dosing.

“The player has… a full house.”

I look to my right, certain that the arsehole beside me has received his comeuppance. He looks back at me, the worried look still on his face as he turns over his cards.

“Tycho has… four of a kind.”

I glare at the man as the convincing look of discomfort slowly turns into the most aggravating troll face I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t break eye contact with me as he leans over  the table and drags his winnings towards him. Once again I’ve been bawbagged out of winning with a good hand thanks to my opponents consistently having a better one than me without fail. This was the umpteenth time in a row I’d failed to get a break.

I rage.

I jump up on the table and kick the huge pile of chips right into the smug git’s face. I throw my cards straight at the big guy’s face, his anger rising as they bounce softly off his nose. The other two remain oblivious to what was happening: the wrestler guy was still dosing while the rabbit was scratching the roof of his mouth with the barrel of his magnum.

I seethe and I stamp and I rant and I rage before jumping off the table, landing with a thud on the sticky vinyl floor and make my way to the elevator, making sure to barge the unpleasant establishment’s owner with my shoulder as I did so.

Fuck this game.