By Daddy © 2005
I was murdering the $2/$4 No Limit Hold'em game at the Mirage. It was close to 5:00am and I was up almost six buy-ins. I had only brought a thousand dollars with me on this trip, and I now had almost six. My flight was set to leave in 48 hours, and I had visions of a new HDTV, a Fender American P-Bass, and something shiny for the wife.
I also had the itch.
I'd met Vinny around midnight when he took the seat to my left. He was fat and played tight. We had been talking about hitting the diner for at least an hour, and he recommended the patty melt.
I also recommend the patty melt.
I'm not sure why I let him talk me into that cab that morning, but I did. We were off to play in a $25/$50 No Limit game at Binion's. The cap on the buy-in was $10,000, and I planned to limp in with my six. I had the itch. I wanted to make my move. I wanted to put my stamp on this town. I wanted to walk through my front door when I got home and tell the wife that our house was paid for. I wanted to play some poker.
By lunch I had already ran my stack north of the cap, and was sitting with roughly the table average. I felt good. My raises were respected, until once. And then they were respected even more after that. My cards were holding up, and I knew what everyone held. Every time. I felt real good.
Vinny cashed out at 6:00pm. He said he was up two grand, but he needed some sleep. I was still on a rush, and had pushed my stack to almost twenty thousand. Our table had almost turned completely over save for an old guy in the one seat who was there when I arrived twelve hours prior. I held steady in the nine seat, and had maintained a good rapport with all of the players and dealers. At 8:00pm the two seat and three seat both opened up when a couple of the locals decided to call it a night. This is when the fun began.
Dale sat in the three seat, and Jake sat in the two. They were both Harley-Davidson store owners from the Midwest, in town for a classic car convention. I've never been one to judge a book by its cover, but these guys didn't look like card players. I was half right.
By midnight Dale was on his fourth buy-in, and another non-local had ran through two. I had my stack up to almost fifty thousand which was second only to a very old man in a jogging suit who had only been playing for about six hours. He was the beneficiary of a couple extremely loose Harley Dale calls. I had yet to play a hand with Harley Jake, but noticed that he was a very solid player. His stack was just short of mine, and he paid very close attention to every card that was dealt.
It was just after 1:00am when the hand of the night came along. I was on the button and looked down to find both black aces staring at me. My heart didn't skip a beat. I felt nothing. Jake opened under the gun for $200, and it was folded around to me. I thought about smooth calling here, but I felt isolation was a bit more important. Besides, I wasn't going to let a cheap set flop my evening right into the shithouse.
I said, "Reraise," and pushed in another thousand.
The blinds folded, and Jake contemplated for a bit, and then grabbed two stacks of chips.
"Re-reraise. Let's go ahead and make it a cool five. If that's okay with you?" he muttered.
I played dumb. I'm no actor, and I knew he was going to call anything at this point, so I felt no need to beat around the bush.
"How much you got left?" I asked.
He counted down his chips, and I had him covered by almost two thousand. By this time a large crowd had gathered around the table. We were the only two still seated, and he maintained a steady stare directly down at the felt. He had kings, and I knew if I could dodge the other two I'd be able to walk into my house and tell the wife that it was paid for.
"I'll go ahead and re-re-reraise, and put you all in."
The poker room floor erupted. Harley Dale was shaking his head, and kept saying to Jake, "Call him, he ain't got shit!" My heart rate still hadn't fluctuated. My pulse never wavered. I felt good. I felt really good.
Jake took yet another glance down at his hole cards, and then looked up at me and said, "Can I raise you more than what I have in front of me?"
I wasn't sure what this meant, and then it occurred to me that maybe he had the deed to his house in his pocket, or car keys, or better yet, keys to his bike. I told him that if the other players at the table didn’t mind then I wouldn't have a problem with it. He asked the other players who were standing around eager with anticipation. Nobody declined.
He said, "I'll re-re-re-reraise you two pink eggs."
"What the fuck is a pink egg?" I asked.
Before the words had even left my lips Jake stood up, and started to unzip his faded blue jeans. With his left hand he dug deep into his boxer shorts, jostled things around a bit, and finally pulled out his old worn out nutsack. Almost simultaneously with his right hand he had dug an old pocketknife out of one of his front pockets.
It happened so quickly that nobody really had any idea what was going on. Jake lifted his bag up over the poker table, and with his right hand opened his pocketknife and began to cut the underside of his scrotum all the way back up to the base of his penis. He then pulled his bag skin up around the shaft of his dick, and there they were. Two pink eggs. Dripping with ball juice, and throbbing with life. His heart never skipped a beat.
Daddy is a donkey fucker from Hilljack, Indiana.
December 24, 2005
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