AWESOME UNDER COVER

ATA EDITOR IN CHIEF GOES UNDERCOVER TO COVER AN UNDERGROUND BIG BALLER POKER GAME

FEAR AND LOATHING IN THE PENTHOUSE POKER GAME

By: Steve Kitagawa

I finally got the call.  A friend of mine, who runs several legitimate businesses, but tends to spend his off time in the shadows had told me about a private, big baller home game held weekly in the penthouse suite of a Los Angeles area, deluxe, high-rise apartment.  From his explanation, it seemed like a scene out the “Wolf of Wall Street;” or if everything went to shit, “Grand Theft Auto.”  In addition to the game, there were some nice amenities: a gorgeous, Asian, private chef with a French pseudonym, who whipped up made to order rib eyes and lobster mac-and-cheese at your demand; masseuses dressed in short black leather skirts and crops, serving drinks, and flirting for tips and business; free, open bar stocked with beer, wine, and all the ‘90s baller shit: Hennessey, Ciroq, Macallan 18, even a chilled bottle of Alize; big screens everywhere; and what every poker player wants—a loose game (i.e. donkeys over valuing small aces and chasing low percentage draws).  There were also stories of Asian, gangster millennials showing up to play with armed body guards and Louis Vutton/Supreme duffle bags with stacks of cash inside; a private back room where the big ballers lurked between hands or extended breaks for blow, Cristal, and lap dances; and a plethora of tales—real, exaggerated, or edited that added to the game’s mythical status.

The game itself ran two tables: a 5/5 table (which loosely translates into a $10.00 minimum bet every round if you’re folding every hand) with a minimum buy in of $300.00 and a max buy in of $2000; and a 10/20 table with a minimum buy in of $1000.00 and a house designated maximum (which varied depending on the depth of the pockets and I’m sure the skill of the guppies invited to feed the sharks).  I didn’t worry about the second table because I’d need to refinance my house just to have enough of a bankroll to play a game that big, even for a few hours.  Even at the kiddie pool table, I was worried I’d be severely out chipped if everyone was buying in for the maximum of $2000.00.

For those who don’t play a lot of no-limit hold ‘em (“NLH”), a big stack (large amount of chips), has a huge advantage over a small stack, and can often bully the small stack out of pots, even with inferior cards.

For example, one of the money hands in NLH is a set (three-of-kind).  The best time to hit a set is against a big pair (i.e. AA, KK, QQ–and depending on the player JJ though to 99).  This is because getting a big pair often means a big win or a big loss.  However, most people’s ego coupled with the endorphin rush you get when you receive a hand like AA causes them to only see dollar signs

As a result, most people get married to their big pairs and especially in a cash game, will rarely fold such hands.

If you can see the flop for relatively cheap and hit a set against a big pair, you are going to get paid–even against a good player.  The big stack often keeps you from getting a chance to hit that set.  In a game like this, where people are allowed to buy in for different amounts, the person buying in with the most money, especially if they are skilled, has a huge advantage over any player with a small stack.

For example, let’s say I’m in early position (one of the first to bet) in a 5/5 game and get pocket fours (a pair of fours).  I make a standard raise (3 x the big blind) to $15.00.  Three people call, making the pot $70.00 (including the big blind and the small blind).  The big stack (with $1800.00 behind) in the small blind (the first mandatory ante) wakes up with pocket queens.  Since he is out of position (has to bet or check before the other players for the rest of the hand) and he doesn’t want someone with a weak ace (to spike an ace on the flop) or a small pair (to hit a set), he raises the pot it $170.00.   Since the odds of hitting a set on the flop are about 7.5 to 1 , you would have to have to make 7.5 to 1 on your money to make it worth your call.  If I have $400.00 behind me, it would cost me an additional $155.00 to have a 7.5 to 1 chance to win.  Based on my stack, even if I doubled my money, I am not receiving the proper odds to call.  Moreover, since, I don’t know if the two other players still in the hand will re-raise forcing me to fold (losing $160.00) or bet the remainder of my stack (go all-in) after the re-raise, I need to fold my pocket fours.

Of course, the big stack may be (and often is) bluffing, but if you only have enough money for two or three buy-ins, you will be in for a very short night if you are routinely making such a stand with hands like pocket fours.

Players with big stacks force the smaller stacks to get lucky and chase hands without the proper odds, make spectacular reads, call big time bluffs, or play only premium hands.  Meanwhile, big stacks bully the table, and can play a variety of starting hands and hit a full house with 7-4 because they have the equity to do so.

Based on this superior gaming theory, I convinced myself that If I wanted to have a good chance at doing well in this game, I needed a big stack.

I toyed with idea of risking our family emergency funds and bringing $5000.00; however, that quickly resulted in the image of my wife’s disappointed face sitting across the table from me in divorce mediation.  So, I resolved that I’d bring $1500.00 and tell my wife I was bringing $500.00.   You might think I was being a deceptive scumbag, but I was simply using our shared economic speak, which my wife and I innately understand.  Since my wife is very astute and we’ve been married for over eighteen years, she can already translate my meager deceptions, and knows that my $500.00 for gambling or gambling loss representation has a range of about $750.00 to $2000.00.  Therefore, my representation of $1500.00 being $500.00 was well within our expected range.  As a result, if she were to check the bank statement, she would merely be perturbed for a day or two (surely, not more than a week) and not ready to walk out the door.  At least I hoped.

After picking up my youngest daughter from gymnastics, taking my other daughter to a birthday party, and making an unscheduled but necessary emergency run for eggs, tortillas, chorizo, and Cholula (What can I say?  We like a good breakfast burrito in our house), I wasn’t able to make it to the bank in time to withdraw my planned bank roll.

As a result, I had to hit the ATM.   Somehow, I thought I had a daily withdrawal limit of $1000.00, so I wasn’t too worried.  Dealing with the daily doldrums of chaperoning kids and planning for breakfast, brought me back to reality for a bit and the fear of losing $1500.00 began to set in.  After all, $1500.00 in dadspeak is 10 months of gymnastic classes—or a 75 inch flatscreen.  At least for the moment, $1000.00 would work.  However, when I got to the ATM, I found out that I had a meager $600.00 limit.  I tried calling my bank to get authorization to increase my ATM limit, but the lady at the end of the line could tell something was up and asked if she could call my wife to confirm.

Fuck.  “No, she’s out of the country on a family emergency and I need this increase to pay some bills on time.”  “It looks like you have sufficient funds in your accounts to pay your bills, sir.  If you’d like, I could help you set up online bill pay.”  Fuck.  Shit.  Fuck.  “So, there’s no way you can increase my limit without my wife’s authorization.”   “That’s correct.  This is a joint account after all.”

So many issues.  So much anger.  Fuck.  I thought about escalating the situation, and having a “tissy” fit, but that shit doesn’t work over the phone and obviously my Jedi mind trick skills weren’t working on Jabba the Hut at the other end of line.  I hung up and yelled, “Fuuuuuck youooooo,” at the phone.  That felt better.

Some lady who was walking with her kids by the ATM, got eye contact with me and raised her eyebrows in disgust while her kids giggled.  “Ahhh…fuck you too,” I mumbled like a psychotic but half way crook.

In hindsight, the next forty-five minutes or so, could have been better spent.  I went home and rummaged through some stash drawers and jacket pockets and found about another forty in scrunched up bills, not thinking how un-baller like it was going to look unravelling and flattening one and five dollar bills when I finally got to the table.  I could just hear the Canadian in me come out.  “Sorry eh, the fackin’ lady at the bank, wouldn’t raise my ATM limit.  Would you give me a five-dollar chip for four bucks and a toonie?”

At the time, I thought the extra $40.00 wasn’t enough, so I grabbed the rainy-day change jar and headed to the Coinstar machine at Pavillions.  I could have sworn that there were more quarters in the jar, but after dumping the coins through the machine, the display said $22.71.  That’s bullshit.  I looked behind me, and when I thought everyone was preoccupied, tried to shake the machine.  It was a pretty obvious, trashy move that reeked of desperation.  I must have looked like place kicker trying to tackle an offensive lineman.  That or some weirdo trying to hump the Coinstar machine.  I turned around and the same shitty lady from the ATM machine was at a checkout with her kids, judging me along with everyone else at the checkout aisles, except her kids.  Her kids beamed with joy, like they just saw some dude humping the Coinstar machine.  After paying the bullshit Coinstar tax, I received a printout for $18-something.  At this point, I was too embarrassed to go through the line and cash out, so I bailed back home.

By now, it was about 7:30 p.m.  About an hour away from the start of the game.  I received a text from my friend Tariq, who was my pass into the game.  “Hope you’re ready, fool.  Meet me at my place in 20.”  Can’t be the on-time guy, especially when I only had enough for one average stack buy in.  Quick lie.  My kids.  Yes, perfect.  I texted back.  “Got to pick up my daughter at 8:30. I’ll C U at 9.”  “You’re going to make us late foo[l],” he texted back like he was a cholo.  “We’ve got all night ese.” I responded.

I met Tariq around 9:15 p.m. and we drove about fifteen minutes to some nice, new, double tower high rise about five minutes from the beach.  The place looked legit.  There were even two new Lambo Huracans (one wrapped in pretentious gold and another stock lime green) bookending the entrance lot, claiming, “Rich fuckers live here, you should too.”   Tariq got out of the car and texted the host, Richard.  “I’ll be right back,” said Tariq as he exited the car, “I’ve got to get a parking pass.”  Tariq disappeared through the lobby door and was back in about two minutes.

We parked the car in an underground lot and proceeded toward the entrance to the lobby.  At the lobby, we were met by a pretty Asian woman in her early twenties.  She introduced herself as Melanie and gave us both warm hugs like she knew us.  “You’re the first one’s here.  Seems like everyone is coming late tonight.”

I socked Tariq in the shoulder, “You’re going to make us late foo[l].”

“Fuck you,” Tariq growled then mumbled something else in Urdu under his breath.

We followed Melanie into the elevator where she waved her access key over a sensor and pushed the PH button.  “Ha,” I thought, “They have a fucking PH button.”

When we reached the PH level, we entered a short hallway, and walked through the only door.   Thereafter, we were met by a smoking hot Asian lady with long straight and beautiful midnight blue hair that glistened.  She looked like she belonged in a Pantene commercial. “Dreamweaver” was playing in surround sound in my head.

She gave us both hugs and introduced herself as chef Brielle.  She knew Tariq and snickered, “This guy,” before hugging him.  I stuttered something lame and creepy like “I’m Hattori, you Pantene pretty hair…me like.”   She instantly flashed me a quick but direct look of disdain, confirming my introduction was lame and creepy.  She then smiled and handed me a picture frame which contained the night’s menu instead of a picture.  “Let me know what you want and I’ll whip it up for you,” she said as my brain struggled to catch up to my stuttering tongue.

I started to skim through the menu, when I was greeted by the host, Richard.  Richard was a short Asian man in his late fifties with a fohawk, wearing a flamboyant button-up shirt (three top buttons open), with a floral print.  He was friendly and carried himself like he knew he was the man.  “Hi Hattori,” he said, while shaking my hand with way too much effort to make sure he had a strong grip, “Richard.” “Good to meet you Richard.  What an awesome spread you have here.”

It really was a dope spread.  It was lit brighter and was more furnished than I thought, but that made it seem more upscale and less shady.  The place was surrounded by privacy glass from floor to ceiling, with a 360 degree view of the ocean and pier to the West and the surrounding cities and freeways in all other directions.  There was a huge open area that contained the kitchen, a small bar, and two casino poker tables with cardinal red felt and gold lettering, like a USC jersey, and a glass door that led to a large balcony that stretched around the West side of the suite.  There were two large bedrooms on either end that opened and closed through twenty-something foot high, sliding doors that looked like walls when they were closed.  The main room had four 80 inch flatscreens, surrounding the tables, each on a different channel.

I was so caught up with the Pantene chef that I didn’t even notice that there was an armed security guard (9mm in holster), sitting on a stool by the entrance until I had been in the suite for at least a minute.  “Why would they need an armed guard?”  I thought.

Richard offered me a drink.  “What would you like Hattori?  There’s beer in the fridge and liquor behind the bar.”  “I’ll take a beer,” I said and opened the fridge.  I grabbed a Coors light, not wanting to catch a buzz before poker.

Richard then introduced us to the rest of the room, starting with the dealers: the first was a tall, slim, Russian dude, who spoke with a stereotypical Russian accent.  “Greetings,” he said, failing to disclose his name.  “Greetings?  Who the fuck says greetings?” I thought.  Then I reciprocated, “Greetings.”  The second dealer was sitting in the dealer’s chair of the poker table closest to the kitchen, immersed in his phone.  He looked up and gave us a nod, “Whattup, I’m Jose.”  “Greet…I mean, good to meet you Jose.”

As advertised, there were also two barmaids/masseuses/eye candy with black leather crops and skirts, and slicked back hair, looking a bit awkward and uncomfortable with the situation they found themselves in.  They were pretty, and almost indistinguishable at first sight.  They had dark hair and dark lipstick, but didn’t carry themselves like professional flirts. They smiled, shook our hands, and introduced themselves with stripper pseudonyms.

“Hi, I’m Kandy with a “K.”

“Hi, Kandy with a “K.”

“I’m Destiny, would you like a drink?”

“Just got one thanks.”

“Don’t be shy Hattori,” interjected Richard.  “Girls, pour Hattori a shot,” he grabbed Kandy by the arm and whispered something.

“Would you like to do a shot with me, Hattori?” said Kandy.  This fucker wants to get me drunk before I play.

“Not now.  I’ll take one in a bit.  Thanks though.”

She feigned disappointment, but I saw relief in her eyes.  She had no idea where the night would lead in this surreal private circus with Richard as the ringleader.  Neither did I.  Richard caught eye contact with me, frowned for a second, then caught himself and introduced us to the others in the suite.

Turned out Melanie made poker’s version of a Freudian slip when she said we were the “first ones” here.  We weren’t the first ones, just the first fishes for the regulars to feed on.  “Tariq, Hattori, this is Jake.” Jake was a short, friendly, twenty something guy, with a horrendous, black, ECKO T-Shirt that was a remake of a Spiderman comic book cover of Spiderman getting choked out.

On its own, the shirt would have been pretty cool, except that the entire image of Spiderman was bedazzled with fake crystals, like a kiddie craft; and had some weird acid wash finish with mechanically stitched rips throughout.  It looked like something one of the Kardashian girls would cut up into a half shirt with ample side boob showing, and post on Instagram.  He also had a black track jacket with gold “Maserati” printed across the chest in all caps.

“Cool shirt,” I said.

“Thanks, I get a lot of compliments on it.”

“Do you have a Maserati?”  I asked.

“No, I wish.  My friend gave this to me.”

“Aaaaahhh…He has the Maserati.”

“No, he drives a Hellcat.”

I smiled and nodded, not knowing what else to say.

“That’s a nice ensemble, Jake,” said Richard.

“Ensemble?”

“Yah, the shirt matches with the jacket…sparkly you know.”

“Uhhh, thanks,” said Jake.

The next regular was Brian.  Brian was a six foot four, white dude, that kind of looked like poker pro, Phil Laak, but without the hoodie.  He pointed to Tariq and smiled, “I know this guy.  Whattup brother?”  They shuffled toward one another, slapped hands, and gave each other knuckles followed by a bro hug with a double shoulder slap on the end.

A little too much physical contact for me, so I just waved across the room, “Good to meet you Brian.”

“Likewise, Hattori.”

The final guy was a complete mystery and was never formally introduced.  He stood in the background most of the night chatting with Pantene Brielle or the two other ladies.  He never caught eye contact with me, but it seemed like he was always watching me.  Like a wraith.  He was dressed too nice for a poker game, wearing a nicely cut, off white suit that only he or someone like Brad Pitt could pull off.  He looked Eastern European, with a dark complexion, and thick ass (but manicured) eyebrows that Frida would say were “fucking macking.”

“We’re still waiting for a few people to arrive,” said Richard, “Make yourselves at home.”

Tariq and I walked out onto the balcony.  The view was incredible.  To the South, you could see the pier.  To the North was the twin apartment building.  Most of the apartments in the other building didn’t have privacy glass, and it was still too early to draw the curtains, so you could peep what everyone was doing.  I skimmed for anything salacious, but the most interesting thing I saw were a couple having dinner.  Each was at opposite ends of a long ass table that could have easily fit sixteen, conversing comfortably.  Fucking one percenters.  Such easy targets to malign.  Strange how something so ridiculous was standard for them, like bottled water.

“I don’t know what to say, it’s usually packed,” confessed Tariq.  “Like thirty or forty deep.”

“No worries, brother. I’m sure it will pick up.  I’m down for waiting anyway.  I couldn’t get to the bank in time today, so I only have six hundy.”

“That should be good for the small table.  If you get cracked, I can front you until tomorrow.”

I thought about my stupid ass humping the Coinstar machine, “Thanks, that solves a lot.”

“So…last time I was here, there wasn’t a body guard,” disclosed Tariq.

“What did you do fucker?”

He pitter pat slapped me on my shoulders with both hands several times like a little girl, ending with a shove.  “Why do think I did something?  You judgmental fuck.”

I laughed “Of course you did something, Buck Nutty,” and Tariq started spewing a few moments later.

“So, last time I was here, there was this older Persian dude, right.  It was toward the end of the night and he started yelling at me for no reason.  He got in my face and was so upset, he was spraying me with his words, all telling me he was going to fuck me up and shit.  I felt like he was going to punch me any second, so I slapped him, hard to the ground.  He got up, kicked me in my hip, and started choking me out.  One of Richard’s friends jumped in, and everything went crazy for a few minutes until Richard pulled out a tazer gun and tazered the dude.”

“What happened after that?”

“They kicked the guy out.”

“And you haven’t been back since then?”

“Right.”

“And they’re cool with you?”

Tariq smiled, “They fucking love me man.”

That’s just ‘cause you’re a donkey, who sponsors this game, every you show up.”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

I had no idea how much of that was absolute bullshit, but I tend to believe that Tariq was less innocent than he led on.  I’ve hung out with Tariq a lot, even roomed with him when our beer league hockey team went to a tournament in Vegas as few years ago.  Without going into too much detail, Tariq disappeared the first night of the tournament, when most of the team were partying on some roof top casino bar.  The last time I saw him, he had just ordered a beer and when it didn’t come within two seconds, started drinking the beer of the guy sitting next to him at the bar.  When the guy confronted Tariq with “Hey, that’s my beer,” Tariq took a big swill, feigned putting it down, spilled it all over the guy, got up and headed through the dance floor toward the elevator.  Half way there he confronted a bachelorette party on the dance floor and began flailing his arms straight up in the air with crotch forward like a Hollywood director.

The bachelorette party scattered and parted like they were the Red Sea.  I didn’t see him again until the morning when we were checking out a few days later.  Normally, Tariq is so laid back you’d think he was asleep; however, just keep adding alcohol and he transforms into fucking Gremlin.

Moreover, regardless of Richard’s man love for Tariq, he couldn’t be too happy paying for an armed bouncer, which resulted from an altercation that Tariq probably initiated.  Still, that couldn’t have been the only fight they’ve had here.  Not when there’s that much money flying around the table.  There had be something else.  Probably why no one was here this week.

Somehow Richard’s Spidey senses were tingling, and he wandered his way out onto the patio.  “Let’s start five handed boys.  Others will be on their way soon.  We’ll start with one table, 5/5 blinds with a $1000 max buy in and change it up once we have enough for two tables.  How much are you buying in for?”

I looked at Tariq for direction?  “Five hundred,” said Tariq.

”Six Hundred,” I said.

“What seats do you want?” said Richard.

“Any taken yet?”

“They’re all open.”

“I’ll take seat nine, next to the dealer, “I said.

“How about you Tariq, want to be next to your friend?”

“Sure.”

“Tariq is seat eight.”

I put my cash down on the table in front of my chair and Tariq did the same.

Melanie, walked out of one of the bedrooms with a few chip trays full of chips.  She counted the cash and gave me six stacks of red five dollar chips.  The Russian dealer also sat down at the table and laid down $500.00.  That left us six handed to start.

Jose began to shuffle the cards, then arced them across the table face down.  Everyone picked a random card from the pile to see who would start with the button (best starting position).  I picked a four of diamonds.  Richard ended up with an Ace, so he got the button.  The Russian was in the small blind and Bedazzled Jake was in the big blind.  Macking Brows, didn’t sit down and went into the far bedroom ear to phone and shut the sliding door.

The first hour or so was pretty uneventful.  A lot of small raises and straddles (minimum raise after the big blind or on the button before the hand is dealt intended to make bigger pots and induce action), but nothing eventful.  Everyone was friendly, engaging in chit chat.  It was a feeling out process for sure.  Every once in a while, Richard would over bet the pot and everyone would fold.  Thereafter, he’d show a shitty card, like a deuce and laugh like he was a poker genius

The soundtrack for the night also didn’t match the hype.  Richard was a self-confessed eighties fan, which to Richard didn’t include the Clash, Van Halen, Public Enemy, Prince, New Order, or even Motley Crue.  Instead, it was keyboard driven, eighties top forty like Aha (Take Me On), Men Without Hats (Safety Dance), and that fucking disgusting “Forever Young” song that got the popular kids misty at prom.

It was during “Forever Young” that I woke up with pocket Aces on the button.  The Russian was the first to act and he raised the pot to $20.00.  Bedazzled Jake called and so did Tariq.  What to do?  I counted to five and said, “Raise.”  I paused for a moment, trying to calculate a good bet, “Seventy-Five.”  I measured out the chips and pushed them forward.  Brian and Richard folded their blinds.

The Russian immediately raised.  “Two hundred total.”  Richard whispered something to him and he focused on the remaining players.  Bedazzled Jake and Tariq folded to me.

Then I did something that a lot of poker players will call angling (or just plain shady), but fuck it, its poker.  I pretended to be in a quandary, which is really stupid to do in front of good players, who can usually read an Academy Award poker performance and make the proper decision.  Moreover, the Russian was pretty much pot committed.  That means since he already committed almost half of his money in the pot, unless he was bluffing, and did not have a premium hand, if I put him all in, the proper play would be to call.  Nevertheless, I grimaced, stacked my chips a few times, looked down at table and back at the Russian a few times, and essentially told him I had a huge hand.

“All in,” I said and pushed my chips forward.

I stared back down at the table not wanting him to read me any further.  I saw Richard in my peripheral wave him off.  Fucking Richard knew I had Aces and was straight telling the Russian the same.  It took forever, but the Russian finally called.  He showed pocket Kings and immediately deflated when I flipped over my pocket Aces.

Jose looked up at me, “Run it once or twice.”

I felt bad, so I glanced over at the Russian and said, “Whatever you want to do?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Run it twice.”

The dealer, ran through the first flop, turn and river with no King to give the Russian a set.

The second flop, showed an Ace, with no flush or straight possibilities, so I knew I was gold.

“Nice hand,” said bedazzled Jake.  The Russian looked deflated, like anyone who just lost $500.00 dollars would.  I flipped two chips to the dealer, “Thanks Jose,” and began stacking my chips.  After that pot, I was up to a little over $1300.00.  if this wasn’t a house game, I would have played another ten minutes as a courtesy and bailed.  However, we were in it for the long haul.

It was on.

Richard was pissed and he wanted to ensure that everyone was doing their jobs to get their chips back.  He made sure that either he or Brian would straddle my blinds and would raise every pot me or Tariq were in, in order to tempt us to play big pots with bad hands.  Brian had even tried to make straddling a rule.  “Let’s just straddle button and big blind every hand to bring more action.”

“No thanks,” I said.

Even though I had come up, Richard had bought in for $1500.00 and had about $1650.00 in front of him, so he was still the big stack.  The Russian had rebought for $1000.00.  The rest of the table was up or down a few hundred, but everyone was angling as hard as they could to ensure, Tariq and I left broke.

“Shots,” said Richard.

He summoned the Kandy and Destiny and whispered something in their ear.  Kandy approached me.  “Let’s do a shot big winner.”

“Okay, grab the Macallan.”  She did—and poured a shot.  “Salut,” we both declared and downed the shot.  She poured another shot.  “One more.”

Salut.  Salut.

After a few more shots, me and Tariq started to play more aggressive, defending our blinds, re-raising the bullshit raises, and calling bets to the river with middle pair.  In hindsight, it was probably stupid play, but when the table is trying to simply run you over, you have to make a stand.  That and we were winning.

Moreover, Tariq had turned into a poker savant.  While I had come up a few hundred and was pretty much maintaining my stack, Tariq was making moves and knocking motherfuckers out with his drunken rush.  The Macallan had turned him into the Pakistani Chuckie possessed by Gus Hansen.  “Wanna play,” he declared and everyone did.

First, he smooth called Richard’s pre-flop raise with AK.  When an A showed up on the flop, in position, he simply called Richard all the way to the river. Richard showed AQ and smiled.  When Tariq flipped over AK, Richard almost shit his pants.  In fact, I’m positive I heard a Brrrrrrrrraaaaap from Richard’s side of the table.  After that, Tariq made several ridiculous reads or just got lucky.  He was calling down bullshit raises with mediocre hands and still winning; three betting raises with nothing, causing everyone to fold and having the balls to show hands like 7-4 offsuit after; cackling with each win like the drunken asshole he was.

The best move happened while Richard was telling a story of a crazy table at the Commerce he had been at.  Richard was describing how someone had the balls to call him to the river with AK, with a straight showing and no pair.  Then Tariq did just that.  The flop came 10, 9, 7, all different suits.  When the turn was an 8, Richard went all in feigning a straight.  Tariq thought for a bit and called him with AK and no A or King on the board.   The river was a deuce and inconsequential.  When Tariq flipped over AK, Richard mucked his cards with anger without showing.  Fucking Tariq had won with Ace high.  Even Richard’s minions found that amusing as I caught each of them smirking.  Richard had been caught stepping in his own bullshit.  “I had a monster draw,” Richard lamented, as he pushed almost his entire stack over to Tariq.

By this time, two new hired guns had showed up to take us down.

The first, was some Huntington beach looking white dude with a shaved head, tribal tattoos, and a cut-off Tap Out shirt with the slogan, “You’ll Tap Faster Than, Your Girlfriend Did.”  I didn’t get it.  He had huge guns and didn’t need to roll up the sleeves to his shirt, but did anyway.  Tap Out guy played like he looked.  He was a table bully with no patience.  After a few rounds of him raising everyone out of the pot, I resolved that I’d call him with any reasonable hand in position, and wouldn’t fold if I had middle pair or higher.  When I got J 10 suited on the button, I called his raised of $30.00 from under the gun.  No one else called.  When the flop came J 6 7, I called him all the way to the river.  When I turned over J 10, he growled, “Nice hand,” and mucked his cards without showing.

The second, was a heavy set Asian millennial wearing a black Supreme box logo hoodie and a black back pack with both straps positioned way too tight and high, so it popped out from behind the top of his head.  He knew everyone, except me and Tariq and carried himself like he was Mr. Wolf on Pulp Fiction.  “I can only stay an hour,” he declared, “I have ‘BUSINESS’ to take care of.”  When he said, “BUSINESS,” his jazz hands made quotation marks with two fingers, like he was in the running for douche of the year.  He took off his back pack and pulled out a wad of twenties wrapped in cellophane, pretending he was doing a cameo on Narcos.

He counted it out, “Blah.  Blah.  Blah. Blah. Blah…Two thousand,” and laid it out on the table.  He carefully wrapped up the wad like he was rolling a big fattie and put it in his backpack.  He was either Tony Montana or stupid.  I pictured the security guard walking into the hallway and calling his boys.  “Yo, this Asian motherfucker is going to roll out of here in about an hour with a backpack full of cash.  Get the boys together and I’ll text you when he leaves.”

Melanie came over, grabbed his washed cash and went into the back room.  She returned with two racks of $5.00 chips and two stacks of $25.00 chips.  In a few minutes, he built a pretentious chip pyramid and was telling bedazzled Jake about his recent trip to the World Series of Poker.

“How did you do?”

“I cashed in a couple of events and bubbled out in the Main Event.  I was really there to take advantage of the donkeys in the cash games.  Damn dawg, I made so much skrilla in the cash games…Juicy dawg.”

“Nice man.”

“You know my steez.”

“Hey, you got any ganja, man, I could really use some right now.”

“Sorry dawg, I don’t have any on me.”

For some reason this irked Tariq, so he hijacked the conversation.  “This fucker has a pack back full of cash…errrrrr skrilla and he’s not carrying any weed in it…bullshit.”

And with that, it was on between Backpack and Tariq.  It started with a pre-flop raising war.  With everyone, having at least $1000.00 in front of them, the average minimum raise was increasing.  Tariq opened under the gun with a raise of $50.00.  After Richard and Tap Out called, Backpack re-raised to $150.00.  Tariq then re-raised to $350.00.  Richard and Tap Out folded and Backpack pushed all in.  Tariq waited for an eternity, mumbling, fidgeting, and cursing.  After about five minutes, Backpack called “Time.”

Jose looked up, set his G shock watch, and stated, “You have one minute.”

“You call “Time” on me motherfucker,” Tariq mumbled loud enough for the people in the next building to hear.  He fidgeted for another ten seconds or so and mucked his hand with a “Fuck.”

Backpack started stacking his chips into a bigger, more annoying pyramid with a mini mall attached, and with a smile proclaimed to the air, “I heard there were donkeys here.”

Ohhhhh….shit.

With that the poker gods were summoned, and Tariq went on one of the greatest heaters, I had ever seen.  At this point, the rest of the table didn’t even matter.  If this were Game of Thrones, Backpack would be Cersei all smug on her iron throne bought with daddy’s money and Tariq would be Daenerys riding set dragons or should I say, dragon nuts.  No matter what Cersei threw at Daenerys, it wasn’t quite enough, and Cersei was crushed.  In one hand the flop came 8 8 A.  After Cersei went all in with AK, Daenerys flipped over 8 7 off suit for trips and the pot.  After Cersei rebought for another $2000.00, another flop came A, Q, 10.  Cersei pushed all in and Daenerys calmly called.  The turn and river were inconsequential and when the cards were flipped, Cersei turned over AQ for top two pair and Daenerys K J for the nut (highest possible) straight.

“Ha. Ha.  Who’s the donkey now,” proclaimed Tariq, who was now building his own mega pyramid with a football stadium and casino on the side.

Tariq continued to destroy Backpack and was unrelenting.  Big pots, small pots, draws, whatever—it didn’t matter.  When the river came, Tariq was predestined to win.

By now, Tariq had swilled at least 10 shots and could barely speak English.  With this run of cards, all he need to know was “Raise” and “All in.”  But like all good runs, this one had to end, and the way it was going, it looked like an inevitable car crash for Tariq.

Over the past hour or so, Richard had unilaterally raised the blinds to $10/$10 and then $10/$20 to try and catch up.  He also increased the maximum buy in to $5000.00, and allowed anyone to add money to their stack at any time to get back to $5000.00.  Of course, Backpack and Richard took advantage of this new rule and chipped up to $5000.00.   It was soon after this that Macking Brows sat down for the first time, also buying in for $5000.00.  I swear, Macking Brows was fucking Kaiser Soza.   I had kind of resigned myself to sit tight and not play anything but good hands, so I got caught up in an episode of Cheaters on one of the big screens.  Gotta say, Joey Greco is such a scumbag it’s almost admirable.  After watching the wife of the cheater rip a tuft of hair out of her cheating husband’s dome, I turned my attention back to the table.  During my mental vacation to Trashy TV land, Macking Brows had somehow won a few big hands and now had a chip stack rivalling Tariq’s.  It was getting serious with the potential for ugly.  Even the security guard began fidgeting in his chair, watching the table and particularly Tariq, intently.

With the stacks and blinds so big, the action so heavy, and Tariq utterly blitzed, it was only a matter of time before, Tariq lost everything.

“Let’s get out of here.  You’re a fucking mess,” I whispered.

“You’re a fucking mess, fuck, fucker…Ha.  Ha. Ha.  Raise.”  Tariq pushed in a stack (for $100.00) under the gun.

Everyone at the table called, including me with pocket eights.

The flop came, K J J.  Tariq bet out $300.00.  I folded.  But everyone else called until it got to Backpack, who waited about two seconds and said raise $1500.  Tariq was suddenly silent, but the fucking drunk bore ahead and uttered, “Call,” and tried to mad dog Backpack.  Tariq’s eyes kind of crossed, and for a moment, he looked like Deebo from Friday.  I let out a snicker and caught myself.  The rest of the table folded and Jose dealt the turn, an 8.  “Fucking fuck.”  I thought, “Would have hit a full house.”  Tariq made a lame bet for $500.00.  By now, everyone knew that Backpack had the J giving him trips and he confirmed it with and “All in,” followed by a smug smile.  I tried to kick Tariq under the table.  He kicked back and almost fell backwards out of his chair.  When he got his balance, he leaned forward as far as he could toward Backpack, claimed, “Call” and flipped over KK for a full house.  No fucking way.  He was ahead the whole time.  My boy.

Backpack was a rock.  He paused, smirked, and turned over JJ for quads.  The whole room erupted like a fucking Patriots fan after Russell Wilson’s goal line interception in Superbowl XLIX.  My stomach dropped and I lost circulation to my legs—and it wasn’t even my money.

There was still one more card to come, but it didn’t even matter.  The run was over.  Jose, dealt the burn card then the river King.  Wait what?

It took a second to hit me.  The room went silent.  Fucking quads over quads.  I looked at Tariq and gave him a fist bump.  “Fucking eh, you lucky mofo.”

Bedazzled Jake looked over at a soulless Backpack, “Hey if this was the casino, you’d be the big Jackpot winner…but it’s not.”

With every ounce of patience, Backpack ignored him, picked up his backpack, put it around both arms, tightened it so it popped up over his head, gave a quick wave to Richard, and was gone.  Fucking Tariq farted, BRRRRRAAAAP, as soon as the door closed.

At this point, I had stopped drinking, and was up to a little over $1800.00.  I had been hovering above $2000.00 for the last hour or so and recently lost a good size pot.  I was over Richard, his minions, and the shot girls, and just wanted to get home, tell my wife “I won,” kiss her on the forehead, and sleep.  My oldest also had soccer in the morning.  So, time to stop playing like I was Danny Ocean and get home.  I took a break from the table and ordered a rib eye, medium rare with a side of lobster mac and cheese from Pantene Brielle.  She picked out a nice marbled rib eye from the fridge, splashed it with some salt, pepper, and a few random spices, and threw it on the Jenn Air grill. I was tired and the brief married guy fantasy I had at the beginning of the night had dissipated.   So, I dove into the friend zone and talked to Brielle about family and career.  Turned out that she had two girls just like me.  She had started a restaurant a few years ago and it had failed for one reason or another.  She was now working full time as a cocktail waitress and was a private chef on the side, hoping it would lead to an investor and another restaurant opportunity.

By now, Richard had called in more reinforcements, but there was no way I was going to let Tariq lose his mega stack or let myself lose any more with the increasing blinds and big stacks.  I made up some bullshit about having to leave by 1:00 a.m. and Tariq was lucid enough to go along with it.  After a few bullshit minutes of veiled threats and posturing by Richard and the Minions, we were able to cash out and leave. By the time we were walking out the door, Brielle’s ribeye and lobster mac and cheese were ready.

“You can’t leave without eating your steak,” said Brielle and she was right.  I pulled up a chair, cut off a nice piece of steak, and started to chow down.

As advertised, Brielle grilled a delicious steak.  Moreover, the lobster mac and cheese was fucking exquisite.  Almost perfect when playing with house money.