Monday, April 22, 2013

Thirty-Four--Arvin at the Bar

After disastrous results in his first five World Series of Poker events, busting out within 15 minutes in all of them, usually with holdings like 7 4 offsuit or pocket deuces, Quincy finally got off to a good start in his sixth event, $3,000 Limit Holdem.  He was still dressed as a sixty-year-old farmhand, and he played the limit format as if he hated it, raising most hands preflop, most flops, most turns, and most rivers, because he did hate it.  His only problem was that he kept catching cards and was beginning to amass a gigantic stack.

Arvin, Quincy's toady, having little to do and never having learned poker, hung out at the nearest Rio bar, where his immense size had convinced Rio staff that he wasn't a minor.  A woman wearing a rhinestone-studded miniskirt, and who resembled a backup singer for a band that makes music for gay cowboy porn movies, asked Arvin if he'd like to buy a cowgirl a drink.

"No thanks," Arvin replied.  "I already have one."  He was, in fact, ingesting Jack and Coke at ten-minute intervals and feeling no pain.

Holding out a hand and leaning over so far that a nipple made itself visible at the top of her dress, she said, "Oh my," then pretended to blush and slowly, methodically pushed her nipple back into the confines of her dress.

"Nice tit," observed Arvin.

"Thanks.  I've got another one just like it over here."

"Me too," Arvin responded.

"So, cowboy, what's your story?"

Arvin dropped into a lengthy silence, staring vacantly at nothing, and then he said, "I was born with a big head, and I grew into it.  I went to school.  My brother drowned in a speedboat accident.  The cage with the screaming girl inside made it top heavy.  So when he died, I got his job.  I'm a sidekick.  I've always wanted to be a sidekick.  Some people call me muscle.  You can call me either.  I was in a facepunching contest, and I put myself in the hospital.  That's how I got the job.  My name is Arvin."

Undeterred by anything he had said, Rhinestone whispered, "I heard there's a party in your room."

Arvin nodded.  "Better than that.  There's a cage."

She rubbed her hand up and down his arm.  "Do you wanna put me in your cage?"

Arvin looked at her in all seriousness.  "With one hand, I want to lift you up in the air and twirl you like a pinwheel while I bounce you off my penis, spinning round and round, while I drink these"--he held up his Jack and Coke--"with the other hand."

"You get to the point."

"But you'd probably vomit all over the place."

"I bet I would, pardner."

"And I wanna put you in the cage too, but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Not my cage."

"Whose is it?"

"Natalia Pertman's."

"You've got Natalia Pertman in a cage in your room."

"Not yet."

Rhinestone's curiosity was engaged.  She took the seat next to Arvin and waved off the approaching bartender.  "So you're gonna kidnap Pertman?"

"It's not kidnapping if you do it for love."

She laughed.  "So it's love, huh?"

"Not me.  Boss."

"Boss loves her."


"So you're going to put her in a cage for Boss, because he loves her, and because he loves her, it isn't kidnapping."

"Yeah."  He turned to her with a perplexed look on his face.  "And the tough part is, I can't bop her on the head.  It would be so much easier if I could just bop her on the head.  But I can't.  Those are the rules."

"Sounds tough."

"Yeah.  Step one, bop her on the head.  Step two, carry her to the cage.  Step three, drink these."  He held up the drink.

"You've got it all figured out."

"Yeah, but Boss says we have to use stealth.  I'm not good at stealth."

"I see that."

"My only instruction now is to be secretive.  'Do not tell a soul.'  Those are my instructions."

"I'm sure you can do that."

"So far, so good."

Meanwhile, Quincy had quadrupled his buyin.  He raised from early position, two players in middle position called, and an Internet kid on the button threebet.  Quincy fourbet, and everyone called.  The flop came

Qd 7c 3s

Quincy bet, and everyone called.  The turn came


Quincy bet, and everyone called.  The river came


Quincy bet, and everyone called.

Quincy turned over 4s 3c.  Everyone else mucked.  The button stood and marched away from the table without a word.  Piotr had told him never to speak, because he would give himself away as a kid if he did.  So he just shrugged and started stacking the chips.  Stacking chips resembled manual labor and made him wish that all of these events could happen online.  That way he could watch South Park or something, because one-tabling was pure hell.

Still, he was the chipleader, and that counted for something.

His pocket buzzed.  He pulled out his cell phone.  Tonight, Piotr had texted him.

Quincy imagined Natalia Pertman, surrounded by iron bars, eating some yogurt and a few cashews.  The most beautiful and exotic pet in the world.  Should he install a perch for her?  Would that be thoughtful or inhumane?  They would watch cartoons together.  And when Beavis spoke, they would laugh simultaneously, no matter what Beavis said.

Yes, his luck was changing, on every front.


  1. i laugh every time i read this
    "I was born with a big head, and I grew into it"

    and i keep rereading it.

  2. Interesting that Quincy's aggro style is working better at limit than NL. Go, Quincy, go!

  3. Classic Quincy. Running DQB from a 4bet PF. I'm so happy that you decided to start writing this again.