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Re: Short Story Competition 2008
I've already submitted my entry, so this story of mine is just for fun...
<span style='font-size: 17pt'>The Pocket Rockets</span>
Miers stares at the screen, adrenaline surging through his body. Gutshot snoozes amidst the tangled wires at the back of the computer. It’s just Miers, his faithful hound, and his addiction. Paradise.
His wife calls. She must be at the station, wanting a lift. He turns off his mobile. The two-timing [censored] can walk. He’s got more important things on his mind.
In front of him are two beautiful, sexy, perfect aces: the pocket rockets. He’s just been dealt the best starting hand in the game. Another burst of adrenaline kicks in. Poker players call it the “rush”, and it’s one of the best feelings a man can have. Better than sex. Certainly better than sex with his wife. Whichever poor sod it is doing the sexing.
“OK, OK. Keep calm. Just a small raise at first. Enough to narrow the field down.” Gutshot looks up expectantly.
Miers moves the mouse with a practiced hand and clicks the cash gauge. $200. Big enough to show he means business. Small enough to keep one or two players interested.
The action moves round the table in a clockwise direction.
Fold
Fold
Fold.
Then it’s Omaha’s turn. The little timer starts counting down. Tick, tick, tick. Omaha is a loose player. He will play with just about anything. The idiot once went all in with a Q-3: the gay waiter – a queen with a tray. The way he plays, he probably is a gay waiter.
“Call, you [censored] calling station. Call”
Fold.
“Bastard”
Only one player left: SmartFish. He’s tight. Only plays premium hands. That’s bad news. If SmartFish folds, all Miers will pick up are the stupid little blinds.
Tick, tick, tick.
“For once in your sorry little life have some guts and call.”
Re-raise. $1000.
“Yes. Yes. Yeeeessss. The tight bastard raised. And a big one too. He must have a pair of kings: the cowboys. Anything less and he wouldn’t bet that much. Not him. Oh boy. I’ve hit the [censored] jackpot. Keep a cool head. Take your time. Make it look like you don’t know what to do. Let him think he’s ahead and then trap him.”
Call. $1000.
Miers takes a deep breath. Here comes the flop.
Ace. 2. King.
“Trips! I’ve hit trip aces. Yes! Yes! YES!”
If SmartFish does have the three kings he’s going to put in a big one.
Raise. $500.
“Uh? A lousy five hundred bucks? That’s nothing. What’s he up to? Oh-mi-God! He thinks he’s trapping me. OK, SmartFish. Let’s play it your way.”
Re-raise. $2000.
If SmartFish is slow playing the cowboys, he’ll just call Miers’ raise.
Call. $2000.
Miers pats Gutshot. Only two more cards to come: the turn and the river. The only card that can save SmartFish now is the one remaining king, and that ain’t gonna drop in a million years.
The electronic dealer deals the turn card.
King.
“F**k”
SmartFish bets again. Another small one.
Raise. $500.
Miers knows he’s beat. Miers knows that SmartFish knows he’s beat. He also knows that SmartFish is playing him for a mug. All sense of hope and optimism drain away. It’s like a rush. Only in reverse. Five hundred more to see the final card. And if it ain’t the ace, he’s dead meat. He knows he should fold, but with six grand already in the pot and him holding the three aces, he can’t get away from this hand.
Call. $500.
The dealer deals the river card.
Ace.
Miers looks at the screen and pinches himself.
“Yeeesssss! Got you. Got you! GOT YOU!”
AAAA. The nuts. The best possible hand. Now he can’t lose. It’s just a matter of how much he can screw out of SmartFish.
SmartFish bets again. Bigger this time.
Raise. $2000.
Miers moves in for the kill.
Re-raise. $8000.
SmartFish, sensing a bluff, goes over the top.
All in. $14,000.
Miers leans back in his chair with a grin as broad as the screen, luxuriating in his victory. He watches the timer begin its little countdown, savouring every last second until he calls, imagining how SmartFish will feel when he finally does.
7, 6, 5, 4...
Miers moves the cursor over the call button an lifts his trigger finger.
Gutshot cocks his ear. The sound of a key in the latch. The front door opens. Gutshot yelps with delight; his mistress – not only his – is back from who knows where.
“Honey, I’m home.”
On hearing her voice, Gutshot leaps from behind the computer, dragging the pile of tangled leads with him. The wire connecting the mouse to the back of the computer goes suddenly taut, then sickeningly limp. Miers clicks the call button hopelessly. No response. Click. Nothing. Click, click, [censored] click.
“Noooo.”
3, 2, 1...
Automatic fold.
SmartFish proudly displays his four kings and types a message on the chat box. “Gud fold m8. 4 one awful moment I thought you might have had all the aces”
************************************************** **************
# sorry 'bout the profanities, but at least the IT programme seems to have censored them #
I've already submitted my entry, so this story of mine is just for fun...
<span style='font-size: 17pt'>The Pocket Rockets</span>
Miers stares at the screen, adrenaline surging through his body. Gutshot snoozes amidst the tangled wires at the back of the computer. It’s just Miers, his faithful hound, and his addiction. Paradise.
His wife calls. She must be at the station, wanting a lift. He turns off his mobile. The two-timing [censored] can walk. He’s got more important things on his mind.
In front of him are two beautiful, sexy, perfect aces: the pocket rockets. He’s just been dealt the best starting hand in the game. Another burst of adrenaline kicks in. Poker players call it the “rush”, and it’s one of the best feelings a man can have. Better than sex. Certainly better than sex with his wife. Whichever poor sod it is doing the sexing.
“OK, OK. Keep calm. Just a small raise at first. Enough to narrow the field down.” Gutshot looks up expectantly.
Miers moves the mouse with a practiced hand and clicks the cash gauge. $200. Big enough to show he means business. Small enough to keep one or two players interested.
The action moves round the table in a clockwise direction.
Fold
Fold
Fold.
Then it’s Omaha’s turn. The little timer starts counting down. Tick, tick, tick. Omaha is a loose player. He will play with just about anything. The idiot once went all in with a Q-3: the gay waiter – a queen with a tray. The way he plays, he probably is a gay waiter.
“Call, you [censored] calling station. Call”
Fold.
“Bastard”
Only one player left: SmartFish. He’s tight. Only plays premium hands. That’s bad news. If SmartFish folds, all Miers will pick up are the stupid little blinds.
Tick, tick, tick.
“For once in your sorry little life have some guts and call.”
Re-raise. $1000.
“Yes. Yes. Yeeeessss. The tight bastard raised. And a big one too. He must have a pair of kings: the cowboys. Anything less and he wouldn’t bet that much. Not him. Oh boy. I’ve hit the [censored] jackpot. Keep a cool head. Take your time. Make it look like you don’t know what to do. Let him think he’s ahead and then trap him.”
Call. $1000.
Miers takes a deep breath. Here comes the flop.
Ace. 2. King.
“Trips! I’ve hit trip aces. Yes! Yes! YES!”
If SmartFish does have the three kings he’s going to put in a big one.
Raise. $500.
“Uh? A lousy five hundred bucks? That’s nothing. What’s he up to? Oh-mi-God! He thinks he’s trapping me. OK, SmartFish. Let’s play it your way.”
Re-raise. $2000.
If SmartFish is slow playing the cowboys, he’ll just call Miers’ raise.
Call. $2000.
Miers pats Gutshot. Only two more cards to come: the turn and the river. The only card that can save SmartFish now is the one remaining king, and that ain’t gonna drop in a million years.
The electronic dealer deals the turn card.
King.
“F**k”
SmartFish bets again. Another small one.
Raise. $500.
Miers knows he’s beat. Miers knows that SmartFish knows he’s beat. He also knows that SmartFish is playing him for a mug. All sense of hope and optimism drain away. It’s like a rush. Only in reverse. Five hundred more to see the final card. And if it ain’t the ace, he’s dead meat. He knows he should fold, but with six grand already in the pot and him holding the three aces, he can’t get away from this hand.
Call. $500.
The dealer deals the river card.
Ace.
Miers looks at the screen and pinches himself.
“Yeeesssss! Got you. Got you! GOT YOU!”
AAAA. The nuts. The best possible hand. Now he can’t lose. It’s just a matter of how much he can screw out of SmartFish.
SmartFish bets again. Bigger this time.
Raise. $2000.
Miers moves in for the kill.
Re-raise. $8000.
SmartFish, sensing a bluff, goes over the top.
All in. $14,000.
Miers leans back in his chair with a grin as broad as the screen, luxuriating in his victory. He watches the timer begin its little countdown, savouring every last second until he calls, imagining how SmartFish will feel when he finally does.
7, 6, 5, 4...
Miers moves the cursor over the call button an lifts his trigger finger.
Gutshot cocks his ear. The sound of a key in the latch. The front door opens. Gutshot yelps with delight; his mistress – not only his – is back from who knows where.
“Honey, I’m home.”
On hearing her voice, Gutshot leaps from behind the computer, dragging the pile of tangled leads with him. The wire connecting the mouse to the back of the computer goes suddenly taut, then sickeningly limp. Miers clicks the call button hopelessly. No response. Click. Nothing. Click, click, [censored] click.
“Noooo.”
3, 2, 1...
Automatic fold.
SmartFish proudly displays his four kings and types a message on the chat box. “Gud fold m8. 4 one awful moment I thought you might have had all the aces”
************************************************** **************
# sorry 'bout the profanities, but at least the IT programme seems to have censored them #
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