“What the fuck, Fatman? Did you steal this felt or what?” Arnold spouts off as he walks into the unoccupied “B-side” of Slade’s duplex. Slade lives on the “A-side.” He sees his friend Slade crouched on all fours on the floor. Slade is aggressively laying out a sizeable piece of green pool table felt and carpet pad in the living room.

Arnold is a handsome man with a slight but firm build; his Italian features—dark hair, olive skin, and dark eyes are prominent. Even though he's a Texas native, he talks fast with the slightest accent picked up from his uncles and cousins, who mostly live in Jersey or Vegas. His wit and charm are seemingly on the edge of exploding as if contained in this “little Italian” firecracker!

By contrast, Slade is a more prominent fellow, but not what you would call fat, even though Arnold nicknamed him. Most would recognize him as “big-boned.” Extremely fair-skinned, with bright steely blue eyes and long blond hair all one length past the middle of his back, usually in a ponytail. Most would pause before engaging in any kind of physical challenge. Slade is also a native of Texas and lacks any of the several Texas regional accents that land here in Central Texas. Many say he sounds like a Californian, but what does that sound like? Slade speaks almost in a rhythm you hear from a lawyer’s disclaimer at the end of a car ad. Slade also doesn’t hesitate to throw in a few big words now and again to remind folks that he is, in fact, the most intelligent person in the room.

He grabs his “sweat towel” and quips right back at his friend, as he has since junior high school. “Screw you fucko, be useful, and bring the table in. It's in the garage, and the doors open. Where the hell have you been anyway? How long does it take to whip up some fucking enchiladas? I’m sweating my ass off here.”

“If you’d drop a couple of tons, you wouldn’t sweat so much,” Arnold snips back.

Slade starts to talk about genetics, and Arnold quickly heads out before Slade can drop words no one understands, especially him, into the mix. He grabs a three-by-six wooden folding table from the garage and takes his time lugging it into the house. 

“Here ya go, Fatman. Are you sure this shit's gonna work? I still think you should have bought a real table.” Not waiting for an answer, Arnold continues. “Oh, I decided to go Italian: got a full pan of lasagna, some gnocchi, and salad. I snagged two cheesecakes too. I already put it all in your fridge next door.” 

The two lay the pad on the table, slowly stretching and stapling the felt. Before long, the poker table is felted and ready to test out. Everything seems to fall into place for Slade to kick off the game with “Shuffle up and Deal”

Lewis wanders in as the table is about to be finished. 

Lewis is a shorter heavy-set guy, a bit younger than Arnold and Slade, but appears to be ten years older. Primarily bald, in his early twenties, he speaks with a stereotypically West Texan slow drawl. His go-to catchphrase is, “Man, I'm getting too old for this shit.”  It's almost like listening to some slightly higher-pitched version of John Wayne.

He seems to take a minute before every sentence, pausing occasionally to spit due to a significant dip of snuff. Lewis is a man of few words, but his crystal blue eyes and genuine smile make him seem like a dear longtime friend from the first time you see him.

“Sup, Bird-man? The table’s looking good,” he says as he runs his hands up and down the straps on his overalls. “Y’all gonna get the game going tonight?”

“Hell ya, Lewis, you should come play. I know you got the cash after you stole it from those chumps last night,” Slade says while jabbing Arnold with his elbow.

Arnold pipes in. “Hell, ya, c’mon on in, Lewis. The water’s fine!”

Lewis shakes his head from side to side. “Not a chance. I might sit a bit and help pass out food or something. I ain't giving you two sharks none of my dough.” He opens the door to spit again. 

“Bird-man, you got a spitter in here somewhere?” he asks.

“Umm-hum. You want to see Ramona. Slade and Arnold in unison - “rootin’ around for Ramona,” a line from the movie Neighbors. Arnold and Slade often do this, speaking as one, using one-liners from various movies or shows. Slade adds, “Look under the sink on my side of the duplex. There are some spitters under there.”

Slade, of course, has his own “spitter.” Still, as with most things, he's not prone to share. Dipping is a common activity among most people whom Slade's known since junior high school. Everyone is expected to have an extra “spitter” or two around somewhere.

Ramona’s playing hostess at the game tonight, and Slade’s let everyone know. She's a striking redhead dancer from the local strip club and Slade’s longtime (three years) fuck-buddy. Fuck-buddy or not, this is business, and Slade's learned that when men with large egos are in the presence of super hot chicks, it tends to loosen their wallets just a tad. 

The table is done, and it’s time for a test. It's almost noon; plenty of time before the food is served for the game at seven pm sharp.

Arnold grabs a used deck of cards and some chips. He hands Slade and Lewis a stack and starts to deal. “Niiice! The cards slide good. This might work, Fatman,” Arnold says.

“Ante up! Let’s play a couple and see what we think,” Arnold continues.

“FUCK!” Lewis says, somehow with two syllables and that drawl. “This shit's way too bouncy, Bird-Man; you’ll have chips all over the place. Even if people don’t try to splash the pot, this will be a damned mess.”

“I told you: you should have bought a table,” Arnold snaps at Slade. “Let’s go snag one somewhere. Lewis, can we borrow your truck?

“Slow your roll, fucko! This ain’t your show; it’s mine. You don’t see me telling you how to wash dishes, do you? I can fix this. Just chillax.” Slade’s tone is commanding and definitive.

“Shuffle up and Deal” is not the story going around in Slade’s mind. It's more like “Shuffle up, and deal?” Slade feels the slightest bit of worry, and he quickly pushes it aside and gets back to the job at hand. He’s popping staples from the table, and as he rolls back the felt, Lewis sees the problem.

“Damn Bird-man, you shoulda used one sheet of pad, not two. That thin one in there would be the nuts,” Lewis adds, taking sides with Slade over Arnold.

“Fine, whatever. I would have got a real table,” Arnold continues, still feeling the sting of Slade’s dishwasher comment.

“Help me pull the fat pad out, and let’s re-stretch,” orders Slade.

Reluctantly, Arnold helps pull the table felt back into shape, and in short order, the table is back together. “Ok, Fatman, if this shit don’t work, can you get fucking real table then?” says Arnold, still trying to hold on to some dignity.

Slade replies, but this time almost monotone, distinctly slower and quieter for effect.  “Give me the cards; I got this.” It’s Slade’s way of showing that he is, in fact, in charge. With that, he deals out the hand and stacks chips in front of each of them.

“Ante up, dill weed, let’s see how it goes.” Slade tries to lighten the mood by calling Arnold a friendlier nickname this time; it’s good business to have everyone playing tonight in good spirits. And Slade still needs Arnold to come to fill a seat and potentially bring others to play. This is, as most things are with Slade, a calculated move.

 “The Simonis is good for card movement. Let’s see the bounce,” challenges Arnold. As the chips are placed or even tossed a bit, they land with a nice little “plunk” and no bounce to be of concern.

“Lucky,” says Arnold. And the table is done. Slade lets the comment go as there’s no real upside to putting Arnold in his place, but the defiant comment irritates Slade. Slade takes a quick inventory and notices a few drinks and a particular brand of cigarettes that must be picked up. 

“Let’s make the rounds and ensure we have a full house tonight. I’m gonna grab a shower and snag Ramona so she can finish setting shit up. I’ll snag the rest of the supplies while I’m out.” Slade continues, “Let’s meet up at the Side Hole about two, two-thirty, ok?”

“Sweet Fatman, I'll be up there in a bit. Are we gonna chop it up fifty-fifty while we're both playing tonight? Set a limit or something, then chop winnings,” Arnold inquires. Slade isn’t particularly thrilled; he knows he's the far superior player but is stuck keeping Arnold happy. “Sure, fucko, whatever’s good for you. Let’s nail it down at The Side Hole.” Slade replies flatly.

“That works.” Arnold then piles on another request. “Have you thought about adding a bit of excitement to the game and not just boring-ass Hold ‘em all night?”

“Dude, look, I've told you, I want to set up a structured and regular game. Tonight is a test, and if it goes well, I'll expand and have a night where we play mixed games and stuff.” Slade says in a tone almost lecturing and undoubtedly definitive. 

“Ok, ok, damn, don’t be a dick about it. I was just saying,” Arnold replies, feeling a little dismissed. With that, Arnold and Lewis head out, and Slade walks next door and notices Ramona is driving up.

“What the fuck! I thought I was picking you up?” snaps Slade.

‘Well, Frank called me in when two girls called in sick,” Ramona replied sheepishly. “I gotta work, and I wanted to come over and tell you I was sorry in person.”

“Fuck me,” Slade says aloud. “I need someone to do hostess shit.”

“How about Becky?” Ramona offers. “She’s not working tonight and is hot.” She winks.

“Ya, she IS hot,” Slade says, a bit too enthusiastically. Seeing Ramona’s glare, he quickly adds, “For a skinny chick.”

“Whatever, she plays on the other team anyway. I’ll call her,” Ramona snaps. As she enters the duplex with Slade, she snags the wireless phone off the kitchen table to call Becky. Slade wasn't paying attention as his mind wandered, thinking about Becky. I might put that to the test one of these days.

Ramona hangs up to let Slade know Becky is set. And adds, “She is good with two hundred dollars plus all tips, same as I was getting. She’ll head here around three-thirty, and I told her y’all start serving at seven. I also told her where you keep the spare key,” with a clear note of finality.

As if she is reading Slade’s thoughts, she turns to Slade as she heads out the door. “I won’t be needing that key anymore anyway, I guess. Good luck with your game or whatever tonight,” she almost snarls, knowing as everyone in the rounder world does that wishing someone good luck is in and of itself bad luck.

Well, that’s that, Slade thinks. Time for an upgrade anyway. I’ve been thinking I needed something new for a while. I Got the new place, car, and my game is on the upgrade path. I might as well round it out with a new piece of ass!

A quick shower later and Slade plops down into his hopped-up Honda. A CRX  fully blacked out with an aftermarket chip and beefed-up suspension to the barely street-legal tires.

He revs the engine, rolls back the sunroof, pops in a CD, and cranks up Def Leppard. Of course, he has a top-of-the-line custom stereo, including dual fifteen-inch Cerwin Vega Woofers in the back. He quickly checks to ensure he has the “tools” of the gambling trade. Pool cue in the back. Wallet in the glove box. Pager on his hip. Glock under the front dash in its custom-made mounted holster (so it's not bouncing around when one hits a curve at ninety miles an hour). 

All good, let’s roll, Slade says to himself.

One last check for the “cash spots.” Two short stacks of about twenty-five hundred dollars in each front pocket and a fat stack of thirty thousand dollars in the secret compartment Slade had built under the dash. NOW I’m all good! 

Slade is ready!

As has become the usual method over the last six months, he knocks out the check box tasks early and leaves the action to flow as it does. He hits the liquor store first for the supplies to get that done.  Slade has indeed transitioned to treating this as a business, not just another hustle. Today will not be spent wandering around, hoping to find another mark to take advantage of. Today there’s an order to things, a structure. THIS is the beginning of how Slade wants things to be.

He’s loading up the car with the supplies as his pager goes off. He recognizes the code right away: It's Phil the bookie. Slade's known “Wild Phil from Liberty Hill” for about three years, but Phil has become much more important to Slade over the last eighteen months. More than a mentor, Phil is a trusted person in his life. A father figure Slade never had. 

Liberty Hill is nothing special, just one of the many little rural towns around the Austin Metro area. Most people, including Slade, couldn’t even tell you their names or where they were located. No one knows if Phil is from Liberty Hill or if it's just a cheesy rhyming nickname that stuck. But it has, and everybody has a nickname.

Phil runs a tight ship. He has the reputation of always paying on time and supplying accurate and up-to-date lines. It’s generally accepted that Phil's your man if you want to make a sports bet locally. He’s a great bookie but, like many rounders, good at one type of hustle; with other types, not so much! It’s like a cycle for most. Make money on one end, blow it on the other. Most bookies are on the edge of being broke, similar to most hustlers. Phil’s the exception to this rule, however. He has a successful sportsbook and has for a very long time. He has money and likes to throw it around. He would walk into a bar and buy the house a round, only to follow up with two more. Phil IS “that guy,” and people love him for it.

Phil is a draw for poker games, and he and Slade both know it. Slade was pleased when Phil agreed to be a player in his inaugural game. Slade knows that having Phil is crucial to the first night's success.

Slade pops over to the payphone and calls Phil.

“Sup man, you still comin’ to give me your money tonight?” Slade jokes.

“Sorry little buddy, that’s why I paged,” Phil says. “Shit came up, and I gotta make a run to out-of-town. I know this is a big deal for you tonight, but I gotta handle this one in person. I can’t say more, but I'll catch you up in the next day or so.”

“All good,” Slade says to Phil. And while Slade knows Phil would never let him down unless he had to, he can't hide the disappointment. Worry that he's feeling for the second time today is flooding his mind. For a brief moment, he lets that slip into his voice. 

Phil hears it too. “Hey, little buddy, I’ll make some calls, you’ll fill it. Sorry to let you down.” 

Slade can detect in Phil’s voice that he’s honestly not happy to miss the game.

Before hanging up, Slade adds, “Hey Phil, I appreciate it. next dance is on me.” Slade tries to lighten the mood, referring to table dances at the strip club. “Hit me up when you’re back.” He needs to scramble. At least three slots are open at the table now that Phil won’t be there. At least two players were only coming because of Phil. They would either leave the game outright or leave early. Both scenarios were bad options.

Slade immediately pages Arnold with “-3” meaning three players were lost. 

Slade proceeds from the liquor store to Eric’s pool hall to see if he can spot any potential players. As his eyes adjust, he notices that there sits Danny the Drain. He's a union pipe-fitter. The gang all tell him his nickname is based on his profession. The truth is that he'll drain his whole stack once he starts losing. He’s one of those players you definitely want in a game. He isn’t a terrible player but can’t quit while he’s ahead. Constantly pressing the edge. He enjoys losing and getting mad about it. Such is one form of a gambler’s addictive personality.

Danrkable features and medium build are of someone you pass by on the street every day and never notice. Almost always in jeans and a button-up, heavy-duty long-sleeve shirt that screams, “I work with my hands for a living.” You would never know he makes over six figures in the union or has two kids in Ivy League schools.

“Hey, easy money, what are you doing off in the middle of the day?” Slade spouts off to Danny. 

“Oh, the job got stalled. I think they found some rare fucking beetle or something. Shut the whole site down. Fuck it. I get paid either way,” he grins.

“Hey, I’m gonna kick off my game tonight. You still thinking about comin’ over? Ya know, we got good food and a hot Sugars chick servin’! Slade implores Danny.

“What the hell. I got time. When you startin’ up?”

“Seven, we start the food and cards fly by eight at the latest,” Slade replies. “You don’t want to miss the food. Arnold made up some lasagna and gnocchi, plus cheesecake for dessert. Full bar, of course.

“Now, Danny, you know the rules, right? Same as at Tex’s game. It’s a quarter for a mucked deck, and we all move on. Ya?” Slade checks in.

“For sure, man, I got it. I’m chill tonight, though. It won’t even be an issue.”

Danny was also famous for getting pissed off when his luck is running bad. He routinely tears or folds, or even throws a deck of cards. Even at a discount, the full plastic decks are ten dollars in bulk. Slade, paying attention to other games, marks them up. Everything is to make a profit!

Well, this is good news, Slade is thinking.  Danny is as big of a draw as Phil. And he sure likes to lose to show that he can! Slade quickly pages Arnold: “+1 ,+1” meaning they got one back, which will keep one at the table longer. Slade hangs out for a bit, shoots the shit with Danny, then exits without being too obvious. 

Dropping a little white lie as he heads out, Slade says, “I need to get the supplies and such, make sure Becky has her shit right. See you at the game.”

“Yep, see you in a bit to take your cash,” Danny replies with a grin.

Slade hops back in the CRX, whips out of the parking lot, and heads to The Side Hole to meet Arnold. Suddenly he has the strangest feeling of nervousness. This is abnormal, and it's the third time today he’s felt “strange.” As soon as the weird sensation comes, it’s gone. Slade knows this is a new turn, an inflection point. While Phil has said encouragingly that if tonight is a bust, you can give it a shot again later, Slade is unsure he has it in him. He wants, no, needs tonight to work well and get out of doing the hustle. He needs more.

As Slade walks into the Side Hole, he hears Guns n’ Roses “Sweet Child of Mine” on the jukebox and is warmly greeted as the local royalty. Johnny, the bartender, asks, “You kickin’ your game off tonight?

“For sure, man. You want a seat?” Slade beams.

“Of course, you know better! I ain’t playing cards in shark-infested waters, but you know you got the eight if you're itching to lose some cash.” Johnny laughs as he says it.

Slade’s mind wanders back to a few years before when he knew nothing of this pool hall lingo or lifestyle. It was like an echo chamber where he could hear the people in the pool hall talking, but their words and phrases were off and sounded muddled. To a naturally smart guy without context, this lingo sounded like an eerie foreign dialect of English. Yet he was intrigued. If he could learn this coded language they all spoke fluently, he would be part of them.

His hunches were correct.  He’d mastered the lingo and was at home in this gritty life he’d been looking for. 

Johnny is a well-built guy with a beaming smile and bright green eyes. He has a quick wit, which jives with Slade’s own. It doesn't take long to notice how Johnny frequently looks at himself in the bar-length mirror behind him at The Side Pocket. In a word, Johnny is vain. Johnny is ten years older than Slade and is never seen without his ball cap. It took many months for Slade to realize that Johnny was going bald, and that's why he never takes off!

Johnny seems to have more money than a bartender’s salary could afford: an old Porsche nine-eleven as his second car and (although most didn’t know it) hair transplants. The truth is Johnny has the place wired. It's a beer and cash-only pool hall where Johnny regularly “supplements” the stock to take care of the skim. And an all-cash business makes this easy. He’s also a decent pool player, not above hustling the occasional sucker.

 There was a time when Johnny could have spotted Slade the eight-ball and made a winner out of it. These days though, Johnny and Slade wouldn’t ever put this to the test. Everyone knows Slade has the upper hand even though he acts like he doesn’t.

Arnold pops in right behind Slade and seems to be in good spirits. You can hear the excitement and pride in his voice as he announces, “Hey, Fatman, I snagged another player, so we’re full plus one if they all stay.”

Arnold would hit his usual local bars and places where players might hang out, while Slade used the pool halls as his base for recruiting players.

Slade seems a bit reflective, “You know I want to have a backup or two. You or I can rail if the table is full. It makes the game go longer.” 

“You're such a downer,” Arnold pops back. “Is that glass ever half fucking full? Plus, if all we're playing is boring ass Hold ‘em I'm happy to ride the rail!” Slade ignores the jab about the game being structured and shakes his head.

“Can I get a couple of beers, Johnny?” Arnold asks as the bartender walks away. Slade is no fan of the players Arnold brings. Arnold takes it as a slight as if Slade is getting “too big for his britches.” In his mind, Slade should be thankful he’s even in the game. He shouldn’t make a big deal of playing any games people want.

Jimmy, aka Checkbook, walks in. Jimmy looks like a fish out of water. He’s dressed cleanly in a neat button-down shirt freshly pressed. It matches perfectly with his earth-toned slacks with crisp creases down the middle. His thick blond hair looks like it has a fresh trim. Jimmy looks the very opposite of a pool hustler. 

In fact, Checkbook isn’t a great hustler, but he’s good at pool and looks like such a straight-arrow that people couldn’t help but try to beat him. Inevitably they’d lose. 

Jimmy is also one of the few good pool players who’s also a decent card player. Slade thinks, man, Jimmy could be the player we need to balance out whatever idiot Arnold rounded up. We’re gonna make this a game, after all.

“Hey, what are you two up to?” Jimmy asks.

“Setting up for the game tonight. Wild Phil bailed on me, but we have a chair if you're up for losing a little of that gravy,” provokes Slade.

“Who's coming? I gotta make sure there’s at least one loose player at the table.”

Again, Jimmy the anomaly. Everyone knows his tone of voice and the educated cadence from a top-tier school. With an MBA from Stanford, dropping an “f-bomb” is out of character for someone like Jimmy. Add to it the mismatch of his three-hundred-dollar pair of loafers touching this pool hall's dingy, dirty blue carpet. The anomaly is that Jimmy loves it here with the gritty people!

“I pulled in Danny the Drain,” Slade says excitedly. 

Jimmy jumps on it, “Oh, shit! In that case, what time? I’m in.”

“Food at seven, cards fly at eight at the latest. I got Becky from Sugars serving up the food, and I’ll have your Stoli in the freezer.”

“I’m in for sure," he repeats, then adds. “I’ll be there early to pick my seat.” Pausing again, he continues, “Hey, you have another spot open? I think Lorenzo wants to play.” Sam Lorenzo was a grinder, but he would hold a seat all night to expand the game. Slade understood that while he wouldn’t make any money directly off Sam, he would help the rake.

“Hell, ya, tell him to come on. If we over-fill, I'll kick fucko out of his seat for the real players,” Slade beams at Jimmy.

“Ya, you’re a laugh a minute, Fatman,” Arnold quips, still feeling a bit slighted; it dawns on him that people view Slade as the Alpha in this card game. This can’t be easy, as Arnold’s been in the alpha slot for the last ten-plus years, especially in the rounder side of life.

Arnold shakes off his jealousy and concludes that with Jimmy in, the room is filled and back on track. The game might be a little tougher than it would have been with Phil, but Checkbook can also be a draw. When he gets down and starts to lose, his mode is “go-off.” In other words, fire back with more significant cash and more aggressive plays, which is better for the house and his cut.

Slade decides to push Jimmy a bit, taking advantage of his ego in case the night starts badly for him.

“Hey, Checkbook, you and Lorenzo should take separate rides so you don’t have to sleep on the couch waiting for him to win your money back from the rest of us when you bust out early.” Slade roars with laughter.

Arnold sees what Slade is up to and piles right in with the obvious fake laugh to poke at Jimmy. 

”Keep it going! Remember:  Buy two; they’re small,” Jimmy jabs back. While this one stings Slade’s ego, and he congratulates himself for getting under Jimmy’s skin as intended. 

Slade flashes back a bit to a game not long ago where he was losing badly, and Jimmy kept goading him: “Buy two; they’re small,” he would say. Slade had to ask Arnold what that meant. He discovered it referred to Slade buying back in at double the initial buy-in rate. In the end, if it hadn’t been for that substantial loss, Slade would certainly not be here today about to embark on a new path: a business path.

Arnold and Slade wandered off to the side for last-minute planning. All signs of feeling insulted had vanished from Arnold as swiftly as they had come on.

Slade says, “Ok, we buy in for two dollars each and no deeper than a dime. We good?”

“A dime each, max.” Arnold nods. 

Then Slade adds, “And if either bails early, we square right then to get back to even. If we both go the night, It's fifty-fifty on the rake. If not, seventy-five / twenty-five. Good?”  

“I like it,” says Arnold. “I play my way, and if I want to bail if the table is still full, I can!” Then he pops out his fist for the bump and settles it.

Slade makes the rounds in the pool hall, asking if anyone else might like to join his card game. He knew the answer.

This was all a show!

Slade walks out of The Side Hole and hops into his clean CRX, heading for the duplex. His mind is racing; the drive home is a blur. The poker table is set, the food is ready and laid out on the kitchen bar, and Becky looks hot as hell! He’s prepared, the room’s ready, and the players are on the way.

One by one, people start knocking on the door. Some have signature knocks. Two short and two long: That’s Checkbook. He’s first.

Checkbook says hi to Becky as he walks in and quickly picks out where he wants to sit. “Can you get me a Stoli straight and a little bit of whatever Arnold cooked up? It smells great!”

Turning to Slade, “I’ll get a dime stack.” as he lays out ten hundred-dollar bills.

Slade is seated at the head of the table. Immediately behind him is one of the new custom wooden covered drop box safes he has just picked up from Vegas, along with fully customized sets of clay poker chips.

Slade slides the cash from the table into the slot in the cabinet in one smooth motion, then opens a large wooden box that contains the poker chips. They're pre-stacked in two-, three- and five-dollar sets so handing them out is efficient. Slade is proud of his chips, fully custom-made with “Bird-Man Poker” stamped into them. The custom box is emblazoned with the same on its outside lid.

Slade grabs a five-dollar stack, then adds five black chips to make it a full ten dollars. 

“Here you go,” Slade replies. “Let me know if you need anything chopped up.”

Becky interrupts as she brings Checkbook, his drink, and a plate of food. Slade isn’t paying attention as they start to chatter back and forth. There’s another knock on the door; one short, three long.

Arnold has arrived, along with Lorenzo and someone from the garage game. Right behind them are Danny the Drain, Tex O’Sullivan and t,wo of Phil’s customers.

The table is full as it's set to hold eight people.

Slade pulls Arnold slightly aside and says, “You want to hit the rail first, or me? One of us should stay and rake.”

“I got it, brother. You chill and host; we can swap every so often and see how shit goes.”

With that, the players are seated and getting their orders to Becky for drinks and food. Arnold is collecting cash and handing out the chips.

Slade plops down on the black leather couch across the room from the poker table to look around and take it all in. It was happening. Slade is going to the next level and hosting his own game.

The room fades. Slade’s mind goes still and wanders back almost ten years ago to that little boy he was in eighth grade. Where this all began, and he was gambling with Arnold for the first time. That first loss would set up the possibility for the win today.