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I don't consider myself to be a man with a violent disposition. Apart from having a generally sunny demeanour, I am too short and way too unfit to look for fights; an ungenerous but dispassionate onlooker might even label me as something of a coward.
So how is it that the cardrooms of Southern England and their mostly disreputable occupants have the capacity, on occasion, to turn me - in my mind at least - into a foul and frothing beast that would cause the Incredible Hulk to cower meekly in the corner?
Take Southampton. I'm playing a medium sized comp with a large sized stack, and my mind is already mulling over how best to spend the seven grand first prize, despite the technical drawback of there being some twenty-odd players remaining. Breaking off from my foie gras filled reverie, and pausing briefly to wipe the drool from my chin, I realise that some random muppet, who has miraculously amassed a bigger stack than mine, has just re-raised me all in on a flop of K99, and that I must be in pretty good shape because I happen to have been dealt two red kings.
Forty seconds later, as I'm staggering from the table like an ageing journeyman heavyweight that has taken one unwise last payday against Tyson in his pomp, I imagine myself ripping the head off the shoulders of the moron who thought his ace jack was probably good, disemboweling the reprobate, spilling his innards all over the felt, plucking his still-beating heart from his chest and, with a mighty roar, slamming it down on the table so that the turn nine and river nine could be banished forever from my incoherent and feverish mind.
I didn't, of course.
I said "Nice hand, well played".
Comments (2)
thats a sick sick beat and i think i would have been less re-strained than you