Bayou Poker Challenge Review

So the Bat descended on decadent New Orleans, finding himself a cozy vinyl booth in a strip club on Bourbon Street sipping a beer the size of his head, holding dollar bills between his teeth, ogling the pretty girls, and trying to ignore the stank of the strip club when he realized he came down to play some pok-a.  The Bat left the buxom silicone ladies at Rick’s, Larry Flints, and elsewhere despite their heaving breasts, and promises of love to get back to Harrah’s Poker Room.

Who knows what time it was but the Bat barely aware of daylight, or lack of it, on his rambling walk over keyed into his surroundings and knew he was going to crush it.  The poker room had its usual assortment of welfare check recipients trying to strike Gold on a bad beat jackpot or an epic run of cards, freshly minted Internet luckboxes that think every table has a holecam and the casino cameras are trained on to them with a panel of security members admiring their deft folds and ballsy re-raises, the out-of-town drunks, and your rocks growing mold on their casino beaten faces.

The Bat felt right at home.  He pulled out a wad of cash, now far lighter after the sojourn at the strip club, where Hurricanes had blinded him to denominations and the Bat inadvertently tipped hundos instead of singles.  No fear, the Bat’s been running good especially in Texas Hold ‘Em Poker.  Now was the time to take these fools to poker school.  Finding a seat at a swollen 10-25 table the Bat splashed a wad onto the table.  The future victims eyed the Bat’s stilted movements and listened in glee to his slurred words with several openly rubbing their hands in delight.  But the Bat knew better, oh the Bat knew better.

The Bat’s plan was to watch a round of play and then attack, attack, attack.  Five hands in pocket queens changed that plan and the Bat eyed the pot as the old man with the creaky arm led out with a bet.   The elbow joint literally cracked like a champagne bottle being opened and even a drunken Bat could recognize the embodiment of tightness was entering the pot.

Rolling his eyes, the Bat popped it to the $350.   The old man didn’t flinch.  The bystanders got out-of-the-way.  Old Man Winter waited until the action got to him and waited some more.  The Bat wondered if Death had finally creeped up and squeezed the old coot’s heart until like a rotten tomato it fell in upon itself.  Had the old man with his wispy beard finally succumbed.

With a resounding crack of his other elbow, the geezer found life force anew to toss out a stack of black chips.  If the Bat was going to play, it was going to be for 2k.  The drunken Bat felt beaten and looked down at the remainder of the 5k in chips in front of him.  He checked his cards again, still two queens. 

The old man turned his creaky neck until he was eyeball to eyeball with the Bat and as he did so his thick 1980s Bill Gate glasses slid down the top of his nose.  They looked like their very heft would take the nose with it, tearing it off his ragged face.   The Bat fumed.  He has to have it.

The Bat pushed out 2k and said to himself, I’ll hit a queen.  The old man visibly rocked by the call sank into his chair.  He doesn’t have it!  The Bat thought to himself.

The dealer slowly scooped in the pot and readied himself to show the flop. 

“Today, dealer, I want to make sure he’s alive to see the end of this hand,”  The Bat quipped.

The dealer spread three cards and the Bat’s Q came. 

The old man put out 2k and the Bat shoved over the top for the last 1 k, “I gotta set old man!” taunting his opponent.

The old man turned slowly to the bat firing in the extra thousand with one hand and spilling his cards with the other showed J10. 

“Jack f’ing 10?”

The dealer said “Straight” and fired off two meaningless cards.  He pushed up the Q9 and 8 that flopped.  Whoops!

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