Wal-Mart '21'

Wal-Mart Pick up Game
(new story)

This weekend at the local Wal-Mart Super Center in (undisclosed location), Ruffian chapter 2216 joined in the lobby for a friendly pick up game of basketball. The yobs involved in this event where none other than, Matt, Robert, (aka Billstick) and Brock. I guess I should go back to clarify this off the wall event.
I slowly shook my head as I bounced into Brock and Billstick’s apartment. I never seem to remember the ungodly-sized pothole nestled right in the middle of their driveway. Although I went airborne in my Camry, and slammed violently backwards and forwards in my seat, I was ok. I had made it, sadly enough I can’t say the same for my oil pan. I got out of my car and shook the pill dust off me, as I tried to gather my thoughts and figure out just how bad the bottom of my car was.
Walking into their apartment is like walking into an indoor flea market. As soon as you go through the door on your right is a dozen plastic chairs in shambles due to a two-outer on the river and other various beats that have been handed out on one of the two poker tables that rested over in the living room. In the kitchen was a pile of dishes that seemed to have taken a life of their own. If I live to be a hundred I’m sure these dishes will evolve into some sort of scab of a human with bad breathe and acne problems that becomes a legend at pitching quarters in the high school restrooms.
Next to the big poker table was a pile of scattered clothes that looked like a skinny drunk that had passed out onto the floor. On top of the refrigerator was a sloppy wooden sign that read; “Milking Goats for Sale”. Parties that were involved can only tell the story about how the sigh was obtained. The apartment was strewn with various posters of Tony Montana, Pamela Anderson, Tupac, and other icons. If one looked hard enough, there would be no telling what you could find within the walls of these apartments.
I was picking up Billstick and Brock and we were going to Wal-Mart to grab a few things for my son’s first birthday party. Doesn’t seem to exciting at this point, but when you have three ruffians heading to Wally World, you can bet your ass that something crazy is going to happen.
We strolled through Wal-Mart’s automatic doors unbeknownst to what we were about to discover. It appeared that some local hoodwink had rigged the “Hot Shots” basketball arcade game to continuously spit out the basketballs… without having to insert any more quarters. It was a continuous supply of mini basketballs.
“EUREKA,” we all exclaimed simultaneously, as we made haste getting over to the crippled machine.
Instantly the safe confines of ye ole Wal-Mart Super Center became the court of doom. After each of us took a few reluctant warm-up shots, making sure that the tiny basketballs were actually going to come back, we decided to play a rough-edged game called twenty-one. To those of you all never having heard of such a game, it’s kind of a combination of football and basketball. This game should not be played without a disclaimer having been read over a loud speaker beforehand. This very festivity ended the career of one, Marlin K. Hamilton long before his time. The game has but two simple rules. (1) make the basketball at all costs. (2) stop someone from making the basketball at all costs. I have seen many a men fall victim to this scandalous game.
Matt was allowed first possession because he had the most visible tattoos. Oddly enough, Matt’s first dribble was also his last on this possession. As soon as the ball bounced off the floor Matt’s midsection was met by Billstick’s pointy shoulder taking both players to the ground. Brock hastily grabbed the ball and turned to face an open basket. He squared up and let the shot fly as Matt and Billstick clawed and scratched their way back to their feet. Clank! ‘Damn these carnival sized rims,’ Brock thought. He grabbed the ball and tried to get another free shot off… but to no avail. As he cocked his arm and came forward, two hoodlums that were both Hell bent on taking control of the ball crammed him from behind. Brock bounced off the “Hot Shots” game and spun out of control into the “Lucky Crane” game and from there, face first into the grimy floor. Billstick and Matt were battling like UFC fighters and finally Matt’s right hand grabbed the ball, with his left hand he shoved all buck fourty-five of Bill into the makeshift racecar game, freeing himself for a shot. Bill would have none of it. He vaulted back from the driver’s seat just in time to block Matt’s would be basket directly into the dome-shaped security camera. Play never slowly for a second. Brock was now back to his feet and all three players scrambled for the ball yet again. By this time all of the happy shoppers coming in, and the disgruntle ones leaving had caught glimpse of the untamed brute contest of stamina and strength.
“Look Harold, ruffians in there natural habitat. Don’t get to close honey, I’ve heard of creatures like this,” I heard one elderly lady exclaim as she and her husband scurried away and into the parking lot.
The blood that had gathered on Brock’s chin and shirt had served as a scare mechanism for the minimum waged shopping cart collector that had unexpectedly happen upon this scene. The buggy boy disappeared into the store leaving behind all the carts that had plagued him earlier in his shift. No doubt this run-about was headed for the closest manager to tattle. That didn’t hinder the game the least bit.
“Ruffians mama,” I heard a little girl cry as she pointed her stubby finger. “Don’t look directly at them Sammy Jo,” her mother said as she practically drug the little girl into the store.
Bill then, from the seat of his pants, netted a shot somehow over Brock and through Matt. SCORE! Now this meant Bill was allowed to shoot free shots from a distance until he missed. A miss would be instant chaos yet again. Just as Bill was about to attempt his first shot, we noticed a bowling pin shaped old lady, wearing a red smock, swaggering towards the double doors. We knew our game had been called. Bill tossed the ball in the direction of bowling-pin lady and we scatted out the door like stray cats. It was a proud win for Bill, and a physical loss for Brock, as his cut would need some type of suture, and the better part of his left arm was engraved into some shoot’em up game back in the lobby. Matt was mad in defeat. He let out most of his anger on an innocent shopping cart and a Shasta soda machine. The boys climbed back into Matt’s Camry and headed down the road. The ruffians still had to pick up some things for the birthday party. The fellows contemplated taking Brock to the hospital, instead the figured they’d try their luck at good ole K-Mart first, just to see what happens.

The Country Palace

(Old story)
The lack-luster crowd had gathered around the neon lights to The Country Palace as if they were moths. The Country Palace was a makeshift bar filled with hooligans of all sorts. Run abouts, scallywags, drifters, no goods, slapsticks, saps, creek rats, roughnecks and ruffians; they all called this place home on the weekends. This wasn’t a place for the do-gooders of the world. On this night I found myself and a couple of my ruffian comrades shoving our way into this toothless crowd. Make no mistake about it, we weren’t regulars here. We were just looking for a mite taste of mischief, and we knew ye ole Country Palace wouldn’t let us down. You see, I’ve been to this skank-shack only six times in my life, and I’ve partaken in eight bare knuckle fist duels. This was just the place to blow off some holiday steam.

On our way in, I felt a bit shaky, having just engaged in a cheap line of cocaine/sheet rock dust. Ahhh! Good ole Floyd County coke; a plethora of no good powders mixed with a dab of blow. I love it! Our driver did not join in our coke binge; he was busy knocking down shots of Wild Turkey. Wild Turkey and The Country Palace, a recipe for disaster to say the least, but that is what ruffians live for, right?

After fighting off the crowd, other obstacles arose. This hooligan lair was home to many diseases; some curable, most not. Nothing should surprise you when you go into this place, save a pot-bellied pig swinging a loft wedge; I have seen it all in here. Cock fights. Fist fights. Professional wrestlers having been mocked, and public displays of sexual acts that would make hooker squirm. Yes siree, I have seen many a few wild times here. We were fighting our way down a narrow hallway that had been dosed with a special mix of local yokel cologne; a mixture of two parts urine, 1 part tobacco spit, and just a pinch of filth. Many a good men have puked in this hallway, and many more would in the future. It is like a right of passage one must pass through before being allowed into such a place. The ripped and torn Berber carpet was stained so bad that Hell wouldn’t have it. Just then a roughneck busted by us pushing me into the wall and my hand into a pile of goop that I did not have the heart to look at. I only hoped the 80 milligrams of oxycodone in my pocket would help ward off any would be diseases floating amidst the slimy mess. I gently tapped the guy in front of me on the back with a fake hey-buddy-how-you-doing whilst relieving my hand of the bacteria that was loathing to square off with my white blood cells.

Finally we make it to the door where the local elementary school custodian doubled as the door keep. The entry fee into this shit hole was five bucks. As soon as we walked through the doors I heard my cousin and fellow ruffian Robert say “I’ll stab that son of bitch if he don’t stop staring at me.” The other member of this crew Ricky Jo then chimed in “Do it Robert by God. Fuck him up, I mean really boys who does he think he is?”

Now as I turned I slowly thought ‘Already? Is this going to happen this fast’? As I saw, the poor sap they were talking about, I knew it was just a notorious comment that barred no real action. This shake around had all the makings of a meth head. Sunken eyes, facial burns, jitteriness, lost gaze, only weighed about a buck fifteen, yep this was a true shipwreck.

“Fellows, leave ‘at poor junkie alone. He couldn’t hurta fly. He’s just hoping someone will kill him so he doesn’t have to do it himself." There was no level head to be found within this group. Make no mistake about it, trouble was a’ brewin on this night.

The smell of hydrocodone was almost as thick as the marijuana smoke that lingered like a beer fart in the room. Yep The Palace was really jumping tonight. The dance floor was packed, and the band sounded like cats in a slaughterhouse, accompanied by the still beat of a country rhythm, followed by an awful backwoods limerick. I love it!

As we slivered to the back of the Palace, (where few dared to go) I passed a neighbor of mine. This troubled clown had started his own makeshift gang at the ripe age of seventeen. Not a real gang by any measure, just a group of misleds that wore black tee shirts with the word “Brotherhood” (of all things) printed on it. The letters were the same font as ye ole little league baseball uniforms of the late 80’s. These mongrels only stirred late at night, never causing any real harm. They would do such acts as; draw jaded pictures of a pecker and a nut sack on all the stop signs around area, or spraypaint a car hood, and smoke shake-weed in small circles at all the local basketball games. We ruffians just saw them as a new target to lash out on when we sought a good ribbing. I remember one time when I swerved my full size chevy Silverado into this group of chiptooths. As mean as they thought they were, they were no match for my350 engine. They scattered as if someone had rolled a grenade amidst them. Ah, the good ole days of yesteryear; but that is neither here nor there.

As we shuffled past the “Brotherhood”, I made sure to cast a disquieting gaze into their circle of dorks. They attempted to stare back, trying to look rugged in public. The Brotherhood had no real schooling although their math skills were spot on. It only took them a fraction of a second to realize the sum of Ricky’s weight and mine. (Close to 500 lbs) In their eyes I also noted that they quickly picked up on the fact that we were traveling with Robert. (aka “Billstick) Billstick was a true scraper, yet his small size was his disadvantage. This was usually overcome by the size of the knife he was carrying, and/or, the crowd he was with.

As a group, we had decided that we wouldn’t intentionally start any trouble, but with this group, it would surely find us. We stood back and watched the swarm of creatures swaying to the beat of a different drum. Fat girls wearing belly shirts, fourteen year olds giving blow jobs in the parking lot for 7.5’s, toothless old men a minute short of 60 peeking out of their bug eyes preying on the helpless sluts who were in search of a sugar daddy, yep, this place had it all.

Now there’s nothing more unpleasant than a pile of sweaty creekers running a muck on the dance floor. Using my best judgment, I deduced that one stood a 3 ½ to 5 chance of catching an infectious disease on that dance floor. I had no desire to join in their games of chance. I would just stand back and watch as Ricky Jo and Billstick rolled the dice.

I had rolled up my pant legs and waded into the restroom to relieve my bladder. What a site! Only in Eastern Kentucky, would one go into a public restroom and find a man coiled around the base of a toilet weltering in his own puke, cursing all the scowls that were urinating on him, yet to drunk and pilled-out to do anything about it. The poor sap was definately on the backend of a xanax buzz. I used better sense and just pissed in the corner on the wall, which seemed fitting enough. (At least I hadn’t pissed on myself like one poor sap who hadn’t realized it and was still standing in line)

When I emerged from the restroom, I saw my partners striking up a conversation of no good with some local fresh water skanks at a corner table. It wasn’t until I walked up next to them that I noticed the large black guy sitting at the end of the table. There was no doubt Abdulah was packing. He stood about 6 foot 4 and was a couple of Twinkies short of six hundred pounds. How did this beast grow to be this large, I wondered. I never took my stare off Abdulah the whole time. I wanted to be ready when he pulled out his Uzi. Billstick and Ricky Jo had no fear. They didn’t see any danger in hitting on these skanks. Abdulah wasn’t a problem for them. They confront trouble like drivers confront speed bumps, sure it will slow you down, but once you hit it, it ends up behind you on the ground.

Against Jaba’s better judgment, he gave his creek skanks permission to join my friends on the dance floor. In a matter of seconds Billstick left the dance floor and rejoined me deep within the back shadows of this holler trap. Once his skank began to sweat he said he noticed a foul odor that lingered around her, something akin to the smell of frying fat coupled with old carcass stench. It was more than enough to keep him from testing the skank waters for the rest of the night. “Ricky is crazy,” ‘Stick managed as he quivered from thoughts of that appalling whiff of misfortune. As he said this Ricky was grinding on the Queen skank, and loving it. He had one hand above his head swinging it around and around as if he was riding a bull, whilst thrusting his pelvis into the rear of this uncanny female. Me and ‘Stick just stood back and laughed as we watched him celebrate his madness. In the backs of our minds we knew that he would snatch her away from Jaba before the night was out, whether he liked it or not.

When the lights came on in The Country Palace, it was like waking up in a homeless shelter. The darkness that had shielded the unsightly characters within the walls of this joint had worked miracles. I had no idea just what kind of group I had been mingling with. My first reaction was to head for the doors quick. I knew that somewhere in this pack of lowlifes I would surely run into a random family member that I so carefully try to avoid outside of reunions. I muscled ‘Stick away from a local pot head who double as a special education teacher at our old high school. Stick was trying to convince him to stand up so he could fist his noggin a few times, but the lab rat wouldn't bite. He knew if Stick didn’t cut him, me and/or Ricky would leave him for dead. We gave up on our search for Ricky and headed for the door. Billstick was still mouthing off to the gremlins in the crowd in one last attempt to pick a fight. Only when I told him that I had a pill in my pocket, did he straighten up and follow me towards the door without force having to be used. The temptation of after market drugs would have to suffice instead of a rowdy brawl on this night.

When we made it to Ricky’s truck I had convinced myself that he was dead and we should just go on home and read about him come morning. Whilst sitting in the truck and shaving up the blunt end an Oxycontin, a fight broke out in the parking lot. If Ricky wasn’t dead he was sure to be found in the middle of this scrap contest. We couldn’t get out and see just yet, we had to sniff up this pile of sheer enjoyment with my stainless steel tooter, only then could we go and help Ricky.

After we snorted up the good stuff we stepped out of Ricky’s truck just in time to see his wild-eyed smile cruising past us in an unknown vehicle filled with fresh water skanks and judging by the sway of the vehicle Abdulah was nestled somewhere near the drivers side of the car. ‘Only Ricky’ I thought to myself as me and Stick just laughed and shook our heads. He had no clue where he was going, he only hoped he lived long enough to get back to us and share his misadventures; misadventures so foolish no random stranger would ever believe them. The Palace had closed the doors leaving the pile of thrash still struggling in the parking lot amongst themselves. This was probably just a pack of creekers fighting over the shotgun seat in their 83 Honcho. We had managed to survive the Palace this time, but we knew the war wasn’t over. We would test fate again in the future. Hopefully we’ll be this lucky again.

Good Karma (part 1)

(Casino trip, early Febuary)
There are several things that run through your mind when you are out of town and jet past a cop doing twenty miles over the speed limit. One of them should never be ‘What do we do with the drugs?’ Yet alas, that was the very thought that crossed my mind as Matt and myself speed into Louisville on our way to the river boat casino on the Indiana river.

"Stick em’ under the floor mat." I reasoned. "He shouldn’t check us anyway. He’ll just write the ticket, act like a prick, and go back to his shadowy lair to await the next victim."

Matt hesitated, as if a sixth sense told him something was terribly wrong with that plan. He eventually conceded after failing to find a better place to hide the six remaining Loratabs we had in our possession. Minutes past and the cop never came and soon we found ourselves on the final long stretch of road that lead to the casino.

"Time for another dose." Matt eagerly announced amongst our conversing about how we were gonna have another great poker session. This is our second four hour trip to Caesars Indiana in a month but the first one that we’ve made without our usual crew. A crew that usually consists of five to six drunken, loud roughnecks that usually end up caring more about having a good time than actually playing. As I previously posted the last trip wasn’t so great for that bunch. Unlike them, Matt and I have decided to try to work on taking playing poker seriously and move to the next level. Albeit we still like to have our share of fun and buzz catching, yet we try hard to make poker our priority. Nothing wrong with partaking in a few prescription pain pills while doing it though, right?

"Oh my God." Matt suddenly said as I awaited him to retrieve the pills and go to work on one. It sounded akin to someone who had just unexpectedly happened upon a gruesome traffic wreck. I knew someone was wrong and it involved the precious substance that we had hidden under the floor mat. My mouth was dry, sweat began to bead up on my forehead. I was worried.

"What happened?" I managed, expecting the worse, fearing the words my companion would say. Yet there were no words. He simply held his hand out for me to view the hideous site myself. The blue pills he held in his hand looked as if someone hand dropped them in a cup of water and let them soak for a couple hours. They were swelled up, falling apart, and mushed together. Worst of all though, they appeared to be unsnortable. Then it struck me like a batter getting pegged by the pitcher. Before we departed on this trip I cleaned my truck out seeing as how I just got it back from being fixed. My girlfriend had shampooed the floorboard and it didn’t completely dry before I went to pick Matt up. In the moment of desperation when we passed the cop I had completely forgot about the wet floorboards.

"Well, we’ll just go ahead and do yours and by the time we leave the casino, those we’ll be dried out." I offered, trying to turn the situation around. You see when we passed the cop I gave Matt my three and thought that his were still hid away wherever he had them. I thought that the only ones he placed under the mat the three of mine.

"Umm... that would work." Matt began. "Only I put ALL of them under their. Mine and yours. So in other words, we’re screwed."

As we made our way the last bit of distance to the casino we talked about the tragedy that was before us. For those of you who don’t use the occasional drug, namely pain pills, it turns any ordinary event into a good event. It turns any good event into a great event. A casino trip is already a great event itself, combine it with a good buzz from doing a few pain pills and there is little in the world that can compare. The circle is now complete at that point. Thus you see, we were heartbroken. Like a sixteen year old that just got dumped a day before prom because his girlfriend was now screwing his best friend.

We drove around the parking garage trying to formulate some plan. The best we could come up with was to hold the pills under my truck’s heater and let them dry the best they could. One minor setback was the fact that my truck’s heater barely even worked. As I mentioned earlier, I had just got my truck back from it being fixed. Hot air came out but the fan didn’t work and so the air didn’t blow out like any normal vehicle. After making more laps around the parking garage than a Nascar driver at Daytona, and avoiding ye old security officer that eyeballed my two-tone beat up pickup truck knowing that the driver of such a vehicle had to be up to no good on a regular basis, we decided to make a move. We decided to try to snort one anyways. They hadn’t dried much but a couple had dried enough to were we thought it might be possible.
Matt was the guinea pig. He decided to take the first try at the blue powder that now had brown specks mixed in. We tried not to think about what those brown specks were, knowing that it was some substance that came from my floorboard.

"Well, here goes." He announced as he vacuumed up his line like a Hoover. He made a face like he just downed a shot of rubbing alcohol but handed me the straw and shook his head in approval. "Not too bad." He said after a small coughing fit. I took care of my line and had to agree with him. It made you want to gag for some reason and was a lot thicker than normal but overall not bad at all. We took a second dose, while trying to act inauspicious to the security guard that kept driving around like a vulture circling a dead carcass. Then two black women walked by us and made a comment about marijuana and us hooking up with them or some such. They looked like they had slept in a garbage can for two weeks and then got out and took a severe beating from an ugly stick. We tried to act as if we didn’t hear so they would keep on walking and prey upon some other hapless chumps that may be desperate enough to pick up the likes of them.

Evading the succubuses and Barney Fife, we soon were entering the casino with a strong dose of pain medicine in our system and stronger hopes of a successful poker session. The long walk from the parking garage casino entrance and the actual river boat is always full of that eager feeling. A feeling that makes you want to run to the poker table like a little kid leaving its mommy in the dust as soon as they enter Wal Mart to make a B line to the toy department. To me, there is another feeling as well. A feeling that this is were I belong and a desire to make this long walk a regular thing. Matt shares that feeling as well. Our goal is to go full time before the year is out. The mass of oxycondone flowing through my vains only made this feeling stronger.

We entered at the casino about 11:00 pm and were going to enter a tournament that started at midnight. The casino was packed and we soon found the two lines to register for the tournament. My first impression was that the casino was giving out money when I saw the seemingly endless single filed people but apparently we had to join this monstrosity of a line to sign up for that tournament. We had almost made it to the registration desk when a guy a few people in front of us was taking forever. There appeared to be some sort of a hassle. We soon found out exactly what kind of hassle when Matt got to the front. Apparently they had redone the casino player member cards and we had to have a new one to get signed up for that tournament. The lady at the desk was going to take care of Matt’s but I had to make my way up three sets of escalators/stairs to the fourth floor to get a new one.

Ignoring the looks that people gave me I ran, pushed, and fought my way through the throng of people to get to the fourth floor. I was distraught to find yet another line awaiting me before I could get my new card. My last experience with a line of this nature was the lunch line in high school, so I recalled the tactics and strategies I used to defeat it then. Then I remembered that I was able to skip to the front due to the fact that I was one of the ruffians that the good kids wouldn’t dare oppose. No use to me here, I thought. The old ladies that were hell bent on feeding slots machines like they were their starving kids would never stand for me strutting to the front of this line. The threatening looks they gave me as I frantically fidgeted around trying to find some route to the front confirmed that. My senses were dulled due to the pain medication, perhaps I could take the ten odd grannies between me and my new card. Those purses they wielded like a medieval flail looked menacing so I patiently waited whilst wondering how Matt was fairing.

After finally getting my new card and seeing that I had but fifteen minutes before the tournament started, I considered jumping over the edge instead of going down the escalators/stairs. Perhaps I’d break my neck in the process and be given a plethora of pain medicine. The cons outweighed the pros though so I fought through the million man march sized crowd and made my way back down to the poker room on the first floor. Optimistic as always, I hoped their wouldn’t be a line down there this time and I would be able to relax before playing in this tournament.... silly me. I quickly sized up the people in the line and realized that I could probably take either of them one on one, perhaps two on one even, so at the risk of coming to blows I marched to the front of the line to the desk. Angry muttering and curses started up and spread like wild fire. They wanted to tar and feather this runabout that strode in front of them like he was Phil Hellmuth or somebody. "Remember me?" I asked the lady at the desk that had sent me on the mission to retrieve the new player’s card. Surprising she did and suddenly I had a powerful ally. She told the other people that I had already been through and quickly took care of me. Victory was mine, I was registered.

After regrouping with Matt we had but a few minutes before the tournament started. We spent this time hyping each other up and going over the cardinal rules of poker. Play smart, don’t get nervous or anxious, make good decisions, etc. We debating going back out to my truck for another dose but the clock was against us. All we could do was wait with great anticipation for the tournament to start. "So how did you get a new card?" I inquired as it suddenly struck me that Matt didn’t have to go up stairs.

"Didn’t have to have one." He replied very simply. "Why you ask?". I suddenly had the urge to go strangle the lady. I never had the chance though as the tournament director announced for the players to take their seats over the loud speaker.

"It’s go time." I said to Matt as we made our way to the tournament area, putting all thoughts of frustration out of my mind and focuses and playing some poker.

Coming down and coming back

(Casino trip, mid January)
When you have the friends that I have you never quite know what to expect. A call at 4:00am to come get them from two lesbians’ house, a large sign from local neighborhood T.V. repair sitting on your car port when you get up to go to work the next morning (followed by a very angry T.V. repair shop owner waiting on you when you get home from work), and multiple calls from ye ole county jail. The list goes on and on. You have to pretty much be ready for anything, and love it. Now, it would be wrong if I didn’t add that I’m also "the friend"too, more so than the rest of them. I’m the friend that calls you from a drug dealer’s house in rough part of town at 2:00 am to tell you he’s out of gas, the one that break’s a broom over a boy’s back in the parking lot of a gas station, and multiply calls from ye ole county jail. We all accept that we’re not your normal run of the mill early twenty something year olds. We don’t look to climb the corporate ladder or become a upstanding member of the community. We’re ruffians.

Well I come home from work one Friday and my girlfriend tells me that my buddy Brock has been trying to get a hold of me all day. I call him back to discover that the local crew is wanting to go to the casino that night and wants to head out within an hour. I would imagine most people would find this unexpected request somewhat ridiculous. My thoughts were ‘How fast can a man take a shower and be ready to go’ and ‘What type of deal must I strike with my girlfriend to avoid conflict that may hinder our departure’. You see, we had just been to the casino a couple weeks back on my birthday and women, being the odd creatures from another planet that they are, believe that frequent trips of that nature is just wrong. Their sole mission is to counter any and all fun men can have in life. There would be a fight, I would throw something, she would hit me on the head with a hair brush or perhaps even a clothes hanger. I had to think of some type of a plan.

Brock, Ricky, and Robert were the ones going and they were to pick up Ralph on the way there. These four are pretty much the four horsemen of Apocalypse. There would be liquor, frequent overflowing of gas station toilets, chasing one another with wrapped up turds, more liquor, and countless other shenanigans on a trip like this. Being the serious poker player that I am, I wanted this to be a profitable trip. I called my buddy Matt who lives a couple hours away and asked him to go. He’s the one guy that takes poker as seriously as I do. Oddly enough, the two of us are notorious for being the rowdiest of our circle of friends. We are the two that will always go to the next level when the others are afraid to. Yet when we go to play poker we attempt to take it seriously. The shenanigans just seem to work themselves in along the way. It’s like we’re a magnet for mishaps and situations the common man seeks to avoid. We embrace it. Soon enough another person, Nick, was also included and we were set to go. I was to pick up Nick and Matt and meet the other four at the casino.

Upon picking up Matt and dropping my girlfriend off at Matt’s house to stay with his wife (the deal made), we were on our way. Whilst driving down the interstate towards our destination, Matt pulls out what one could only describe as a drug user’s best friend. A metal box that was initially designed to keep documents and records for some type of business man. The inventors never imagined how perfect of a device it was to store, crush, snort, and conceal various drugs. You can even keep your paraphernalia in this thing. You see, we are the frequent users of what the average man calls "prescription pain pills" and that was my first guess as to what Matt had in store for us. What a surprise I was in for. He had something even better, cocaine. Ah yes, cocaine, we meet again. Soon I found myself trying to maneuver this car away from by passing traffic so Matt could hold the wheel while I snorted a line. It didn’t take long until I was jabbering like a woman in a beauty shop. Coke does this to you. A powerful drug that hypes the body up and makes him behave in unusual ways. You ramble on about nonsense, you fidget and constantly have to be doing something, only you don’t ever know what. Just the drug we needed. Several lines and what seemed like no time later, we were pulling into the casino.

As we made our way from the parking garage to the casino, I realized just how wired up I was. I was roasted, lit, ripped, buzzing like two bees in a mason jar. The bright flashing lights and the people that walked around us was just a blur. A figment of my imagination. All I knew was that I had to get to the poker table before the lure of the casino’s bar had me. I had intended on playing no limit but due to the fact that I wanted to run circles around the poker tables, I felt it would be best to play some fixed limit until I came down. Matt felt the same way as well so we got on the waiting list for one of the smaller limit games. The type of small games you almost feel embarrassed to play. You’ll find a different breed at these tables. Burger flippers, stay at home moms, chubby used car salesmen, thugs, and Carnies were just some of the lot that played at this limit. We had no choice though.

While waiting for a seat to open I sought out the four companions that had made it before us. It didn’t take long to find them. There was a ruckus from the back of the poker room. Not the normal sounds you hear in the poker room, but more like sounds you’d hear from a college binge drinking party. I followed the sound of the slurred curses, knocked over chairs, racial slurs, and clanging of empty glasses to find Brock standing up from his seat and berating some local yokel that he was playing against. He was tripping over empty glasses under his seat that once held alcohol and working hard on another one in his hand. He seen me and staggered my way like some disoriented mental patient that had escaped. I considered turning away before it was too late.

"Joey..." He slurred, the stench of tequila strong enough to peel paint off the wall. "You gotta see this guy play.... He’s raising every single pot." He was pointing to some type of Mexican breed on his left, who was hearing ever word but taking heed to none of it. "He can’t play worth a shit man." Brock continued. "See, he’s raising again without shit." He laughed and pointed some more and I instantly wondered how this poor sap could take such verbal abuse. Had I been him I’d already busted one of the margarita glasses over Brock’s head. Perhaps he didn’t speak English.

"How you doing? Are you up, down?" I inquired, trying to change the subject before security came over and their cocaine radar went off. Being juiced up on coke in a public place brought a sense of caution to you. Why was everyone looking at me and not Brock? Wait, that’s just Robert getting up from the same table and walking over to me. He was laughing at Brock’s antics and shaking his head as if to say there was nothing he could do with the boy.

"I’m up bout a hundred." Brock replied. My first thoughts was that he had gone mad. Surely this drunken fool wasn’t winning. I could imagine how he was playing. Throwing chips in on gut shots and bottom pair and laughing about it.

"What about you Robert?" I asked as Matt came over and inspected the situation. Brock began telling him what a bad player this Mexican guy was, nearly falling into the very guy he was making fun of.

"I’m up a little. Let me tell you what happened....." Robert replied and then began some bad beat story that I couldn’t concentrate on. He could as well been telling me aliens had invaded and were stealing everyone’s testicles. I was constantly glancing around and wondering why it was so hot in here. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and wondered if it would be frowned upon to take my shirt off. Robert suddenly and grinned as he looked at me and Matt, who was as lit up as I was. "What have you boys been doing?" Robert accused. Always the keen eye and being a drug user himself, Robert had quickly deduced that we were high as gas prices.

"Let’s just say you should have rode with us." I replied. At that point I heard my name called for the fixed limit game. I bought my chips and headed to my table. The coke buzz was in full effect. It suddenly became hard to interact with society. I was bumping into people and wandering aimlessly trying to find my table. When I got there it was worse. There were two cup holders with empty cups at the spot I was to sit at. I didn’t know what to do. "What’s my move here." I thought. Normally I would have just moved them out of the way so I could set my chips down, yet normally my head is not blown off from cocaine. I fidget around for a few moments like a lost pup. The dealer wanted something, money it seemed. I had to make a move. Quickly removing the cup holders and throwing them in the floor, I did as the dealer requested and posted the big blind so I could come into the game. With a little bit of luck, no one would know I was lit up like a Christmas tree. I pulled my shades down and began attempting to play.

In midst of playing I noticed Robert walk by looking like Charles Manson scouting out the next victim. I tried to catch his attention but it was no use. Moments later, Brock wandered by my table, hands in his pockets and his head down. This one looked as if he was just diagnosed with terminal cancer. I stood up and intercepted him before he could find the nearest exit and dive into the river to drown himself. "How you doing?" I dared to ask.

"I’m done." He said grimly.

"How’d you do?" I asked and instantly regretted it. The damned coke had my judgement way off. That’s was not the best thing to say in this situation.

"No, I mean I’m done. Finished, busted." He replied obviously distraught.

"Are you gonna play anymore? I think we were all gonna get a room." I said as I went back to the table and looked at my newest dealt hand.

"Let me go find the others and I’ll find out what we’re gonna do." He replied before walking off and out of the poker room. As I watched him I couldn’t help but to think he seemed someone akin to a prisoner heading towards the electric chair, it was a scary sight.

I continued to play but the limit game didn’t go well, I didn’t catch any cards and found myself down sixty bucks. After a good cold beer and about an hour and a half of playing, I felt good enough to play no limit. The coke buzz was steadily wearing off and I was close to my normal self. I jumped on the no limit list and soon found myself heading toward the no limit table after my name was called. Before I could even get my chips out of the rack at the new table, some guy jumped up and told another guy to suck his dick. Had I just stepped onto the set of Jerry Springer? Nope, this is was the group of people I was to play cards with. "Wow," I thought. "This should be an interesting table." As the night went on I realized that was a understatement. This was one of the wildest poker tables I’d ever played with. There was a raise and/or an all in ever hand. It was a $1-$2 no limit game with a buy in range of $100 to $300 but on two separate occasions, the pot was close to $2,000. Utter chaos and no regard for money. It was like this bunch had a side bet of who could throw their chips in the middle the fastest. It was all I could do to hold my own and not get involved in the madness. I made some great lay downs and calls and given the cards I was catching, I was playing very good and minimizing the damage. I’d flop top pair with a jack kicker to be bested by top pair with a king kicker. I’d flop a nut flush draw and some guy would go all in with a set. I’d hit a straight with three cards to a flush, a paired board, and higher straights all over the place. I had finally been punished for burning that car several years ago it seemed. Yet it was interesting enough to watch these maniacs at my table get into huge pots and take insane chip swings.

The table eventually broke up as player’s left and the remaining player’s were moved to another table. At this point I was down $150. I contemplated cutting my loses (and/or my wrist) there but that’s not the type of guy I am. I don’t bow out gracefully. I go down in a blaze of glory. Bon Jovi started playing in my head. I was fired up and had a second wind. I came here to win after all. It didn’t take long to realize that this new table I was moved to was what we poker player’s call "a berry patch", or as the old time toothless gamblers back home called "easy pickins". Some kid who looked like he should be getting ready to go to his sophomore science class raised the pot $4, a far cry from the $40 raises from my last table. Being the shark I am, I soon realized that I was in the right place. Weakness radiated from these suckers and slack jaws like horny from drunk girls in clubs. I’m pretty sure two of them were homosexual, one I believe masturbated in the bathroom, one had to be a professional fat ass, and at least three lived in their parent’s basement. Not a good poker player to be found in this lot.

Matt strode by and informed me that he was up almost $300 and had already cashed out. Nick was still going strong at a nearby table. I relayed to him the fact that this was a super easy table and I was gonna try to get back to even. We decided to call the other four who were last seen at the blackjack table to find out if they were gonna get a room with us. With any bit of luck they hadn’t sold their souls at the roulette table.

"Where are you?" Matt asked as we stood away from the table while he used his cell phone. He shook his head as he listened and looked back to me. "They are on 64 East heading home." He told me. He talked to them a bit more to get a recap on how everyone done. It seems most of them had lost and they sounded like they were ready to veer into oncoming traffic to put themselves out of their misery. They had sobered up and lost big, something that I wanted to avoid. Hopefully this wasn’t a bad omen. I returned to my table determined not to have the same fate as my fallen companions.

Peeking at the hand the dealer just dealt me, I saw Ace-10 suited. "A good starting point for my comeback", I thought, and threw in a decent raise while Matt stood behind me to watch. The guy to my left that had been playing quite a bit called and another player at the other end of the table called as well. The flop came something like Ace, 6, 7 with two spades and I felt good about my hand. Had anyone saw a hand with an ace and a bigger kicker, they would have reraised me before the flop. I bet and the guy to my right raised. The other guy folded and the action came back around to me. The amount that he raised pretty much had me deciding whether or not to commit all my chips on this pot or to fold. He could have a set of sixes or sevens or an ace with a six or seven kicker for two pair to beat me. Even a 6-7 beat me at this point. It was a crucial decision but I had the gut feeling that I had the best hand. I recalled everything I could to help me. The guy had shown down a bad hand earlier and was in almost every pot splashing around as they say. He appeared to be a loose player and was likely to be making a move on the new short stacked guy at the table, which happened to be me. I pushed all in and was relieved when he grimaced. "Well I’m pot committed and gotta call here." He said as he counted out my raise and called. He had a flush draw and I was a decent favorite to win the pot. My top pair held up and I had doubled up to nearly the $300 I had bought in with.

The very next hand I had Q-J and hit a flush on the river against two opponents and got paid off, taking some poor momma’s boy’s last $30 in the process. I felt delight as his dreams shattered and he got up from the table. We’ll here about that one on the news tomorrow found strung up in his bedroom. The next hand after that was K-10 of spades and I found myself once again with the player to my left, the guy that doubled me up already. I had a flush draw on the flop but we both checked. An ace come on the turn and I picked up a straight draw as well. He bet and I called. The river came another ace and he put in another bet. My keen poker senses picked up weakness though and I raised him. I had nothing, King high. Had I still been on the coke I’d crawled under the table until he made his decision. Thankfully he frowned and quickly mucked his hand. I had dragged my third pot in a row on a stone cold bluff and was feeling good.

I got up to tell Matt about the big bluff when the dealer accidently exposed my second card on the next hand. I sat back down and peeked at the first one to see a deuce. The exposed card was a king but the rules were to burn it and deal me a new card. The replacement card was another deuce. Instead of having K-2, I had pocket deuces. This suddenly became very significant after I flopped trip deuces. As fate would have it the guy to my left lead out and bet the pot. Normally I would just call here and try to trap him but since I had been playing so fast and had made this chump my personal punching bag, I decided to raise to try to seem like I was bluffing. I thought he may have overhead me tell Matt about the bluff and could only pray that he would come back at me. He thought forever and reluctantly folded. I still took down a healthy pot and won my fourth hand in a row.

I went on to win a few more small pots and soon found myself up $250. Minus the blunder at the limit table earlier I was ahead after a long night of cocaine induced bad playing, sheer chaos and madness at my first table, and seeing my buddies drop like flies in their attempts. It was a win and I was happy with it. I cashed my chips out and we rounded up Nick, who had broke even on the night, and made our way out of the casino. Along the way we passed the scrawny lad that gave me his last $30 like he owed it to me from years ago. He sat at a slot machine and was scrubbing his hands threw his hair and staring at the floor. The poor soul probably didn’t have enough gas money to get home. So being the people that we are, Matt and myself did what we thought was best. We got out there as quickly as possible so we could do some more cocaine.