A past World Series winner moves through the poker room – his dorsal fin riding high, up out of the water. He barely glances at anything other than the high limit section where he’s heading. He’s trying to pick out the next fish that’s flopping and bleeding, which is the scent that brought him here. He’s cruel and cold, malicious to dealers and capable of using every swear word known to mankind when he takes a beat, couldn’t possibly be his play or the random run of the cards, after all . . . he’s a major tournament winner!
Poker rooms are filled with them – those that will never know that fleeting moment of victory in a tournament and those that never play tournaments. They aren’t all the same, some of them amble and graze. Some of them are like magpies, floating in and then flapping out, harping and yakking about everything in general and nothing in particular.
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