Pardon me, Officer

Look at the game on table 10! All new faces, no leisure suits or fans and more chips on the table than the cashier’s cage has in it. The pots are so big the dealer has to forklift them to the winner, which by the way, (no matter who it is), is still stacking chips while they reach for the next hand. This could be the game of the year. Year? Hell . . . this could be the game of the century!

You’re already on the transfer list, (that’s a given when you walk through the door), and someone wants to move from table 10. You walk over and take a quick look to see if the person who wants to transfer has a Dr. bending over them. No one with a brain or a pulse could leave that game.
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