Fish Stories [Chapter 1]

I am the undisputed heavyweight champion of bad beats. I actually hold the record for most all-in’s lost in a row at two hundred and thirteen. Look it up. My name’s Marty, but I like to call myself “the Mackerel.” For some reason though, people that I play against insist on calling me “the Fish.” Damned if I know why. I think the Mackerel sounds much cooler, don’t you?

Let me tell you about my most recent shellacking. I was at the Commerce the other day, and on the very first hand I’m dealt, I’m looking down at a pair of kings. This is a damned good hand, so I put my shades on, lower my hat a little bit, and just call. Wouldn’t want anyone to know how strong my hand is; that way I can trap them later on. I also place a chip on top of my down cards – just like the pros do on television. Just in case there’s a gust of wind in the casino and the cards fly all over the place, ya know? Want to get credit for having such a good hand.

There are a few other callers, but they all look pretty weak to me. They definitely don’t look as pro as I do in my brand new Oakley’s. I, uh, had to replace my last pair of shades after I tossed them in disgust over a bad beat. But that’s another story.

Back to this one. The flop comes jack high, so I’m pretty sure my kings are best. They have to be right? So I bet about half the pot, five bucks or so. Everyone folds but one guy, who just calls me. That’s interesting, I say to myself. Maybe he has a jack? He can’t have much of a kicker, though. Otherwise, he obviously would have raised me. Not that it matters. Kicker or no kicker, my kings are still the best hand.

The turn is a king, giving me three of a kind, and top set. With no straights or flushes possible, my hand is the stone-cold nuts. I check, so he’ll think I was bluffing on the flop. That way, he’ll bet strong, and I can raise him all-in and take all his chips. But he just checks right along with me. Damn it.

The river is another jack. Now I’ll get him. He’s got to think his trip jacks are infallible. I can just see his face when I turn over my kings full. I can already hear him whine as the dealer pushes all his carefully-stacked yellow chips toward me. I bet the size of the pot – about twenty dollars now – and, as I predicted, he raises me all-in.

Got him.

I immediately call, stand up in a rush, and flip over my kings in triumph. I may even have pumped my fist like Tiger Woods; I can’t seem to recall. He hardly even glances at my cards, just turns over his pocket jacks as casually as can be, showing down four of a kind.

I scream, “Are you serious!? I had you!! I had a set of kings on the turn! Only one card in the deck could help you!”

He shrugs, gives me the slightest of grins, and manages to say without even a hint of irony in his voice, “You just checked. On the turn … you just checked.”

The rest of the afternoon didn’t go much better, and I don’t really care to describe it. Let’s just put it this way: it looks like I’m going to be needing a new pair of Oakley’s.