My Friday afternoon whiled away in a 10K Big Shot tournament. Midway through, I found myself seated across from Nemesis. Although his reputation preceded him thanks to Napkin Holder’s posts in this forum, I’m not name-dropping because he is a big shot in the top thousand of the Replay player rankings, 906th at last check. His reputation wasn’t much of an issue in that particular moment for two reasons. First, he was short-stacked by any standard, much less someone of his lofty status. Second, his neighbor wasn’t exactly reinforcing his table image.
According to his full handle, Nemesis is the 67th in his line. His icon features a dark angel with smoldering features, fists clenched, wings spread, the top three buttons of his black shirt unbuttoned beneath a crisscrossed leather body harness, and the requisite expression of sinister intent for someone of that ilk.
Lucky Soul, on the other hand, was a cartoon cat licking his chops against the backdrop of a bright sunny day, with blue sky and clouds reflected in his Rayban shades.
For me at least, LS’s presence had the same effect on Nemesis as a bald, goateed passenger on a recent commute of mine unintentionally (I think) exerted on his neighbor.
Wiry and muscular, this nemesis was an African American version of David Tennant who wore sunglasses on the dimly lit bus while scrolling through his celly, perched as it was on the knee of absurd track pants with a brilliant red and green jalapeno print. More to the point, he wore a black Nike tee with the commensurate swoosh and the word ‘Freak’ italicized in massive block caps across the torso.
I don’t think his fashion statement escaped the attention of the bright-eyed, fresh-faced young Michael Sheen lookalike to his left, who was adorned in a pink t-shirt that declared “I am a friend of God.” This unlucky soul stared straight ahead for the entire journey, tightly clutching the bookbag in his lap, clearly intent on not making eye contact.
With both juxtapositions in mind. I commented in the chat on the beauty of random seating, eliciting a smile from Lucky Soul but glowering silence from Nemesis.
To his credit, however, Nemesis rallied as the play progressed. His comeback strategy alternated between slow-played monsters that disillusioned and dismembered opposing hands on Fifth Street, and manic pre-flop shoves that sent limpers scurrying for the shadows like cockroaches in a Bed-Stuy kitchen when the fluorescent lights flicker and blaze to life.
All the while he said nothing, even when sheepish opponents offered the traditional short form of “nice hand” after being sheared.
I didn’t blame him for ignoring them. I wish I could, but having been raised in English-speaking Canada (which is to say not Quebec) after my mother remarried, I have been fully and irreversibly indoctrinated into the culture of courtesy. If I bump into or impede a stranger, I apologize. If they apologize to me for doing likewise, I invariably reply, “no, you’re fine.” If you’re entering the men’s as I’m leaving, I will backtrack to offer you egress, yours being the more urgent objective. And, if you give me a “nice hand" at the tables, I will reflexively reply with a “thank you” even though I know you don’t mean it.
Now, hold on. We both know that’s true, so let’s forego the comments claiming you do in fact mean it, and that sportsmanship is essential to the game. My response, following an indignant snort, is you’re either Canadian or the Banksy of BS.
I mean think about it. No one has ever been grateful for being put to the sword. Does anyone believe that when Brutus joined Cassius’ assassination plot, Julius Caesar spent his dying breath complimenting his erstwhile bestie on the dagger he’d chosen to drive into his back? Or the deft manner in which it was turned?
No, the table boss of the Roman Empire felt stunned and betrayed, just like we do when the Replay board stabs us in the back. Nor does it matter that, in our case, the knives are as virtual as the chips.
Worse to my mind than the loser of the hand offering congratulations for being so effectively crippled is the onlooker who chimes in on every showdown. To them I say, wait. Your turn is coming.
Back to Nemesis, though. Ever since Napkin Holder had mentioned him and another opponent named Villain, I had been hoping to witness the specter of their cruelty firsthand. It’s not every day you run across a Sauron or Darkseid. One should take advantage. Respectfully, of course, but take advantage nevertheless. There are lessons to be learned.
With Nemesis having effectuated a return from the dead to rank among the chip leaders, the table had become cautious. It didn’t help that we were one or two spots from the so-called money.
All the sage philosophers of the game insist you should exploit these moments. So, when I looked in on a suited 86 on the button with four limpers, including Nemesis, I decided to join the party. Maybe I could sneak up behind someone and come away with an “et tu, Brute,” rather than an insincere “nice hand.”
The flop came two-thirds Broadway, King Charles and Queen Camilla accompanied by the Deuce of Whatever.
With the rest of the table apparently unimpressed, it checked around to me. I glanced toward my dark lord, wondering if this was one of those hands he’d chosen to slow play, then fell in line like Frodo and Sam on the road to Barad-dûr.
The dealer turned a nine. To a man, we continued to treat the board like unvaccinated guests crashing a soiree at RFK Jr’s Washington penthouse.
Then, lo and behold, the river brought a six. Again, the inaction checked around to me, and again, I decided to let sleeping corpses lie. The only call a bet would have received would be from someone with a bigger piece.
The chips stayed in the middle of the table for an atypically long moment. Then Nemesis showed an AJ that proved to be unpaired as well as one card from both a straight and a flush.
A tiny bit of blue text flashed in the chat.
“Nh,” he intoned in abbreviated form.
I’d have bet half my stack there was a two-syllable epithet left unwritten at the end.
“Ty,” I giddily texted back, feeling a bit like Peregrine Took after his conversation with the Eye via the Palantir.
The only difference between me and my opponent was my sincerity. I may have had little to do with winning the hand, but Nemesis had done even less to stop me. How could I not be grateful?
And the lesson learned? Simple. The Dark Lord on ace high never sees the little pair coming.
nice