An English teacher in my middle grades used a critically acclaimed six-episode black-and-white British television series titled The Prisoner as part of his lesson plan. The opening credits served as a backdrop to a synopsis of the show’s premise.
The taciturn actor Patrick McGoohan, playing a secret agent outraged by a morally dubious assignment, speeds to London HQ in his convertible Jaguar, the uptempo jazz arrangement matching his mood. Gesticulating wildly at his superior, he resigns and drives back to his flat where he is sedated by gas piped through his keyhole.
After a brief musical interlude accompanied by a fade to black, he awakens in a new flat in a quaint village on an isolated tropical island. It’s populated by former intelligence people and their covert minders who respectively walk along the cobblestones or drive fancy golf carts.
“Good morning," a voice greets him from a speaker as he opens his eyes and sits up, examining his outfit, a dark sports coat with broad white trim on the lapels, a white turtleneck, grey trousers, and laceless rubber-soled boat shoes, a uniform worn by everyone he subsequently sees, the exception being skirts rather than trousers for the women.
“Where am I?” he demands to know.
“You are in the village.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Number Two. You are Number Six.”
“Who is Number One?”
His final question receives no reply. The music resumes as, frustrated and angry, he dashes from his new flat. Passing startled villagers, he avoids being run down by a golf cart and sprints to the beach where he is pursued and captured in his first frantic attempt at escape by a large sci-fi-ish bubble that arises from the depths of the sea. Each episode of the series finds him dealing with a different Number Two, attempting escape, and being captured by the bubble.
A bit silly, I know. I only bring it up because my Saturday was spent chasing the bubble in a couple of tournaments, failing to capture it, and therefore never reaching the ultimate goal of becoming not Number Six nor Number Two, but Number One.
The first tournament, Be Punished, was appropriately named. My 50K in chips were donated to several good causes as I finished 13th of 51 players. The second, Open Happiness, was less aptly christened, albeit cheaper with its 3K entry fee.
In the first or second level, I raised preflop, playing an A2 to a 433 flop. I made the traditional continuation bet with the gutshot draw, hoping that no one had hit the board and I could take it down. One person called, however.
What followed was a cagey exchange of betting in which I tried to convince her I had the best hand, but eventually had to show down to prove it. Not a big deal in the end, I thought, as the turn and river came nowhere near her QJ, but a third party in the chat decided to make it a nightmare.
“Neither of them have anything,” he said before our cards were revealed. “A couple of bluffers. I want them gone.”
It was like the voice in Number Six’s flat. I rolled my eyes, not only knowing he wasn’t a Number Two but also what was coming. I expect we’ve all played our share of opponents like him while coming up in the low stakes. Clicking his icon confirmed my suspicions. He was Number 187,354 and set about shoving preflop on every hand.
The woman with the QJ called him on the first shove and lost. I envied her.
“That’s one,” Number 187,354 boasted. “On to the next. I’m going to take out all the bluffers!”
Here we go, I thought, resignedly.
If he thought I would call his next shove, he was mistaken. Maybe if the dealer had favored me with a giant bubble-shaped monster risen from the depths, but Replay’s invisible algorithm wasn’t feeling that generous.
Rather, it made me watch, a prisoner consistently dressed in rags, as Number 187,354 kept shoving, kept hitting the flop whenever someone called, and kept building a stack north of 11K in chips while gloating over the growing crowd he was sending to the rail.
Having reached 11K in the early going, you might think he would settle down before the odds caught up with him, but this was Number 187,354, and you would have thought wrong. He persisted and the odds did catch up with him. A player named Reubi took him down a peg. He wasn’t chastened, however.
“Good job, Reubi!” he typed, adding a 
for good measure. “Well played!”
He then lost a second shove to Reubi and was down to about 2400. Undeterred, he kept shoving and, through the undeserved luck of an AK, KK, and JJ in succession, he made it back to 11K.
This time, he settled for a few hands, allowing me to slip in and take one or two middling pots. Then, he was back, shoving preflop for several hands and talking trash before dipping back down into the 5K range.
I was never happier to abruptly fade to black and awaken at a new table. A little while later, Reubi arrived as well, now the chip leader with 34K. I didn’t know whether he had railed Number 187,354, but he had certainly benefitted from his recklessness.
Good job, I wanted to text him, well played, but I let it be. I had my own problems and just when I thought I might have reached a crossroads with an AK, I was coolered by another player’s Kings, finishing 19th of 85, close to the bubble but not close enough.
I closed out the final hour of my day on a 2K/4K ring table with an 800K max buy-in. I didn’t know anyone there other than a pleasant Swiss named Mawellen. We said our hellos and played.
After a quarter-hour, I had recovered my lost tournament fees and was working toward what would normally be a reasonable goal of a 1M chip stack. I say normally because the issue here was the combination of my time limit and the excruciatingly slow play of virtually the entire table. Every decision, including to limp or fold preflop was debated by each player from every possible angle. Flopless hands were taking close to two minutes. Half an hour in, I could no longer remain silent.
“They should rename this the Eric Clapton table,” I typed.
Mawellen laughed. “Slow hands boring you?”
“I replayed a hand just now,” I told him, not lying. “It made everything twice as slow.”
He laughed again and it seemed that our repartee had an effect. The next hand took less than a minute.
“That’s better,” I typed, albeit too soon. Normal tedium was restored on the following hand.
“There’s no rush,” I ventured, “but I would like to stay awake.”
“Me too. I think I’ll get a coffee,” Mawellen said.
“Go ahead,” I replied. “We’ll be on the turn when you get back.”
My estimate wasn’t far off. We were just starting the second hand after when the ‘sitting out’ marker under his name disappeared, replaced by his chip count. I welcomed him back, then checked the time. It was quarter of six and the building would be closing on the hour.
“Alright, people,” I announced. “I have to leave in five minutes. Try not to make that a millennium.”
My plea fell on deaf ears. After a hand in which everyone folded to the big blind, I had barely three minutes left. The next hand was tantalizing, though, and I took down a pot that put me around 912K with less than a minute to go. Naturally, the subsequent hand, which arrived before I could press stand, was KK. The dealer had a sense of humor, it appeared. I overstayed by three minutes to take down another decent pot, then bade my farewells.
“Thanks for the sedatives, everyone, and gl.”
I hurriedly packed my things and departed, the security guard tapping her watch as I reached the exit about a minute and a half past closing. Apologizing, I hurried across the catwalk toward the parking garage. Clanging the iron gate at the opposite end shut behind me, I made for my car.
Halfway to it, I felt an odd sensation, like I was being stalked. Turning, I looked behind. A giant bubble bounced between me and the iron gate.
“I want all the bluffers!” its sinister, AI-generated voice informed me, echoing with sinister intent off the concrete ceiling, floor, and support columns as it began to bound toward me.
I made a mad dash for my Jaguar, but it was too late. The bubble knocked me to the ground before I had gone three paces and sucked me inside. It was filled with ether. A fuzzy numbness overtook me. My last coherent thought was to wonder whether they played hold’em in the village.
