Originally Posted by NUTZ IN YA MOUTH
Things haven't been so kind to me on the felt, so I took a job at a well known sub chain just off the Strip to help pay the bills while I could make repairs to my shrinking bankroll. Yeah, it sucks, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
Anyway, things get pretty slow at my shop in the afternoons after the lunchtime rush, but during one particular shift, in walked professional poker player Sam Grizzle. While Sam wasn't nearly the most famous person I'd made a sandwich for (Pauly Shore had strolled in just a few days earlier with a craving for a ham and cheese), he was the first poker player.
"Mr. Grizzle!" I exclaimed excitedly as he strolled up to the counter. "Pleasure to meet you, sir!"
While my excitement showed with the big grin on my face, Sam seemed less than thrilled to meet me. "Let me get a large meatball," he grumbled, not even looking up at me.
"Coming right up," I said back, slicing a large piece of bread. "Back early from the table today?"
"Just make the damn sandwich, alright?" he shot back angrily. "I'm on a six month cold streak and all I want is a ****ing sandwich."
I was shocked. "I'm... I'm sorry, Sam. It's just that I moved out here to play professionally, and it's always great to meet an actual pro."
"You moved out here to play professionally, and now you're making me sandwiches for minimum wage. You must be a real good player" Sam said sarcastically.
At this point, I decided it would probably best to keep my mouth shut and just make the sandwich so Sam could leave while I still had some dignity and self respect. But he pressed on.
"God damnit...three ****ing meatballs?" he whined. "And you barely put any sauce on there! You can't play poker or make a damn sandwich!"
I frantically scooped more meatballs onto his sub.
"Aw, damnit!" Sam screamed. "Now you're making a mess of everything. Where's the damn manager?"
There's only so much a man can take. Without even thinking, I grabbed the entire sub and heaved it at Sam's face. He fell backwards and flattened a small table, where thankfully, no one was sitting. (I was being scouted by a half dozen different pro teams before I had Tommy John, so I know that meatball heater to the face HURT).
With Sam unconscious and still writhing on the floor, I reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. Looks like Sam didn't lose it all. I removed my apron, placed it on the counter, and piled into my car for a short ride to the strip to play some no limit.
Comfortably seated in a chair at Caesar's Palace, I counted out my newfound bankroll.
"Not bad," I thought to myself with a smile. "Not bad at all."
While I obviously can't go back to work, I'm hoping I'll be able to grind out this new bounty of cash that fell into my lap.