The quiet Azusa Maeda just raised to 18,000 from the under the gun position. Action got folded to Hellmuth who was in the big blind, and after counting down his chips numerous times he decided to raise to 54,000. "All-in," Maeda declared within a second and Hellmuth, who still had his headphones on, didn't realize this right away.
"He's all-in?," Hellmuth asked when the dealer pulled in his raise and after getting confirmation he decided to quietly fold.
Hellmuth is all the way down to 72,000 chips and in serious need of a double up.
Quote:
Adrien Allain raised to 21,000 on the button and Phil Hellmuth called in the big blind with 80,000. The flop was {K-Hearts} {8-Diamonds} {5-Diamonds} and Hellmuth checked to Allain who moved all-in and Hellmuth tank-folded. This left him with 60,000.
Hellmuth limped into the pot from the small blind and Azusa Maeda raised and Hellmuth folded.
Adrien Allain raised to 21,000 on the button and once again Hellmuth called in the big blind. Hellmuth had 20,000 behind and the flop came down {10-Hearts} {9-Clubs} {9-Spades} and he folded to another shove from Allain.
"Seth! I have 20k left! This is a fair match now boys," said Hellmuth.
With 5,000 invested in the small blind and 15,000 behind Hellmuth folded.
“And we’re going to see who, now?” said the President of the United States. “The Cossacks?”
A look of restrained alarm furrowed the brow of the President’s aide, who was sitting across the briefing table on board Air Force One, bound for the Orient. “Sort of like that,” the aide said. “Only you spell it like…” He withdrew a plump gold pen from his breast pocket and wrote K-A-Z-A-K-H across the upper margin of one of the papers spread before him.
“Oh, right on,” the President said. “I hear you. Gotcha cold.” The aide’s name was Allan MacFarquar. The President called him “Farky.” MacFarquar put the pen back in his pocket and took out a box of Mike and Ike candies, which he liked to snack on as a quick energy boost. Eating as he talked, MacFarquar plowed on, outlining certain delicate matters regarding the refurbishment of the Caspian Pipeline and something about a local custom that involved drinking fermented mare’s milk, but the President wasn’t hearing a word he said. The sight of those Mike and Ikes had called up an old memory, and now the president was lost in it.
The memory was this:
When the President was thirty-eight, his father had grown so tired of his son’s indolence, his alcoholic and venereal excesses, that he decided to stop speaking to him. The President’s father kept up the silent treatment for nearly two years until one evening, after a GOP fundraiser at the Palo Alto Civic Center, when father and son found themselves standing side by side at a trough-style urinal. In order to avoid his father’s gaze, the President turned his face sullenly downward, staring into the brushed-steel sluiceway. What caught his eye was a small red gem of urinal cake, which had been tumbled and abraded into a perfect, fluid-winnowed capsule. It closely resembled a cinnamon Mike and Ike or a Good & Plenty chewy candy. Earlier in the evening, a friendly young woman had introduced the President to “buttery nipple” shooters, which are equal parts butterscotch schnapps and Irish cream. The President had knocked back well over a dozen of these shooters. They had left a sour dairy taste on his tongue and a pain in his temples.
Now, in the bathroom, the President found himself gripped with a powerful urge to retrieve the hypothetical Mike and Ike from the trough and taste it, both to clear the awful sweetness of the buttery nipples from his mouth and to figure out exactly what the hell he was looking at here, a chewable candy or urinal cake?
If his father had not been beside him in the bathroom, the President would have given the red capsule a diagnostic nibbling no doubt about it. Instead, the President trained his urine jet onto the object and silently bullied it over to his father’s side of the trough, implicitly offering it to his silent father’s scrutiny and not insensible to the fact that any gesture made by one’s urine flow would likely be perceived as hostile. The President’s father noted the buffeted capsule almost wistfully, and then, to his son’s hiccupping astonishment, the father broke his longstanding silence with these words: “I admire the force of your stream.”
Since that evening, the President could not look at a box of Mike and Ikes, those tasty little peacemakers, without feeling good about himself, and his father. So while MacFarquar jabbered on about the size and competence of the mobile security detail and the possible disruptive scenarios from Kazakh dissidents, he noticed that the President wasn’t looking at him, but staring dazedly at the box of candy. MacFarquar broke off. ‘Would you, uh, like one, sir?” he asked, proffering the box.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said the President of the United States. “Don’t mind if I do.”