Originally Posted by hAmThEkIlLeR
It’s the first of the month, the social security check has come in, and the seasoned table veteran is ready to stalk the tables of his local race track casino. He’s put quite a lot of thought into his look, he’s not one of those urchins off the internet who games hooded as if he’s bracing for bad weather. No sireee bob no sir! Every item of clothing he wears is designed for style as much as it is for comfort. Every accoutrement is expertly placed for a reason.
It starts with his hair, freshly pomaded into a fin. The stratagem behind his coif is two-fold: to fellow players, it brings the helpless feeling of seeing a shark prowling the surf before them; to the ladies it is reminiscent of the back of a Fairlane 500. His button down is left slightly askew at the top, to reveal the two herringbone necklaces he got for a song in a trade for his lawn mower at the local pawn shop. A whitening tuft of hair proudly asserts itself from above the last buttoned button to proclaim the awesome evidence of the testosterone that once wildly coursed through his body.
His pants are firmly fixed above his navel with a golden-buckled belt, his very being is defiance of gravity. His pleated khakis effortlessly represent that even at leisure, this is a man of business. His black orthopedic shoes really don’t look like orthopedic shoes. Really, you can hardly tell. They’re shiny black leather, and you have to look really hard to see the big Velcro strap on them, and if you’re looking at his shoes in the first place you’re probably a socially maladjusted internet baboon who doesn’t have the fortitude or culture to look a man in his eye.
Yes, everything is in its proper place and he is decked out for conquest. He is now ready to dominate the tables, but first it’s off to Shoney’s. Shoney’s senior discount is comparable to the racetrack buffet, they have yams, which the racetrack buffet does not, and there is no reason that casino inhabitants should be the only ones to see his glory.
At the tables, he is a predator in the jungle. He is a bear. If you try to swim from him, he will outswim you, if you try to outrun him he will overtake you, if you try to climb a tree to escape he will either wait you out, climb the tree, or maybe burn it down, depending on his blood sugar. He approaches the night the same way he acquits the night--with confidence.
Perhaps the poker gods don’t shine on him tonight. Mayhap he does leak all over in a table full of people who’ve honed their game on mathematics by playing millions of hands online. It doesn’t matter. There is a woman sitting at the slot machine, her skin glowing like finely cured leather. She turns toward him, attracted to the reflection of light off his gold nugget rings or a moth to a flame.
He is the winner.