Probability. Patience. Pleasure. The three Ps of poker. 

The mantra rang true.  But more importantly, it gave me a chance to reset and fight the urge to make the killer move now. I knew the surge of excitement that swelled in my heart as I rode the coattails of Lady Luck all too well. From the sweat on my brow to the twitch of my thumb, my body betrayed my hand piece by piece. I defined it as suicide by overload.

“Come on, Dumbo. I don’t have all night.” My eyes jumped from the straight nut I flopped to the bearded behemoth busting my balls from across the sticky, uneven table. Frank has had the upper hand all night – one more wrong move and I’d be even deeper in the hole.

The freak of nature took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled the noxious cloud into my face , laying waste to my respiratory system. “Are you still punch-drunk from sparring practice?” Frank’s lips loosened to reveal his decaying teeth, unable to hold back his pleasure from poking at my insecurities. A wave of nausea crept over me as I matched the yellowish hue of Frank’s smirk to the dim haze of the cheap lighting. This cramped, run-down bar had never seen better days, it’d always been a hellhole.

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The culmination of the incessant quips, the yellow cloying atmosphere, and, finally, the endless smoke was turning me into a miserable pile of spit and mucus. We both knew I was one more irritating jab away from a lifetime of debt. I could raise, but Frank might not bite. Or, I could check, and then sit, waiting till Frank took the bait.

Again, Frank berated me. This time louder. “Your move, Dumbo!” Dumbo. The Roach. Mr. Slightly Above Average. I’d heard it all.

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“Give me a second.” I croaked, nearing the end of my coughing fit. I tried to catch my breath as silence fell between my protruding cauliflower ears. Years of mixed martial arts had taken a physical toll on me. I was more scar tissue than person – I wasn’t pretty to look at but, I  certainly made an impression.

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“You know, Ettore. I feel bad for you. Really.” With a sneer, Frank walked his hand across the table to Ettore’s poker chips and slung back his finger, aiming at his stack.

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“You’re shit at poker.”

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“You’re shit at fighting.”

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“You’re shit at life.”

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The chatter of chips echoed inside my skull, amplifying my slight annoyance into a roar. Somewhere, a switch flipped deep inside my lizard brain. My carotids pulsated, carrying an overflow of sweet, sweet oxygen. I prayed my neurons would gorge on this feast of excess, overload, and lead to a holocaust of my neurons. I’d rather be brain-dead – a God damn vegetable – than listen to this shit.

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It was fight or flight time, and Mama didn’t raise no bitch. I lunged out of my chair and across the table, spilling cards, chips, and flat beer on the splintered wood flooring. In a panic, Frank blindly swung forward, sweeping me off the table. A quick brush off and I was back on my feet, weaving to the left and readying a nasty liver shot, closing the distance to Frank in a split second. 

Bam! My hairy knuckles dug deep for a vicious hook that solidly hit its mark. No recoil, even as the shockwave rattled my bones. The nerves in my fists had died ages ago. Sometimes, I missed the fine touch of running my fingers through my hair, dancing the strands between my knuckles. Everything felt so blunt now.

Frank immediately roared in pain, clutching beneath the right side of his rib cage. I was counting the seconds before the crimson cascade began. One Mississippi. Frank’s blood vessels would dilate, leading to a dramatic drop in global pressure. Two Mississippi. His blood pressure would bottom out, and his feet and ankles would fill with unwanted blood. Three Mississippi. His brain would grow an overwhelming hunger, demanding more oxygen where there was none. In a predictable final defense, his body would seek the leveled shelter of the hard wood creaking beneath the mammoth of a man as he blacked ou—

“Fuck you! You fuckin’ motherfucker!” Frank’s thick, calloused hands wrapped around my neck with ease. Every attempt to breathe was met with a string of wheezes, escaping from the depths of suffocation. This was an all too familiar situation. Lots of people liked to squeeze my neck. Triangle chokes. Guillotines. Peruvian neckties. Name it, I felt it.

I threw a slick cross straight to Frank’s dome, landing with a thud and stunning him. As he dipped back to put some space between us, I saw a giant gash open right above his right eyebrow, gushing a river of blood. I could’ve left him then and there – he’d probably lose a liter or two.

Now effectively blind in his right eye and seeing red, Frank was left open for a roundhouse kick to his blind spot. It couldn’t get more perfect than this. He might as well have been a heavy bag.

Again, I hit the headshot cleanly. Frank stumbled, gripping the side of his head. I sucked my leg back into a southpaw stance, taking a moment to admire my handiwork.

With no time to spare, Frank charged forward with a flurry of punches to my body. Left! Right! Left! A nonstop barrage of wild overhands. This wasn’t a problem. I had never been fast or good at rolling with the punches, but my chin and endurance were elite. Eleven outta te—

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