Wretched Richard

The 2 was the perfect card. It gave me the best low, counterfeited the player known as Wretched Richard, and also gave me a flush to outrun his set of kings. "Nut-nut," I grinned, turning over my hand and reaching for the huge Omaha pot.

Zing! A furious Wretched Richard let loose with a set of expletives that would make Mike Tyson blush and flung his cards as hard as he could at the dealer. "Please don't throw the cards, sir," she scolded him, plucking the 2 out of her ear.

Richard's anger escalated into rage. "Don't want me to throw the cards, huh? Then how about this?" he yelled, flinging a chip rack at her. The rack narrowly missed her head and struck a startled food server, causing him to spill a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the head of an elderly woman at the next table who in response began beating the hapless food server with her cane. A floorman who had observed the entire scene walked over and informed Wretched Richard that he was through for the night, a ritual he had gone through with this player dozens of times before.

I felt a little responsible for what had happened, so when I saw Richard the next day, I decided I would try to help him. "Look, Richard," I said, taking him aside, "you really should try to do something about that anger of yours."

"Why?" he shot back sullenly.

"Well, for one thing, it's not fair to take your hostility out on innocent dealers."

"So what?" he muttered.

"Well, your behavior also makes all the other players at the table very uncomfortable. We never know when you're going to explode."

"So what?" he said again.

"OK, then, you'd do a hell of a lot better as a player if you could control your emotions."

"That's more like it," he nodded. "What do you suggest I do?"

"I suggest you undergo anger management therapy from Dr. Wolfgang Krock, the eminent poker psychologist. He's helped a lot of players like you."

A tear rolled down Wretched Richard's cheek. "You're a real buddy, Max. Why are you doing this for me?"

"Well, let's just say it's for the good of poker," I replied. (I also got a commission from Krock for every customer I sent him, but I didn't see the need to mention this detail.)

A few nights later I took Richard to his appointment. Never having been in a shrink's office before, he was a little apprehensive. Assuring him that Krock was very discreet and diplomatic, I walked him into the office.

Krock extended his hand. "How do you do?" he said. "I am Dr. Volfgang Krock, der eminent poker psychologist, und you must be der troublemaking shtunk vot Max has been complaining about to me."

Richard glared at us but, with an obvious effort, managed to contain his temper. Dr. Krock then directed him to the therapy couch. Richard turned around and noticed that an adorable toy poodle was sitting there.

"Get that mutt off the couch," he growled.

"Schatzi, mine darlink," Dr. Krock cooed, "please to jump off dere so daddy can go do his vork." The poodle wagged her adorable little tail and yipped, but would not budge despite Krock's repeated appeals. Wretched Richard then solved the problem by grabbing Schatzi and tossing her out the window.

"Mein Gott!" Krock screamed, running to the window and sticking his head out. Three stories below, Schatzi was hanging upside down, snagged on barbed wire that Krock had strung to keep creditors and dissatisfied patients at bay. "I haf to go down und help her!" he cried.

"Yeah, well do it on your own time," Wretched Richard informed him. "Not on mine, when I'm payin' you 50 bucks an hour."

Krock shrugged. He could always get another dog, but a paying customer … "Hokay, zo lie down on der couch und tell me somet'ing about your early life. Vot vas your family like?"

"Well," Wretched Richard said, as his thoughts drifted back, "I had this younger brother, Jonathan. Good-looking, bright, polite, everybody loved him. He was my parents' favorite."

"Sounds like a luffly boy," Krock said. "Vot is he doing dese days?"

"Nothing. I killed him."

Krock's eyes widened and he inched his chair away from the couch. "Dot's very interesting," he stammered. "Maybe ve should talk about der poker now. Vy do you think you get so angry all der time?"

Wretched Richard clenched his fists. "I can't help it. I have such damned bad luck. I must be the unluckiest player in the world. A week ago I was playing Omaha and had four nut hands snapped off in a row. On the last hand, I had three kings and a nut low until the river, when … "

Krock threw down his writing pad. "You t'ink you haf der bad beats? Let me tell you vot happened to me last veek. I flopped der full aces und some dumkopf makes der runner und der runner for four kings. Den, on der very next hand … "

"Aw, quit blaming the cards, Krock," Wretched Richard sneered. "You must play so bad that every hand you lose looks like a bad beat to you."

"Vot?" Krock screamed, his face turning red and the veins on his neck popping out. "You dare call Volfgang Krock a sucker? I haf der worst luck in der vorld."

"Sure," Richard taunted him. "You probably play like a little girl."

Krock went completely berserk. "Vot did you say? I show you who iss der best player mit der vorst luck!" He grabbed his glass-framed anger management diploma off the wall, smashed it over Wretched Richard's head, and began choking and punching him.

As the two rolled on the floor, locked in mortal combat, I ran out the door in a panic, certain that one or both of them would kill me for what happened. A week later, I ventured back to Dr. Krock's office to apologize.

"Not to vorry, my boy," he assured me. "I convinced Richard dot der fighting vas part of der treatment to release der hostility. Now he comes by every veek so ve can beat up on each other, und I charge him twice as much."

"So everything's OK?" I asked, much relieved.

"Almost," Krock responded. "If only der fool vould admit dot I have vorst luck den he does."