Poker Can be a Gas

Doomsday Don is now living in Europe. I'm not entirely sure what he's doing there, but somebody told me that George Bush had him deported in an effort to dissipate some of the gloom that's been enveloping the nation, in no small part due to him. It must have worked, because the stock market jumped 200 points right after his plane took off.

It certainly helped my spirits, because now he couldn't hand me any more obituary clippings every time one of his friends died. Of course, that wouldn't stop the e-mails, so I expected the worst when I soon got one from him, but was startled and pleasantly surprised when he wrote that he finally had some good news for me. I should have known better because what Doomsday Don considers "good news" would be considered mildly disastrous by any normal person. Sure enough, he started off by talking about the high gas prices in the U.S., and then told me that I should be grateful because a gallon of gas in Paris now costs about $7.

Wow! That sure made me feel better. If you had your leg amputated, Doomsday would expect you to cheer up by telling you that a friend of his just had both legs cut off.

Anyway, I certainly didn't need D.D. to remind me how much it costs to fill a tank nowadays. Perhaps when this story runs, prices may have eased a bit, but as of this writing they jump every day. Recently, I drove up to the Barstow Card Casino after Big Denny told me there was an urgent matter he had to discuss with me, and I nearly had to take out a loan to get there.

"I'm not sure how long I can afford to drive up here," I told Denny when I arrived. "Have the high gas prices been hurting your business?"

"Well, dey ain't helped none, dat's fer sure. Da farmers here all drive tractors instead of cars, an' dose t'ings only gets about five miles ta da gallon. But dat's exactly what I wanted ta talk ta ya about. Ya see, I figgered out a way dat dose high prices fer gas kin actual bring in more business, believe it or not."

I was intrigued. "No kidding? What's the plan, big guy?"

"I'm gonna have a tournament where da grand prize is free gas fer a whole year. I needs yer help ta write a nice announcement I kin hand out today, an' den have da tournament tomorrow. Fer doin' it, I'll put ya in da tournament. Youse is a much better player den dem yokels here, an' a big favorite ta win it. "Especially," he winked, "wit' my dealers helpin' ya out."

"My immediate reaction, of course, was one of suspicion, not gratitude. "This isn't another one of your scams, is it, Denny? Like that time you way oversold pieces of me so that I would have been bankrupted if I cashed out?"

Big Denny waved his hand. "Aw, Maxey," he chuckled. "Dat was just a joke. I ain't sellin' off no pieces of ya."

I ticked off all the other cons he had pulled, like the time he had a "Super Hold'em" tournament with a guaranteed prize pool. It appeared to offer a huge overlay based on the limited number of tables … until it turned out he was using super-sized "Super Hold'em" tables with 20 players at each of them.

But Denny shook his head each time, and assured me there would be no surprises in this tournament. I did a little math, and realized a year of free gas would be worth a small fortune, especially if I took a couple of cross-country vacation trips. So I finally agreed, though understandably with reservations.

I dutifully wrote out a glowing press release. The first catch came when Big Denny informed me that the deal included my driving all around Barstow and nailing the announcement to every tree, telephone pole, barn, farmhouse, and fence in town. Naturally, I ended up throwing most of the leaflets into a garbage can. The fewer players, the better chance I had to win. The big ape wasn't about to outsmart Maxwell J. Shapiro.

That night, Big Denny put me up in a "suite" at his hotel at the "bargain" rate of only $40. Some bargain. The bed was as lumpy as a cucumber, the sheets hadn't been washed since Herbert Hoover was president, the air conditioner didn't work, there was an overpowering stench of cow manure coming from an adjoining farm, and the farm's roosters woke me at dawn.

The tournament started at noon, which gave the farmers time to milk their cows and feed their pigs, though hardly enough time for me to wake up. I took my seat and discovered a second catch: it was a rebuy tournament for the first two hours, with heavy juice on the rebuys. My senses weren't much good and my luck was even worse, so that by the time the rebuys ended, I had put in enough money to pay for several cross-country trips … hotels and meals included. Now came add-on options, with even heavier juice. At this point I was too far gone to care, so I took a double add-on as well.

Now that he had sucked out all the money as he could, I saw Big Denny flashing a signal to the dealers. Sure enough, my luck suddenly changed. I began getting premium starting hands and miracle drawouts as my opponents rapidly bit the dust. I soon got heads-up, and rapidly polished off my final opponent with a royal flush flourish!

I had won the gas prize, but wasn't pleased at how things had come down. I stormed into Big Denny's office and proceeded to deliver a tongue-lashing.

"Nice going, Denny," I yelled. "You made me drive all over Barstow putting up your leaflets, nearly cost me my life in your crummy hotel, cost me a fortune with your rebuy scam, and involved me in a crooked tournament. But you're going to pay through the nose for this. So tell me, you big ugly lug, how do I collect? Do I get one of those gas credit cards?

Big Denny glared at me and bared his teeth in simian menace. "I got a better way, Maxey," he snarled. "I'm gonna deliver yer first tank of gas personal-like."

Waving a large can of beans he had just consumed, Denny turned his rear to me and leaned forward. A moment later the room shook with a violent explosion and I immediately understood what Mount St. Helens must have sounded and smelled like when it erupted.

Gagging and teary-eyed, I bolted through the door and staggered out of the casino. Talk about having to pay through the nose.
Big Denny's gas sure wasn't premium grade. Oh, well, at least gas isn't $7 a gallon.

Yet.