Staying at the Spring Hotel sbobet

Spread the love

It’s a shame, I thought, that big boys so easily accept the nickname “Buddha.” I was taking a piss on a brick wall and noted there were no pros next to me. Once again, it would be up to Pauly to chronicle the urination habits of the big time players. As for me, I would walk around the corner and scare Buddha out of his pants.
Buddha was young–maybe 21–and wore a Detroit Tigers cap. He chastised me for scaring him and stubbed his cigarette out in sand-filled pool chemical container. I looked around for a pool but only saw a big, black satellite dish circa 1990. I wondered, for a moment, how in the hell I ended up in Spring Hotel, and then decided I really should get back to playing cards.
***
Spring Hotel was not the real name of this place. It’s real name is identifiable enough and the location is small enough that using the real name could draw unwanted attention. That said, finding this place doesn’t happen by accident. One must travel for miles down a major highway, pull off on a dark exit, and then drive down a long, dark sbobet . It’s only then that you end up at the Spring Hotel game.
In through the back door, there is a woman laid out on the couch watching TV projected ten feet wide across a white wall. In the back room, a huge bald man is dealing to six or seven people. In another room, a young, smaller man is dealing to an almost full table.
I was feeling froggy. I had an energy drink and Diet Mountain Dew in me to counteract the drinks I’d had at The Mark earlier in the night. I had chopped a single-table tourney with Shep and Mrs. All-In and had a few extra bucks in my pocket. I told my fellow road trippers I planned to walk into the game and pretend to be the drunkest guy in the building.
There was an old man in the one-seat. I got the impression this was his game. Designated dealers, raked pots, and a fridge full of beer and soda for our pleasure. Still, he was playing, and playing a lot of hands.
I slurred my words, not sure if it was intentional or not, and then played Q6o like it was the nuts. I bet into the old dude on every street. He called me down with J2 and took the pot with bottom pair.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he said. He was loud, brash, and southern.
A couple of minutes later, there was a gallon of whiskey sitting beside me.
“How about something to chase that down?” the old man asked. “A coke do?”
And then there was a can of Coca Cola beside me. I ripped the cap off the whiskey and turned up the bottle. The big dude in the box calmly said, “Use a glass, please, buddy.”
I pretended to be embarassed, sure now that my image was firmly in place. And then something odd happened.
A lady, nicely dressed for maybe dinner at Steak and Ale or the Heritage Cafeteria, walked in and said something quietly to the old man. I’ve seen the conversation in card rooms all over the place. Without too many words, I saw the man pull some cash out of his wallet and hand it to the lady. I remember thinking she was probably 60. She wore a scarf around her neck. In a couple of seconds, she was gone with the money.
I looked around my table. I knew more than half the people there. The rest of the people were ready to look me up because of the little show I put on. I made a decision.
In the hallway outside, I asked the big man if it was okay to change games.