Ace Up My Sleeve

The players sit around the squat circular table, cards in hand held close to their chest. Their faces barely visible in this dark room, only when taking a drag off of their cigar or cigarette. The only sounds are that of clinking ice in bitter beverages, the subtle tapping on the table, and of course the shuffling of cards. The air is as deadly serious as the stakes of this particular game, with each hand played a sense of caution and ruthlessness is taken. All the players have their amassed colorful chips sitting before them like the spoils of war, except for one. This player is down to his last few chips and perhaps his last hand. He sits with sweat beginning to collect on his hands, he places his cigarette in his mouth and wipes them off on his pants as he waits for the cards to be dealt. Finally receiving his hand, he turns it over and immediately takes a long hit off his glass of whiskey. At first for being dealt a shit hand, and then realizing he'd so obviously given himself away to his opponents. Others begin to fold as the man who holds no drink and smokes nothing raises the stakes. But the man drinking his whiskey has everything to lose but also everything to gain, so he remains in. The man drains his whiskey and thinks about the consequences were he to cheat, never before has he resorted to such a thing. He rules that he can live with this secret submission, if just to go on to play one more hand.