I'm putting this here because the other two 'Selling it' threads are confusing enough without adding more random bits.
Part one is here.
http://blondepoker.com/forum/index.php?topic=63383.msg1914039#msg1914039Part two is here.
http://blondepoker.com/forum/index.php?topic=63383.msg1914201#msg1914201Part 3
I managed to avoid clashing with Hank again for about an hour. I played some hands against normal players and managed to win a couple of decent pots. Meanwhile Hank spewed a few off, so when we tangoed for the third and final time, I had him covered, but only just.
I picked up aces in early position and was counting out a raise when a handicapped player on my immediate left, (deafened & blinded by headphones and shades) pushed all in out of turn for about 20 bigs.
I knew that Hank had witnessed all this from his vantage point two inches above the felt because his cheeks inflated like a hamster with mumps and his lips played a silent version of the William Tell overture on an invisible trumpet.
He looked directly at me, and the brow of his one open eye shot up his forehead like a bushy vulture caught in an unexpected thermal.
“You were going to raise weren’t you?” He asked.
“Yes”. I admitted, doing my best to avoid his cycloptic gaze.
“I’m all in”. He shouted, opening his other eye in a fit of excitement.
I called of course, flipping over my aces.
The young man to my left, who had by now removed several hundred pounds worth of audio / visual impairment, let out a deep sigh and tabled pocket fours.
Hank did a little fist-pump and turned over ace queen of clubs.
“Dingleberies”. He explained, helpfully.
The flop came down J 6 9. One club.
I sneaked a glance at Hank, He was sitting back in his chair totally unconcerned, blowing on his fingernails and oozing confidence.
The turn card was the 10 of clubs.
Hank hummed a little tune, “Dum de dum….”
The river was a club, I don’t remember which club exactly, I couldn’t think straight. I felt like I had been simultaneously kicked in the bollocks and lobotomised.
Hank was gleefully stacking chips and babbling, “Dingleberries…… never fail…… shouldn’t play aces…. always get busted….. dingleberries…..”
As I passed my cards back to the dealer, I noticed that the skin on the back of my hands had developed a faint green tinge. Then, muscles that I didn’t know I had started to bunch and flex beneath my clothing.
I was just so angry.
With a wail that was more animal than human, I pushed back my chair and leapt on to the table. The other players looked at me like I was a monster and quickly pushed themselves back out of harm’s way. Hank on the other hand, continued his babbling.
“Dum de dum…. Aces no good….. tee hee…..dingleberries…..”
I sprinted across the table towards him. It seemed like a long way because for some reason, I was running in slow motion. Nothing in the room existed for me except Hank’s bald head as it hovered just above the green baize like a big pink football.
I swung my foot as hard as I could, making contact just where the nose joins the upper lip. Hank’s head ripped free from his body and arced gracefully over the crowd before ricocheting off a fruit machine and scoring a beautiful field goal through the open door of Trickett’s room.
I must have blacked out after that, because the next thing I knew I was back in my seat and a dealer was shaking me by the shoulder.
“Excuse me Sir, but we’re on a break, you will have to leave the table”.
When we came back, I managed to spin my micro-stack up into a playable amount and actually managed a min cash.
I never saw Hank again
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