Monday, 11 January 2010

The Fall Of The Pair Of Aces...

A guest post today, dearest Melted Felt readers, that will strike horror into your fey souls. As we bring you an analysis of a particularly nasty poker hand by one Edgar Allen Po(ker)... well ok, its me, your host Mark, the same one who writes everything here, but hey, you try coming up with a satirical angle on the poker news twice or more a week... *ahem*, right, on with the post:

The Fall Of The Pair Of Aces - By Edgar Allen Po(ker)

Dark brooding storm clouds rolled in, bringing a burning suffocating gloom which sucked the very energy from my weary mouse-finger. I logged on to Ultimate Bet, risking the wrath of hell's most grotesque denizen, named only in hushed tones - with associated fearful glances - as 'the Phil'. Lightning struck the distant bough of an already twice charred tree, sending a score of ravens screeching angrily into the misty night, only reinforcing my conviction that the horrors awaiting me in the no-limit holdem game would bring nothing but the purest and most vivid agonies.

The sight of a pair of aces momentarily gladdened my trampled psyche, it was as if the souls of the long-forgotten dead were momentarily spared their suffering, allowed to taste once more the sweet scent of the storm's aftermath - a welcome, yet fleeting, respite from their eternal darkness and solitude. Resisting the impulse to trap, I raised those cursed red aces to thrice the big blind. Three callers saw that wretched flop of 8-10-J with two clubs, starting the inevitable descent of my hand, little by little, into the abyss.

Nausea quickly rose, the bile of my stomach bubbling over into the soft vulnerable flesh at the back of my throat, as a player bet into me, leading into three players for a mere fraction of the size of the current pot. With deep stacks my glazed eyes could clearly see that I was stuck firmly between the pit of the semi-bluff shove and the lethal blade of the flat call float. I considered my options, opting for the re-raise not due to the malice of forcing my opponents to polarize their ranges, but for the swift doom, the merciful release that running into a flopped set would give me from the torture of this eldritch game, along with a good post for BBV. As the button instantly mini-reraised me I could feel my hand, a little more, oh just a little more, falling ever further into the abyss.

'You stony faced quintessence of all that is abominable' I yelled at the screen, boney fist shaking, while the big blind scurried back to whichever stinking hovel he came with a fold. My stack would not survive the horrors of a 4-bet fold, and calling left me with only the size of the pot for the inevitably doom-laden turn. Wishing I had never set eyes on those cursed red aces, had heeded the warning of the razor-beaked ravens and played Wii Fit Resort instead, I moved the slider to the farthest right, paused for a moment and then flat called - while the world's banshees united in their wail, their chilling cries of 'noooooooooo'.

Our pot became a heads-up affair and time stood agonizingly still. In those few seconds before the turn I felt 1000 years of misery, of rusty nails and broken glass, or chalk on board and rain on windows, 1000 years before the turn to brood in the gloom, 1000 years to hope, to count, to fear what the turn would bring, 1000 years, yet from the start the king of clubs would always fall. As was their destiny, little by little, my aces fell, just a little further into the abyss.

My turn to act, and all paths leading to pain, the black cat - bloodied rodent in stinking maw - looked satisified at my diabolical circumstance. I clicked for time, was there not still hope? Queens would fit the play, and nines, and if my tormentor were fooling around he could be drawing as thin as the tendons on a rotting putrid corpse. A new hope, the overlay in the pot, the a queen might yet be an out, drunk as if on the rarest of blood red wine my remaining stack went into the pot. My foe insta-called, the ravens cawed, the black cat purred and the bile searing my throat burned so fiercethat i feared my very neck would open to the world, spilling my organs and life-blood onto my new Macbook Pro - this told me all I needed to know - my aces, along with my stack had fallen, inevitably, into the abyss of 8-3 suited in clubs.


PS: We look forward to Edgar's return at some point in the future - when he takes us through the joys of a the Sit N Go Bubble.

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