4. Bull

Meet Bull, a poker player who passed his prime early; the recent depression might be his ticket to the big leagues.

The modern world is upside down: the water flows uphill, the rivers are dry yet harvest is plentiful.

And in a burning pit below- the furious, mindless mob churns against the winds of trade: fear, greed, hope, doubt- our grind moves the world. 

And all it takes to make it stop is to agree it doesn't exist.

But I want it to exist. I want to be rich.

"Would that be all sir?" A waiter hovers over me, worry setting in.

I've been sitting in the Ocean cafe for three hours.

I have no money on me, but I manage three full meals before the staff catches on- I'm not even hungry. Now they're getting nervous, I chug eight ounces of 1977 Gould Campbell.

"I'm waiting for a friend."

***

I don't remember much, not much is worth remembering.

I grew up here, I think- partied like an animal and thawed out in my thirties. Now I twitch, I'm balding early, and my head's fried like an egg.

But I'm really good at poker, that's my in. 

See, I'm fortunate enough to live in a time of great economic turmoil.

They call this one the big one, the book of revelations- but nothing ever ends. Someone's always making money, things always settle into place.

Of course there are casualties, pension loss and suicides, the Gods themselves might change- but nothing is ever created or destroyed, only transferred.

That's where I come in.

Years ago you might have called me a Grinder, when poker was a noble, boring sport. Now its closer to a gladiatorial arena: decadent sponsors host bread and games, while they still have money to waste. 

Its a national spectacle, a microcosm of the American dream: face me on the felt, bring all you've got, and if you're good and lucky, you'll walk away rich.

Except that isn't true. Cause we're not playing poker.

You're probably playing what you think is poker: two hole cards, against 5 community; best combo of 5; your hand vs your opponent's; your edge determined by your ability to hide your emotions and detect theirs. You think you're reading me.

You're not playing poker. I'm playing poker.

I'm not even looking at your face. I'm trying to remember how often you've folded on the river after three successive bets; your preflop ratio of calls vs raises. I'm looking inward, calculating the equity of my hand against your range; I'm looking at the board, quick pot odds and stack to pot ratios. Fold equity, implied odds, your effective stack of 100 big blinds, topped with some fat chips you bagged off the roulette table. Don't tell me your name, I know who you are: you're 60% VPIP with a 10% PFR. You're meat.

It's a good time to be poor. Everybody's poor, and poor men like to gamble; it's enough to make a living.

But I don't want make a living. I want to be rich.

***

I'm hiding in a dumpster.

Cops prowl the street outside, halt the cabs and block the roads. They even check a limo.

I never really got that, why don't they check the dumpsters? If I need to dine and dash I probably don't own a car.

Now it's starting to kick in, and I can hear my blood. Sol's s**t is always prime; I kind of feel like God.

I probably could take those cops, but I choose to wait it out. I've got an evening tryst with Vic, and I want to look my best.