Lead Story

Swedish Fish.

One of the nice things about our site is that it attracts interest from all over the world. Occasionally one of those foreign fans comes to New York and plays with us. What’s nicer is that they usually suck at poker and we promptly fleece their pockets and send them packing back to whatever dark corner of the world they came from. This week we welcomed Pekker (name changed to protect his dignity and because it's funny) from Sveeden. He’s the son of one of Edict’s college buddies whose Scandinavian name is virtually unpronounceable. A strapping lad, Pekker was fresh in from Costa Rica where he felt compelled to leave because he ran out of women to screw. Despite this mildly entertaining fact, his fat wallet and willingness to hang in most hands until the bitter-end was clearly his most intriguing attribute. Pekker actually caught on quickly to our various and complex derivations of poker so I guess his only excuse for losing as he did was that he’s just a lousy player—though he did manage to lose less than Lymie.

Keepin’ it real in his ghetto-fab attire: triple 5, baggie soul cargos, skater kicks, and a glint of magenta in his tousled blonde mane, Pekker stuck out like trendy sore thumb at our table especially in his unfortunate position between the H-brothers, Chowhound and Hank. “I’m Chowhound….” our host said excitedly for the third time as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, “and that’s Hank, my brother.” Hank smiled politely moderating his private anguish that there was someone taller than him in the room.

Dano dealt ‘follow the queen’ sputtering up-cards in indifferent twisted arcs. A jack fell into his lap as Koneo picked his nose. Redcard’s attention diverted from pondering his armpit by an errant 3 of clubs. A red five deflected off Lymie’s delicate pickled fingers and continued on its proscribed trajectory to the floor.

Sitting across from him, I couldn’t help but try to imagine just what Pekker thought of us—being such a big fan of the site and all. ‘Utter disappointment’ I resolved. We are a pack of loud aging freaks—and it’s never more evident than seen reflected in the eyes of an unsuspecting guest. Walking out of that apartment with at least $30 of the Swede’s money in my wallet, I wondered who was the real loser.