Lead Story

No Two Ways About It.

It was bound to happen. Early last night during a friendly game of 'Iron Cross' a situation unraveled that would rock our game to its very foundation. OK, that's a bit dramatic but, man was it a big argument. Three brave souls remained for the declaration and as the extended fists revealed their attached players intentions, 5 chips were presented. For those of you mathematically disinclined, that means two players, Koneo and Redcard, went both ways, high and low, and one, Chowhound, went high only. Ceremonial dollars were cast into the sizable pot and the posturing began. "W-w-w-whatta you got?" What do YOU got?" etcetera.

As the typically miasmic conditions of the showdown lifted a calculative pause punctuated the escalated and palpable tension at the table. There was no winner. Chowhound had the third best high-hand with four Jacks. Koneo had the perfect low, beating Redcard's 6-5, but Redcard's Straight Flush beat Koneo's four Kings. Koneo and Redcard, both going "Both Ways" had cancelled each other out and Chowhound could not beat either of their highs. There was no winner.

Mayhem erupted almost instantaneously. At first the yelling was of a general anarchistic type: the kind that coincided with the two thirds emptied bottle of Jim Beam in the kitchen. But it soon settled into a sustained thunderous argument over who gets the money. Chowhound admitted that he did not win, but demanded that the two pigs also lost. "I don't care if I don't get the pot, but you two don't deserve it either..." Recard countered with precedence, "we've seen this before and the two guys going both ways split the pot." That is, I think that's what he said. It was hard to hear him while Chowhound chanted "Bull-Shit! Bull-Shit! Bull-Shit!..." at the very top of his range.

The doorbell rang and I got up to pay for the food. The young gamey deliveryman from Flor de Mayo winced from the blast of howls and profanity as the door opened, like it was heat from a breaching furnace grate. Arching forward from his heels to his tip toes, he peered over my shoulder still holding the bags at his sides to check if flight was a reasonable option. That's when the dog bit him. It was just a pant leg but it was sufficient to alter his mood from impending terror to present shock. "How much?" I asked offering my best comforting smile. I could not hear a word he said.

"WOULD YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR JUST A MINUTE" I shouted into the other room futilely.

Turning back to my unlucky captive, I found that he had placed the bags down and held his hand out from as far away as he could stand. I paid him and shut the door behind me with my foot.

Food. Good, I thought. This'll take Chowhound out of the argument.

Waving the bags before him, he would not relent. "You're all out of here" I said in desperation. And with that Redcard counted his chips and promptly prepared to leave. Realizing that I had just paid out of pocket for everyone's dinner, the prospect of collecting payment for dinner after a mass exodus seemed remote. I became conciliatory. Chowhound, just drop it. Redcard, Koneo, split the pot up. We'll argue this on the site later."

I guess the intoxicating scent of Peruvian chicken emanating from the open bags awakened the higher functioning regions of the combatants brains and the hand was finally over as a new free-for-all began, this time in the kitchen.

The question remains, however. A vote must be taken lest we witness this again.