GOTTA GO WITH YOUR GUT
A Cautionary Tale

The problem was never swotting the gaff. That part was easy, especially once Vic's pal Jimmy got a scutwork job inside the truck -- the production truck, that is -- at Live Poker TV. All they had to do then was poach the hands from the hand reader and find some way to transmit that vital 411 to Vic at the final table. Jimmy had a knack for gizmos, and through trial and error managed to install a microvideo receiver and heads-up display into a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Then Vic was like a fighter pilot, only instead of having targets locked, it was all the other guys' cards, plain as the proverbial nose on face. No, the problem was never swotting the gaff.

The problem was making a focking final table! You don't get to be on LPTV without first you wade through a hella field of yutzes, the multitudes of whom all seem bent on nothing so much as cutting you off at the hope with their dondo-dizmo play. Vic entered a hundred events, and ran himself damn near down to the bottom of his bankroll before the luck finally broke his way. You could argue that Vic was really not that good a poker player, and should probably have given up this Quixotic nonsense, but Vic was a man on a mission -- albeit a corrupt and illegal one -- and would not be stayed from his quest: hacking the card feed at LPTV and winning a million bucks by blackguard means.

It was a miracle catch that final-tabled him at last. Vic got his chips in with the worst of it (as usual) and sucked out on some better and far more deserving player. At that, he arrived on the LPTV set short-stacked and imperiled, not even flush enough to last two laps. But Vic wasn't worried. He had his magic glasses and Jimmy in the truck transmitting the hand holds. How can he not win through? For once, thought Vic Mirplo, inveterate angle shooter, relentless corner cutter and perennial loser, for once, things were looking to break his way.

In his first big blind, Vic faced a raise from someone holding (consult your HUD, Vic; yep, it's working fine) Big Maxx, the K-Q of clubs. Though Vic had a crap hand, knowing the other guy's holding made him feel drunk with information, so he called. He figured if the board came rags -- which it did, 9-8-3 rainbow -- he could move all in and put the guy off his hand. Good thinking, Mirp, except your stack's so short he'll have odds to call even with only overcards. Now you're drawing slim, but the turn is a 6 and the river a 5, and though Vic doubled up, he sure got some sidelong looks when he turned over 2-7 -- the Hammer! -- to take down the pot with a straight.

Which sidelong looks quickly morphed into gawks of disbelief at some of the hands Vic started tabling. Like pocket eights when he stuck it out against a board of A-K-Q-J-9. "How can you not put me on an overcard?" says the loser as he mucks his busted bluff in disgust. "Gotta go with your gut," says Vic. "Gotta go with your gut."

Or a few hands later when Vic got a burly woman to lay down to his bluff at an ace on the turn. It was pure hubris that made Vic show his 9-3 offsuit and ask sweetly, "Pocket jacks?" Which of course she had. "How did you know?" she snarls. "What can I tell you?" says Vic. "You gotta go with your gut." Vic's not making friends here, but friends is not what he came to make.

What he came to make was money, big money, the kind of money that kicks you loose from the snag of your dead-end job and your ratbag apartment and your hella commute and your mom on the message machine constantly harping on when are you gonna make something of your life, Victor? The kind of money, sweet money, oh yeah, that puts love in your life, for the honeys love money, and when Vic has the cash, he knows they'll swarm, just swarm, and then he can have his pick. Life, love, money, freedom, peace, glory, fame, self-respect... it's all just a few hands away now, and so what if he has to cheat to get there? Who doesn't cheat in this life?

But cheating eats at your soul, you know, and Vic, who's never not cheated, has a soul as holey as the moth-chewed curtains in his ratbag flat. He's the chip leader, though, and though the table's still ten-handed, short stacks abound. It won't be long, Vic figures, till he picks them all off like arcade ducks. He lovingly strokes the frame of his magic glasses. It's happening. It's all happening now.

Also what's happening, though, is there's trouble in the truck. Jimmy's boss wants some coffee and only Starbucks will do, so, "Here's the keys to my Porsche, kid. Hurry back." Jimmy protests that it's not his job, but it exactly is his job, and if he wants to keep it another five minutes, and not incidentally keep his ass unkicked, he'll get it in gear right now! So Jimmy's out the door and Vic's heads-up display goes dark.

If you're Vic Mirplo and you suddenly have to rely on nothing but your native poker skills, you are well and truly screwed because these skills have long since been stunted by every angle you've ever tried to shoot. For a few hands he treads water, trading on the savant image he acquired up to this point, but it's not long before the others notice that the Great and Powerful Mirplo is back on his heels. You can't see his eyes behind those stupid big glasses, but you can just imagine the deer-in-headlight stare he wears.

Then the blunders. He calls a good ace with a bad ace. Loses a chunk. Drives two pair into trips. Another stack-hit. Some dumb luck keeps him alive for a while, but it's all sliding sideways and Vic knows it. He's too loose when he should be tight, tight when he should be loose, weak when he should be strong, and never strong at all, not without his magic glasses, the Popeye spinach that gives him the muscle he needs to proceed.

Finally, the coup de grace, delivered by that same burly lady, who takes just fiendish delight in snapping off his suicide bluff. She looks him up with nothing better than K-J, but it's good enough to crush his K-T, and "How could you make that call?" moans Vic. All she can say is, "You gotta go with your gut, chum."

Or did she say chump?

He staggers away from the table. Stops by the casino cage to collect tenth-place money. Tenth place! That's not enough! Not nearly enough to jump him out of the pit he's made of his life.

But you know what they say: The truth is revealed under pressure, and the pressure of a failed foolproof puts enough pressure on Vic to make his head explode. He takes off the glasses and looks at them. They were his best shot, his cleanest angle. He went all the way with them... and still came up short. He studies his image in their dark mirrored lenses and sees: Vic Mirplo, inveterate angle shooter, relentless corner cutter, perennial loser -- and loser once again.

That's when the revelation kicks in.

It might take a month. It might take a year. It might take forever, but one of these days Vic's gonna win, and when he does, he'll do it on his own ticket. No angles. No cheats. He's got a whole life to unlearn, but Vic knows that, dead-end job and hella commute and ratbag flat notwithstanding, his learning just got the jumpstart it needs. He still doesn't know what happened to Jimmy or why the system broke down but suddenly he doesn't care. That was the old way. He's done with that.

He drops the sunglasses to the floor.

Grinds them to dust with his heel.

His gut tells him to do that.

And sometimes you gotta go with your gut.

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