He is dealt nines, hits the set on the flop, bets the pot, but at the end his opponent shows a six-to-ten straight. He chugs his beer. “Smooth as a Playboy bunny’s butt,” he says and orders another. He counts his chips; about fifth of his stack is already gone. Still, he knows from experience that luck turns, you can’t force it, but when it does turn you’d better be ready.
His next hand, pocket AA, is rivered out by trip deuces. He senses he should have bet at least pot or higher before the flop; the winner held 7-2 offsuit in hand, the worst possible hole cards in Texas Holdem. Well, such is life, he wanted to trap the other guy and ended up trapping himself. As he drinks his beer he realizes that to change his luck he has to change his drink. He waves to the waitress. “Double moonshine, miss.”
An old road gambler sitting on his right whispers to him, “You know how to tell who’s the fish at the poker table?” He says no, he doesn’t know. The old man smirks. “If you don’t know who’s the fish then you’re the fish.” He recognizes the witticism but decides it was still worth listening to because there was a unique Western tang to the way the geezer told it. He nods his head, drinks his hooch and orders another one.
“Better watch the booze,” someone warns him. He shrugs. “I drink, therefore I am.” He looks at his cards and announces, “Literally, if I stopped drinking I would die. I would check out, croak, buy the farm, kick the bucket.” To stay alive, he orders another whiskey. Then he goes all-in on unsuited KQ. “Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble,” he says.
Back home, climbing out of his car he shouts into the starless night, “I am Paralichthys Dentatus, and…” The rest is obscenities.
His inarticulate tirade wakes up the neighbors. “Flounder is drunk again!” Unfortunately, living in an aquarium, they cannot swim to a nicer neighborhood.