The Tavern

It was once again the Lord's Day, but he didn't think about it. He was probably going to Hell anyway, so he didn't bother with religion. The only thing he worshipped was Lady Luck. Lately, it seemed that she had forsaken him.

He cut his jog short, and depressed, took a quick shower. He walked out of his apartment and down the stairs. In the main lobby, he saw that weird custodian. What was his name? Oh, Saul. There he goes muttering again. Something about Madam Fouquois. The odd custodian soon walked away.

The tavern was a dark, seedy place, with the air of some place ancient. It smelled of smoke and alcohol. He had rarely been in the front, usually just going around to the back. The gloom of the place reminded him of a dark necropolis. Yes, that was a good way to put it. Necropolis. The bartender looked up.

"Hey, Ace," he said. It's been a long time since I've seen you here in the front. As a matter of fact, the game won't start for a few hours. Something wrong?"

"Just give me something of the tap," Ace replied. Ace wasn't his real name of course, but he'd picked it up due to his reputation of always having an ace in his hand. He nursed his drink slowly. Ace thought about the past week. It had been an odd one. Or maybe he had just noticed more, as though he wasn't just coasting through the week, just to get to the weekly game. Had he really been that numb these past few months? At the time he hadn't thought so. I've been here too long, he thought. It was just so hard to pack up and leave. Plus, he'd lose the game.

"I guess I'll stay here for at least a little while longer," he muttered.

"What was that, Ace?" asked the bartender.

"Nothing, nothing," he replied. "I'll see you tonight at the game."

He walked out of the tavern and headed for his room on the fifth floor of Thallow Flats. He reached his room, 523, and stumbled into the room, barely stopping to lock the door behind him. He was asleep before he had finished collapsing onto his bed.

He found himself in the deep forest again. It had become like a home for his unconscious mind. He walked down the path and came to the first fork. Instead of immediately turning left as he usually did, he stopped. He looked around himself. To his left, he saw the same squirrels and leaves. He looked to his right, and saw a drastic difference. He saw different squirrels and leaves at first, and farther down he saw more forks that he had yet to come to. From where he was standing, he could see the ends of three of the paths. One path ended at the base of an enormous mountain. Another ended in a beautiful garden. The final path ended at the top of a cliff, seemingly dropping of into infinity. He saw all of these ends, and the paths which led to many more and took his first step to the right.

He woke up, just in time to go back to the tavern. He went to the back door, to avoid the necropolis in front. What a word, he thought.

That night, he didn't find a single ace in his hand.

Deviation

He had a recurring dream. He saw himself wandering through a forest on a path. Every few yards, he came across a fork in the path. He always took the left fork. Always. And he always ended up right back where he started. He became familiar with all of the little things that he saw along the path that he always took. The same squirrels ran around in the same places, the same leaves fell from the same trees.

It was Sunday again, and time for his daily jog. Everything seemed normal as he began, but he quickly felt that something was wrong. He stopped next to the vacant lot, having gone only a few yards. He looked towards the old Barnaby house. He felt oddly drawn to it. Climbing over the fence of the lot, he began to make his way toward the house. He walked across the cracked pavement, wondering what he was doing. This wasn't his routine; why was he doing this?

The front of the mansion loomed closer. Its wooden siding splintered all over the outside. Various balls lay all over the ground, some so dirty that they blended with the brown grass. A sound caused him to look up. There was an old man standing in the front doorway on the porch. Their eyes met. The old man had a harsh look, but there was a certain warmth, a longing in the depths of his eyes. The old man returned to his house without a word.

That night, at the weekly game, he had trouble concentrating on his cards.

The Weekly Game

Light streamed in through the dirty window, staining the floor. The bright light of the sun fell on his face and caused him to stir from his sleep. He blinked a few times before getting becoming aware of his surroundings. He was in his small apartment. Next to his bed, his alarm clock was ringing, silently. He made a note to get a new one. He wandered into his bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, just like he did every morning. Afterwards, he walked into the kitchen area and poured himself a bowl of cereal. He slowly woke up as he ate, remembering what day it was. Sunday, he thought. Today is Sunday. He smiled to himself. Sunday is his favorite day of the week.
He put on some shorts and shoes and took the steps to the ground floor of the apartment building. As he stepped outside, he covered his eyes to block out the brightness of the sun. As he adjusted to the light, he began his daily jog. As he ran, he talked to no one that he met on the way. He gave out smiles and waves as he passed people, but remained silent, reflecting on the day before.
He had gone into the city to get some work done. He hated the commute and often thought about moving closer to his job. He could easily afford to move into a nice, large apartment in the city, but he could never bring himself to do it. It would change too many things.
He finished his jog back at the apartment building. He walked up the steps to his room, where he took a quick shower. He then sat down on his faded red couch with his latest book and began to read. He sat there for hours, until he looked up at his clock on the wall.
He marked his place in his book and walked to the tavern. He walked around to the back of the tavern and knocked on the black door. The door hadn't always been black; it used to be brown, but the years of grime had changed it. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off his hand while he waited for someone to answer the door. The small slit at eye level abruptly opened, then quickly closed. The door then opened to let him enter the dark, seedy room. He sat down at the large, oval-shaped table and smiled as his first cards were dealt to him.

The key to playing poker is knowing how to play your opponents cards against them. If the river has been turned and you're still holding the nuts, it is the perfect opportunity to checkraise. But if you think that your opponent will just check behind, then go ahead and bet.