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March of 1994, I’m living in Los Angeles, trying to break into the screenwriting biz. While residing in New York City, a slew of published articles had begun to get me noticed. My wide array of unusual skills and expertise (firearms/weaponry expert, experienced auto racer, certified scuba diver, adrenaline sports junkie) resulted in some pretty wild examples of participatory journalism, and Tinseltown seemed the obvious choice to continue my literary adventures. Geenyus that I am, I figured the best way to understand screenplays — and how to write them — was from an actor’s perspective. So, I threw myself into the Hollywood game, intent on auditioning for anything and everything, as well as reading whatever script I could get my grubby hands on, regardless of genre, to learn the proper pacing and format and, hopefully, write and sell one of my own.
Now, the problem is, I’m about as much of a thespian as Alec Baldwin is Father of the Year. Seriously, if a deaf mute orangutan and I were up for the same role, I really like the orang’s chances. The kicker to this little segue: Not long after moving to L.A. I actually landed a major role in a small budget feature film (using the name Adam Rocke). Entitled Wish Me Luck, the flick starred Avalon Anders, the sexiest member of Playboy’s “Swedish Bikini Team,” and Zen Gessner, who would go on to play the title role in the successful TV series, Sinbad. While it was a real hoot to shoot, it was definitely not a cinematic masterpiece. No Golden Globes or Oscars would stem from that movie, although I have to admit, the nude scenes had some serious panache! If you ever actually rent it (why would you do a dumb thing like that?) or happen to catch it on cable during some ungodly middle-of-the-night showing, don’t say I didn’t warn you. However, substance of the movie aside, that project hooked me up with some really cool people, many of whom were as addicted to gambling and playing cards as I was, and I became a fixture at their weekly home poker game.
Because non-A-list actors and writers were often forced to take on flexible night gigs (waiters, bartenders, bouncers, personal trainers, repo men, etc.) to pay the bills, thereby freeing up their days for auditioning or pitching movies and TV shows, it was anyone’s guess as to how many people would show up for the weekly game. On some occasions we had as few as six or seven, allowing for a relatively normal poker night (although with that cast of characters, poker nights were anything but normal). Other times we had as many as twelve or thirteen, requiring us to spread two games or rotate players in and out. Regardless, everyone had a great time and poker night was usually a highlight of our week.
Back then No Limit Hold’em wasn’t dominating the poker landscape like it is today. Seven-Card Stud was the game of choice, but we seldom played it straight. Almost always, there were wild cards or funky rules to spice things up. Games like Day and Night Baseball, Criss-Cross, Spank Your Mama’s Ass, Spit and Buy, Pass the Trash, Red Chicago, Black Mariah, Follow the Bitch, Low in the Hole… If you can name it, we probably played it.
On the nights when a lot of people showed, we tended to veer away from poker altogether, sticking to simple, pot-building games like Acey-Deucey (aka In Between) or Guts. During one of our “normal” poker games, you could easily lose a week’s worth of wages, even at the relatively small stakes we played. But when it came to Acey-Deucey or Guts, which often required you to match the pot if you lost; hell, you could wind up as an indentured servant if you weren’t careful. And just like with poker, we had countless variations of these games, as well.
Adding to these cash- and testosterone-fueled gatherings was the appearance of a new sport — the Ultimate Fighting Championship, a noholds- barred fighting tournament that took place inside an octagonshaped cage. A real-life version of Bloodsport, the film loosely based on the Asian underground fight career of supposed CIA agent/combat instructor Frank Dux, the movie that essentially launched Jean-Claude Van Damme’s career, the UFC (which pretty much coined the term mixed martial arts) made its debut on Pay-Per-View in November of 1993. In essence, a Toughman competition with an IV of rocket fuel, competitors could win their bouts by knockout, tap-out submission (saying “Uncle”), or having the corner throw in the towel.
In an odd parallel to the movie, the smallest fighter in the competition, 176-pound Brazilian Jiu Jitsu expert Royce Gracie, submitted all three of his opponents — including one who outweighed him by over fifty pounds — en route to winning the event. Using a combination of devastating chokeholds and bone-breaking joint locks, Gracie proved that a skilled “little man” could beat a “big man” with ease. Perhaps more importantly, Gracie proved that a fight could be won without knocking your opponent senseless.
As is the case at most male-dominant card games, sports are a major topic of discussion. With its human chess match-like pairings, unbridled aggression, and ferocious action, the UFC easily moved to the top of our talk list. And because the UFC matched fighters who excelled in widely varying pugilistic styles (boxing vs. wrestling, Tae Kwan Do vs. Jiu Jitsu, Kung Fu vs. bar-room brawling, pit-fighting vs. shoot-fighting, etc.), nobody had a dearth of opinions and no one was squeamish about arguing his point. Factor into the equation that most of the wannabe movie stars in the room were currently taking some form of martial art (to round out their resumes), thereby obligating them to defend their style of study, and it was easy to see where discussions could become heated. Now, throw cards, money, and all the “party favors” that customarily accompany a guys-night-out poker game into the mix and you have the recipe for disaster. Problem was, none of us were smart enough to see it coming.
The weekly poker game rotated around, each person having an opportunity to host. The host supplied the venue and everyone else ponied up the Scooby snacks — pizza and wings to icy brew to some pretty slammin’ herb. Poker nights were total potluck; you never knew who were going to show and what they were going to bring. On one occasion, a member of our crew had just booked a national commercial, a gig that would wind up paying him nearly $25,000 for less than eight hours of work. He showed up to the game with a half-dozen girls that he “met” via an ad in the Yellow Pages. We didn’t play a lot of cards that night. Go figure!
Eventually, it was my turn to host. As far as residences went, I had hit the Southern California jackpot. A friend of a friend had hooked me up with an insane rental — guest quarters in a multi-million-dollar, 5000+- square-foot home in Manhattan Beach, a mere six blocks from the beach. The owners, a wealthy retired couple that now spent most of their time traveling the world, liked the idea of someone responsible looking out for their possessions and keeping an eye on their two cats, Merrill and Lynch; apparently, he had made boatloads of dinero on Wall Street.
Responsible? Heck, I’d been called a lot of things in my life and responsible was definitely not one of them. But hey, I had great references and most senior citizens loved me. You know, that whole “nice Jewish boy from back East” thing. The end result was a killer West Coast beach pad and live-in pussy. What could possibly be better?
Normally, we held our poker games during the week, leaving the weekends open for more exhilarating pursuits. But since the next installment of the UFC was slated for a Friday (March 11th), everyone was in agreement that a Daily Double of cards and combat was just too great an opportunity to pass up. And with a living room the size of an airplane hangar at my disposal, complete with plush leather seating for a small army and an enormous wall-mounted TV screen, it should come as no surprise that every member of our weekly card crew decided to show. Some even brought a friend. All told, there were twenty-three of us — twenty guys and three girls. If you ever wondered what kind of facial expressions the Christians had showcased just prior to being thrown to the lions by the Romans, all you had to do was look at those three girls. I saw them clicking their heels on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, none of them were wearing ruby slippers!
Ninety minutes after everyone arrived, the UFC and our game were well under way. Enough blood had been spilled inside the Octagon to make a squad of vampires horny, cash was being won and lost at a fevered pace, and our collective bloodstreams were sufficiently thinned courtesy of bottled amigos with names like Jack, Johnny, Ron, José, and Bud. Because of our numbers, we had only been playing Guts, but the action was so sick and consistent, nobody wanted to switch to poker.
If you’ve never played Guts, think Three-card Poker. Rules are essentially the same, except you play against one another, not the house. In certain versions, straights and flushes count; however that night, to simplify things, we were playing High Card Guts. Best hand was three of a kind (three aces were the absolute best), followed by one pair, and so on down the line.
Fifteen of us were in the game. We had to move the mammoth cherry wood table out of the dining room to accommodate everyone. New games were started with an ante of just $1 apiece. Now $15 may seem like a paltry sum, but trust me — it didn’t take long before a heaping pile of cash occupied the table’s center. After the cards were dealt, all the players took a chip, put their hands behind their backs, and decided their play. If you wanted to stay in, you would have a chip in your hand when we revealed. Everyone put out a fist and we counted: “One, two, three, Guts.” All those holding the aforementioned chip would show their cards. Best hand took down the pot; losers had to match the pot. With fifteen players, the majority possessing cliff-walking egos now dangling well over the edge thanks to the addition of the alcohol and the cash up for grabs, things got juicy in a hurry.
In the beginning, a lot of people stayed in with crap, if for no other reason than to seed the pot. But a pattern started to develop. When there was major money at stake, and the scenario of having to match a disgustingly large amount became a very real possibility, there were a lot more walks — when only one person stayed in, thereby taking down the pot uncontested.
In past games, we had occasionally employed a Charley Hand — an extra hand that “walkers” would be required to beat in order to win. But this was UFC night and, nutcases that we were, we hit upon a much better idea. From now on, in the event of a walk, everyone else in the game would be dealt one card from a fresh deck. The socalled walker would then have to fight whoever was dealt the highest card. To save us from repeated trips to the emergency room, kicks and closed-fist punches weren’t allowed, but everything else (within reason) was cool. Fights would last four minutes. If at the end of that time the walker had not quit or been submitted, the pot was his. If he lost, however, he wouldn’t have to match the pot, but the money was still up for grabs and we’d re-deal and play again.
The luxury house I was staying in had two living rooms. The hardwood-floored family room (off the kitchen) where we were watching the fight and playing cards was a poor choice for the bouts. But the fully carpeted, sunken formal living room, which featured tall, sliding glass doors that led out onto a wrap-around patio and offered partial views of the Pacific Ocean during the day, was perfect. All we had to do was move the furniture to the room’s perimeter and we were in business. Granted, it wasn’t the Octagon, but it would easily satisfy our needs. And indeed, it did. While the fights were more of a goof than hardcore mano y mano conflicts, the combatants still gave maximum effort — at least, for the first thirty seconds or so. Only one of the four bouts we had had up to that point had actually resulted in a win by the representative of the Charley Hand, and even that was more circumstance than technique. The loser tweaked a nerve in his neck while trying to hip-toss his opponent and quickly wound up as a defenseless pretzel. He had no choice but to tap out. But the best was yet to come.
As I had mentioned before, our poker crew consisted of a zany cast of characters: people from all walks of life, from all different parts of the country. Just about every ethnicity and religious affiliation was represented. One of the guys, whom I’ll call Dylan, had a really interesting background. From a prominent family in Boston, he had dropped out of a prestigious law school midway through his second year to pursue his dream of becoming an actor. Charismatic, well spoken, tall, and exceedingly handsome, Dylan had everything going for him with the exception of one major flaw — he was a little too handsome, to the point that he was actually pretty. Apparently, this had proved to be a quandary with agents and casting directors. After five years of trying to break into the biz, Dylan had only managed to book a smattering of extra roles. He hadn’t even gotten his SAG (Screen Actors Guild) card yet. The only speaking roles he was called in for were openly gay or overly effeminate characters. None of us ever questioned which team he batted for — we really didn’t care — but in an industry where appearance and perception is more than half the battle, this was a serious issue. That lack of progress, for an individual who was so used to succeeding at everything he attempted and was undoubtedly receiving all kinds of flack from his well-to-do family, made Dylan excessively bitter, to the point where he’d argue anything at the drop of a hat. We all tried to convince him to go back to law school — it was obvious that he’d be one hell of a shyster — but he was dead-set on making it in the entertainment industry. Sadly, he was rapidly transforming from a guy who everyone liked into an individual that nobody wanted to be around.
At the exact opposite end of the personality spectrum was Mike, an oxlike, farm-boy type from a small town in the Midwest. Mike had been a standout scholarship athlete at a Division I wrestling powerhouse (either Oklahoma or Iowa or Nebraska) and had come very close to making the USA Olympic Team. After college, he couldn’t stomach the thought of going back to his family farm and feeding chickens and shoveling shit, nor was he keen on parlaying his physical education degree into a job as a gym teacher. So he got certified as a personal trainer, snagged a spot in one of La La Land’s more high-profile gyms, and spent his first paycheck on headshots. When in Rome, he figured. It turned out to be a smart decision. Even with his crew cut, flattened nose — he claimed it had been broken more times than Jenna Jameson had sucked on a, uh, lollipop — and ears so badly cauliflowered they could have made him a fortune at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market, Mike booked bit-part TV roles on a regular basis. Cops, firemen, bouncers, plumbers, convicts, street thugs, tough guys — Mike was working all the time. He got his SAG card, joined AFTRA (American Federation of Television and Radio Artists), and was on the speed-dial of numerous well-known casting directors. Sure, Mike wasn’t going to book that high-paying starring role any time soon, but he was a working actor, making good money, and having a great time in the process. Not too shabby for a guy who hailed from a town with a population of less than 2,000 and looked like a human punching bag.
Needless to say, Dylan absolutely hated Mike for his success. In fact, hate might not be a strong enough descriptor. Making matters worse, Mike was ridiculously humble, ultra-low-key and nowhere near full of himself — everything Dylan wasn’t. Mike would never talk about the gigs he booked, requiring us to drag the info out of him, forcing him to regale us with his on-set adventures. This made Dylan even more contentious, if that were possible.
That night, Mike informed us that he had just booked a small but meaty role in a big budget action film. He’d be leaving for Europe on Monday for two months of filming. He would even have his own trailer and every-thing. Fuck that straw/camel shit, this was the grenade that blew the glass house to smithereens!
More than a little drunk at this point, Dylan couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself. “This town is a joke,” he said. Then he pointed at Mike. “This fucking squash-nosed, fugly-eared prairie hick gets a goddamn speaking part in a movie and I can’t even get a goddamned agent.” He took a breath, looked Mike directly in the eyes, and continued. “Even after I’ve been dead for twenty years I’ll still look better than you. Tell me, where’s the justice?”
Whether that was just the alcohol talking or a true depiction of his innermost feelings, no one was really sure. Judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, we all would have dropped Dylan where he stood. But not Mike, who just shrugged his shoulders and laughed it off. Mike said something like: “Lucky for me, the ugly roles outnumber the handsome roles. “Mike was a good guy, all class, and it showed.
Well, that should have been the end of it. I mean, there was nowhere left for it to go. But the Poker Gods must have wanted it to continue, because they saw fit to lock the two in combat. It happened like this:
There was close to $3,000 in the pot. Six rounds had gone by without anyone playing. Everybody was holding out for a really solid hand before taking a chance. Guys were yammering about mucking mid-sized pairs left and right. Nobody wanted to have to match that pile. Back then, for most of us, $3,000 would have been a major hurt, like a vegan PETA member going on a bow-hunting safari with Ted Nugent.
Round #7 of the $3,000 pot. Finally, one person decided to take a shot at the loot. It was Dylan. Smiling proudly, he showed his cards — a pair of aces with a queen kicker. An absolutely huge High Card Guts hand, easily the biggest we had seen that night. Beating the Charley Hand was almost guaranteed. Rather anticlimactically, we flipped the cards, expecting to just push him the pile of dough. Jaws dropped, people gasped. Dylan turned a deep shade of green. The Charley Hand was a freakin’ monster — trip threes. Dylan’s aces were deader than Elvis.
Everyone started chanting: “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Dylan was shaking his head. “Bullshit,” he complained. “Nobody had played in fucking forever. I should win, end of story.” “We all agreed, Dylan,” someone said, getting unanimous support from the other players. “Let’s deal the cards, see who you mix it up with. You want it, you have to earn it.” After a fresh deck was shuffled and cut, the cards were dealt. One apiece. We went around the room, searching for the high card and Dylan’s opponent. Midway through, the search was over. Those Poker Gods are really twisted SOBs. Mike turned over his card. Boom! Ace of spades. I couldn’t have been happier. I didn’t say this out loud, of course. No need to throw napalm on a bonfire. But I’m quite certain everyone in the room echoed my sentiments. Dylan had it coming. Big time. Hopefully, Mike would open up a major case of whup-ass on him. We all retreated to the formal living room. Mike took off his shirt, got ready for action. At 5’9”, 220 pounds, with about 5% body fat, Mike was built like a Mack truck’s engine block with appendages. He was scary strong and looked it — a beast in beast’s clothing. Dylan was in a world of hurt without a passport. Mike turned to me, whispered the most unimaginable thing: “Dylan’s having a rough night. I’m just going to screw with him for a minute and then I’m gonna let him win.” My eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. “You’re kidding me?” I said. “This is your chance to —“ Mike shook his head, cut me off. “Nah, the guy’s obviously got issues. Maybe this will ease the tension between us.” Like I said, Mike was a class act. A few moments later, Dylan came into the room, chest puffed, filled with beer bravado. He took off his shirt, motioned to Mike. “Let’s do this, man. I’m not afraid of you.” Yeah, he was. Anybody with a smidgeon of sense in his noggin would have been. Then again, maybe Dylan wasn’t. “Four minutes,” someone said, hitting a button on his chronograph watch. “Starting now.” Nice guy that he was, Mike came forward, hand extended. “Good luck, Dylan,” he said genuinely.
Dylan came forward, as well. But instead of shaking Mike’s hand, at the last second he let loose with an ungodly hoch-tooey, an abhorrent phlegmy globule that nailed Mike square in the face. Instinctively, Mike’s hands came up to rid his face of the mucous-transported DNA and that’s when Dylan launched himself like a linebacker, slamming his shoulder into Mike’s abdomen, driving him backwards towards the sliding window-wall. Everyone in the room saw what was coming. It was like super-slow motion, only there was no “stop” button to be found. A millisecond later they were busting through the glass, coming to a stop against the patio’s metal rail.
How neither of them hit the ground I’ll never know, but it appeared as if Mike’s brute strength and well-honed balance kept them off the ground and out of the hospital, as countless glass shards now littered the patio like some sadomasochistic mosaic. Other than a few small cuts on Mike’s scalp, the pair was unscathed, although Dylan would not be unharmed for long. ...
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