Valley of the Donks

Okay, loyal Bluffers; it’s confession time. You may have noticed that my recent contributions have all originated in Arizona. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the Valley of the Sun as of late — might as well tell you why. Ever since my little "midnight madness" with Marv, I’ve been a day patient in a Phoenix funny farm, hoping to cleanse my mind of that nightmarish experience.

Nah, I’m lying. I’ve seen worse, including Britney Spears sans makeup. Yeesh! The truth is, I’m in severe financial distress and I’m trying to cultivate a new strain of flowering peyote—for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and sweet sixteens — to remedy my fiscal free fall.

Ah, screw it, I’ll come clean. The real truth, boring as it may sound, is that I found an old race car — a 1973 De Tomaso Pantera — while on assignment in Canada and I’m having it restored and race-prepped at a specialized shop in Tempe. If you ever want to absolutely decimate a perfectly good checking account, purchase any vintage automobile with the intent of making it better than new. Sure, when it’s finished it’ll be faster than a skinhead at a Black Panther track meet — the ex-Nextel Cup car motor I’m using in place of the original 351 Cleveland block was recently dyno’d at over 800 horsepower — but by that time I probably won’t be able to afford the fuel!

Anyway, while I’m in AZ, I gotta feed my addiction. That means a little time at Casino Arizona (101 & Indian Bend) in Scottsdale. For those of you who have never been to the cavernous, perma-tent structure, it’s a funky establishment: 1,500 multi-denominational slot machines, a slew of blackjack tables (shoes and ShuffleMasters), an OTB for the local greyhound track, and 50 poker tables surrounded by flat screen monitors and movie theater-sized projection screens, all displaying whatever amateur and professional sporting events are on the airwaves. There’s even a digital ticker, continuously updating scores and breaking news items.

But there’s one glaring problem, worse than a fat chick on Malibu Beach wearing a thong. Absolutely zero No Limit Hold’em. There’s a version of the game, a variant of Hold’em that allows for a $150 maximum bet (with subsequent $150 raises), but that’s it. No true No Limit, thanks to the compact the Arizona Department of Gaming signed with the Salt River-Pima-Maricopa Indian Community. According to the deal, $150 is the largest bet a poker player can make at any given time, which also explains why $75-$150 Hold’em is the largest limit game the casino will spread. Blackjack players can stick $500 or more in the betting circle on a whim, and high-limit slot players can feed the machines an endless diet of C-notes, but the poor poker-playing masses, mixing it up in an arena where the house only receives a marginal cut, get the short end of the stick. It seems the Big Chief and his braves don’t want to let all that money escape so easily. In fact, the cash has less chance of getting away than Custer! It’s the same reason Indian casinos throughout the country are allowed to keep their slot machines’ profit margins and payback rates a secret. I guess they’re just getting even for that whole Alaska-for-six-bucks-worth-of-beads deal. Time to stick it to the White Man, and how (pun intended!).

Anyway, back to my story… I’m not a big fan of Limit poker, mainly because I S-U-C-K at it. Also, I hate the fact that you can’t be creative with your betting. I’ve played some pretty decent-sized Limit games, too — the largest being $300/$600 — and they didn’t do anything for me. Like seeing Drew Barrymore naked a few years back (long, long story), it just didn’t give me wood. When I play poker, it’s No Limit or nothing.

Casino Arizona has two versions of their fake No Limit game, which I’ve affectionately dubbed Faux No. There’s $5-$150, with $3 & $5 blinds and a maximum buy-in of $350; and then there’s $10-$150 — $5 & $10 blinds and a max buy-in of a $1,000. No reason to be a cork-soaker when you can be the cork, so I waited for a seat in the larger game. Eventually, the board called my name and I sat down with a full buy-in, one grand.

I watched the action for a little bit, recon’ing the battlefield, per se, before jumping in to the mix. There was a hefty supply of checks on the table and I didn’t notice any wolves — or any wolves in sheep’s clothing, for that matter. All in all, it seemed like a pretty decent game to join — for a Faux No.

After a few hands, I was ready. I came in on the big blind, but mucked my garbage to a pre-flop raise. Ditto for the small blind. Now it was my turn on the button. After a moment of thought, the Under-The- Gun player raised it up to $50. Fold, call, fold, call, before it was folded to me. I looked down and spied the A-Q of spades. Yummy. I momentarily considered reraising in an attempt to isolate the original raiser, but he very easily could have had any number of hands that had me positively crushed pre-flop. The cons of coming over the top significantly outweighed the pros, so I just called. Both blinds went the way of the DeLorean, and the four of us went to the flop with $215 in the pot.

The flop came 10-9-5… all spades! Yahtzee! I’ve got a freakin’ beer and money sandwich, hold the bread. In late position, no less. To my amazement, the original raiser insta-fired out a max-bet of $150. If he were testing the water, he sure as hell wasn’t doing it with a pinky toe. The other two callers folded without much deliberation and it was now my turn to act. Hmm, what would Brian Boitano do?

First things first, I should probably try to put my opponent on a hand. I’ve been told that’s what a good player would do. Might as well fake it and try to join the ranks. The wheels began to turn… A-A was a definite possibility but, since I was holding the ace of spades, I thought it far more likely that he had K-K with the king of spades. Regardless, if he were holding either of those two pocket pairs, he was in a world of hurt. But then I started thinking about a set: obviously nines or tens, as I didn’t think he’d raise from early position with pocket fives.

A set would put a new twist on the situation. Not only would it justify — sort of — his max-bet, but it would make losing the hand to a full house a legit possibility. Granted, with my A-Q nut flush, I was a huge favorite over any potential holding, including trips, but there were still two cards to come. You know poker. Anything could happen. And if another spade hit the board, well, that could seriously cripple my action. Couple those scenarios with the fact that this game was a modified No Limit, and I liked the idea of coming back over the top even more. So that’s what I did, to the tune of another $150.

I’ll tell you what he did — he raised me, another $150 max-bet. My brain went into situational overload. Was I missing something? I double- checked my hole cards. They hadn’t changed. A rocket and a bitch, the same shape and color as the three cards on the board. And the wide gap between the community cards meant no straight flush was possible at the moment. I had the stone cold mortal lock. Either this guy was a total idiot or he had recently played one on television and was still in character.

Well, what was good for the fish was even better for the fisherman, so I bumped him again, pushing another $150 into the pot. The guy flashed me a dirty look, as if I had banged his fiancé on his wedding day — at the altar, in front of the guests! — but ultimately called. There was now $1,415 in the pot.

he turn was the eight of diamonds. No help to him, I figured. How could it be? Guess I was wrong, because he led out, betting the $150 maximum once again. Of course, I raised the max, leaving me with a whopping $35. Oddly enough, my opponent — with plenty of chips in front of him — opted just to call. The guy was clearly a sandwich short of a picnic.

The river was the most hideous card imaginable—the fucking five of clubs, pairing the board, undoubtedly answering the clueless player’s deepest prayers.

My dim-witted opponent didn’t bother containing his excitement. "Boo-yah!" he yelled and pumped his fist in the air. He looked at my remaining chips, counted out $35 from his stack. "I’ll put you all in."

"Blow me," I said and mucked my nut flush, face up for all to see. He grinned, revealed his pocket tens — both red — for tens full of fives. "I had you," he said triumphantly. "You had me?" Normally I don’t linger over a bad beat — Lord knows I’ve dished out enough of them over the years, especially on my spirited donkey days — but in this case, I just had to know what he was thinking. "Are you paralyzed from the neck up?" "No, I figured you had the flush," he stated matter-of-factly. "But I also knew I’d catch you." His response confirmed my earlier belief that he was, indeed, working the trapeze without a net. But I couldn’t just let it go. "You knew you’d catch me? You read the script or something?" "I’m a river rat. I always suck out." "You’re a goddamn cock-monkey." I couldn’t help myself. "A cock-monkey with your money," he added for effect.

Red’s not my color. But I’m reasonably certain I turned a nasty shade of crimson. Internally fuming, I wanted to get the hell outta there. Go to a bar and drown my angst or go to a gun range and blow off some steam — anything but continue playing Faux No with Donkey Kong. However, the thought of slinking off with my tail between my legs just wasn’t gonna cut it. I wanted revenge. Clean or messy, I didn’t care. I wanted to leave a mark. So I pulled out all I had left in my pocket — $400 — and bought four stacks of red. Game on, mother fucker.

I decide to tighten up, wait for a solid hand, something to hopefully crack that mental midget with. A short time later, I picked up A-K offsuit in the cutoff seat. The five players to act before me had all limped in. No friggin’ way I was gonna let them see the flop on the cheap. So I jacked it up the most I was allowed, making it $160 to go, figuring at worst I’d pick up the limps and blinds.

The button quickly folded. Ditto for the small blind. Sadly, so did my nemesis in the big blind. But as he mucked his hand, his cards were accidentally exposed, revealing K-3 of clubs. Crap! That was exactly the kind of garbage I wanted that peckerwood to call me with. Action was now on the under-the-gun player, the first limper. To my amazement, he didn’t toss in his cards. Whatever he had that was initially worth a paltry $10 had somehow blossomed in value. He put in the required $150 more, the rest of the limpers folded, and we went to the flop heads up.

The dealer spit ‘em out: 2-6-10 rainbow. Not exactly what I was hoping for. Then again, not exactly the worst three cards I could’ve seen. My lone opponent quickly checked, and I made the only play I could, shoving $150 across the betting line.

"Yeah, I figured you were gonna do that," my opponent said with a frown. "I’ve got the best hand," I said icily. "Might as well bet it." I dropped two white chips atop my cards, prepared to slide them to the dealer, right after my opponent mucked. To my amazement, he took a totally different course of action. "I’ll just put you all in," he said and pushed out an additional stack to cover the chips I had left. Spank me with a spiked steel mace! I immediately assumed he had a small or medium pocket pair and that he read me — correctly — for a miss. Still, since I was totally pot-committed with, in all likelihood, six outs, I announced call and turned over Big Slick. "Yup, I figured I was good," he said with a smile and revealed his hand, A-Q off-suit. If I were a comic book character, the bubble over my head would have been empty. Either that or it would have read: What the fuck? Sensing my bewilderment, my MENSA-qualified opponent explained his rational. "I saw that king flip up, which means I’ve got more outs than you." Uh, hello. Buehler? "I don’t need outs, Einstein," I reminded him. "I’m ahead." "For now," he exclaimed, as if he were clairvoyant. Moses ate my meatloaf! The turn was the freakin’ queen of hearts. "See," the guy said casually, as if it was supposed to happen that way. "Now you’ve got a two outer."

I never bothered to stay for the river. I can only assume it wasn’t a king, as nobody called for my return.

After two horrific beats like that, orchestrated by players of obvious mental largess, only one thing could have quenched my thirst for instant chaotic release — pure, unadulterated firepower.

I made a quick trip to my temporary residence, got my .50 BMG Barrett sniper rifle — please don’t bother asking me why I travel with that behemoth — and proceeded to the Ben Avery Shooting Facility where I blew approximately $1,000 worth of ammunition in 30 minutes. Midway through my session at the range, I thought up a new moniker for Southern Arizona. Screw Valley of the Sun. From now on, I would forever refer to this region as the Valley of the Donks.