So there I am, sitting head to head with the steadiest hand north of Reykjavik. I'm a little nervous becuase this guy's known world 'round. And I'm a lot nervous because I've got the small stack in a head to head game. Not good. But I can see his tells; the long-john wearing freak. Every time he bluffs he pulls at his stupid white beard. The only thing is, every time I get a good hand he backs out.

I'll have you know, I'm seasoned. I play poker like I'm sleeping off a hangover; so I find it hard to believe that this fat red bitch, for all his jolly grandeur, can possibly be reading me. I mean, we're talking about a fucking slob who probably works a day a year; and is, as we speak, drunker than shit. Fucking slurping at the tit of welfare.

I just can't figure it out. How is this sloppily drunk a-hole figuring out my bluffs? I mean, we're playing in his damn barn for chrissakes! His wife has been asleep for three hours, and the only witnesses to this embarassing asswhooping are a few bales of hay and a bunch of fucking rei-

Reindeer.

Son. Of. A. Bitch. And that red-nosed henchman of his, Rudy, is standing right behind me. These bastards were working the whole damn night! I'm pissed now, but every good player knows you never let 'em know you've got their tell.

I decide to play the next hand blind; because I'll be goddamned if they're gonna hem me up again with this crappy road game they've got going. Old Man Christmas doubles the ante after I check. I can see in his eyes that Rudolph ain't giving him shit. Which is good. I lay my face down on the table and peek at my cards. Flop aces.

I call, knowing Rudy ain't seeing shit of my hand, but also knowing he's the kind of lackey that fears his boss enough to act like he's in the know. Father Christmas calls me all in. I pause, make a fake look at the cards, fiddle with some chips. And that's when I set the hook: I beg him to throw me a house line to cover his bet, and I'll call him all in; the Great White North motherfuck!

He glances at his elf, then looks at me. 'Cept I know he ain't looking at me, because he's looking behind me to see what kinda nod Rudy's gonna give him about my hand. Like I said, that antler-festooned freak didn't see shit about my cards, but he sure doesn't want to fire up the bossman. Santa allows the house line and I pull him in. The community drops.

9.

Ace.

Jack.

I give a forlorn look and Santa grins behind his beard menacingly. My betting betrays the pocket pair, and my current look fools that fat Norweigan bastard into thinking I've lost it all to possible pair of Jacks. What he doesn't know won't - oh wait, yeah. He's all in. Maybe I will give him a sting; except I've nothing else to bet.

Mmm...maybe I do.

"So, you fat red bastard. I'm throwing in that prized red-nosed reindeer of yours."
"HA! But it's mine, you fool!"
"Yeah, but you two've been playing a road game on me all night. And probably been doing the same to others for countless years. He's mine to bet, or I spill the beans and every bankroller from here to Key West is going to be looking for your fat sleigh-riding ass."
Shock. Timidty. Silence. Rudy finally saunters from behind me for the first time all night. Santa's been called out to the front yard and he's got no cover.
"Fine," he says. "Lay it down. Your flop pair was worthless from the start."
Rudy snorts and sits in the hay, as the dealer drops the last two cards.

Jack. My heart throbs. I'm in it now if that sorry nothern fuck has one.

Ace. My heart stops. I know I've won but I continue to stare at the Jack in disbelief.

"HO, HO!" howls the nordic fucker. "You couldn't cover my three of a kind; you little punk!" He's pactically hopping, the big bastard. I just keep staring. I'm actually relishing his foolish posture. Then he leans into my face.
"Well, how does it feel; ye spunky rapscallion?" and laughs.
Personally, I hate it when he talks like that. Like being older than god's shit gives somebody the right to speak like some kind of fucking Hollywood pirate.

"I tell ya, it doesn't make me feel to bad," I say as I flip over my pocket rockets; "You fucking artic prick. Now I'm taking this measly pot home, and you're prized reindeer. Merry Fucking Christmas, eh? I hope that crapbox of yours has foglights, because I think it might be time for a good old fashioned reindeer roast. Oh, and might I get some lessons on driving this red-nosed freak back to my place? I'd hate to damage the goods before I had time to tender them up."

Yeah, and that's the story of the time I sat with the best and walked away. Hey, that bitch had it comin' to him a long time. Cocky fucker.