Little Happy Clouds

The smokey, dark backroom is filled with the boisterous sounds of hubris and glory's past. Nearly every man at this card table is the greatest poker player that has ever lived, if you let the grizzled voices echoing off the cold concrete walls tell it. For as good as these enormous men are at their trade, professional wrestling, they are even better at owning a card table. All except for one, that is.

It is late, or early, depending on your disposition. The remaining three warriors hunched over the cracking old bar table are still holding out, resolute in their path to victory in this tense game of Texas hold 'em. Jake the Snake holds the big stack at the moment, but his lead is slim and shrinking rapidly. Hacksaw has caught a good run of cards, and seems extra confident in his chances. Dibiase is a cunning and skilled late game player, and has a sizable stack of his own. Snake knows his time for pulling this out is running short.

"Ya'll about to catch a USA sized ass whoopin'," Hacksaw proudly declares. "After I'm done whoopin' you on this card table I'm gonna get to whoopin' on your backside with my two-by-four."

"Like hell you are you redneck bastard," Dibiase responds. "This game is for money, and money is my game.  You are too stupid to beat me, and we know Snake can't roll cards for shit."

Jake meanwhile sits calmly, biding his time. After years of being an also-ran, or worse an outright loser in these games, Snake is ready for his moment. He has slow played his way into the final three, and with his dwindling chip stack he knows its about time to pounce. His strategy is dangerous, but it has been forged in the years of humiliation and pain suffered at the hands of men who beat him first on the mat, and then twice as bad at the table. The current hand is the perfect opportunity, as Dibiase and Hacksaw push their chips into the middle. The pair of aces sitting boldly in the community cards stares back at the three men.

"All in, chumps," Hacksaw declares. "Ya'll 'aint got the aces, no fucking way."

"You got it, asshole," Dibiase confidently fires back as he moves in. He then turns to Snake. "Hurry up and lose this Jake so the big boys can get to playing."

Snake calmly slides his stack into the middle, and flips his two cards over as he stands.

"See you jerks at the Rumble,"  Jake says as he grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair and walks off. On the table remains his hand, a meaningless three of diamonds sits paired with his trump card, the Ace of Snakes.

Jake didn't win that hand, or the Royal Rumble the following weekend. But he won something more important that early morning. His pride.