King Acid

3- BIG BLIND

Skyler and Seiber held each other's gaze, hate incarnate in their eyes. It had been a while since the two had stopped blinking, zeroed in on scrutinizing one another. The fifth card was laid out, and with it, the possibility of baking out and forfeiting the pot, a move which would question the honor and masculinity of both men. Their peripheral vision was enough to view the five community cards: Jack of Spades, three of Hearts, Jack of Diamonds, seven of Spades, and four of Diamonds.

"Call." Skyler pushed forward the bottle of Johnnie Walker and the box of Cohiba cigars on the table.

Seiber only had two objects left in his bankroll, so his options were to hold back or go all in.

"...oddamn it, let's roll." Seiber pushed forward the can of Iranian caviar and the bag of marijuana.

"The die is cast. Ladies first."

Seiber showed his cards first: seven of Clubs and three of Diamonds.

"Two pair."

Skyler toggled the rictus of his face towards cold disappointment. For a moment, Seiber thought he had won.

"What's wrong? Got your ass in a bind already?"

"No, I feel sorry for having trashed you this quick."

He showed his cards: Jack of Hearts and three of Clubs.

"Full house."

"Son of a bitch."

And that was how Skyler seized all the Miscellaneous Stash of Several Recreations Lockhart kept on the plane. On the pretext of maintaining a safe flight each time the aircraft was in the air, Seiber had impounded it all as a precaution – and out of personal interest. In truth, Skyler couldn't say where the grace that coaxed Seiber to gamble such a thing had come from, or where his superhuman ability to play Texas Hold'em came from, either. For indeed, he didn't even know the rules, but he didn't care. The leopard doesn't know why it outruns the gazelle, nor does the spider know how it forges silk. But what he was sure about was that whoever he was, his former self was way more interesting than he had first thought. He opened the old whiskey bottle and poured himself a drink while Seiber looked at what had once been his as mournfully as a king in exile.

"If you get all that into you, you won't reach old age," he muttered.

"If I reach old age, my friend, it's because I didn't do all I had to do."

Skyler pulled out a cigar from the box, removed the lid with a wedge cutter, and put it in his mouth. There was no lighter in the box, but Seiber pulled out his zippo and brought it close to the tip of the cigar in a friendly manner.

"I thought you didn't smoke," Seiber replied.

"You mean this?" Skyler held the cigar by its distinctive white, black, and gold band. "Smoking cigars isn't smoking. It's celebrating."

"You are a whole well of wisdom."

"By the way," said Skyler, recalling the introduction and the glad-handing, "if you didn't know me, how did you know I didn't smoke?"

"'Cause we've been trying to get you out of the United States." Seiber paused and amended himself: "Atticus has been trying to get you out of the United States. But you were always in the spotlight, so we could only keep tabs on you. Until today, that is, when a door opened for a few minutes and we managed to kick our way out of it with you. Although that took a toll on Colt."

"Surrounded by who?"

"I told you, the NSA at least."

Skyler intended to ask why, but then he thought that might imply a lack of basic information he was supposed to know, which would lead Seiber to suspect something. Instead, he brought the cigar to his mouth to justify the sudden opening of his lips. He had already decided he wouldn't tell anyone about the amnesia. He had made up his mind when he saw the jet camouflaged in the boneyard to get him out, and seeing the spread of luxury with a tint of obscenity inside only affirmed his decision. The sheer magnitude at which these people operated made Skyler sure that he was a piece on whatever board dangerous men like to play. Sure enough to know that showing any sign of weakness could pose a clear drawback to his case, or even a premature end to his life. After that realization, he started running different conjectures about his situation in his mind, his favorite being that his brother was some sort of gangster who needed a vote from a sibling to break a tie in some kind of family quarrel. That was not a very plausible assumption, but it was the one that ended up standing last as he gradually became inebriated by the engulfing atmosphere.