Interlude: Gods playing poker

Calling it a room is a stretch. It’s a table surrounded by darkness. The guy in glasses is dealing. He’s older, white haired, sort of skinny and has the most infectious smile you’ve ever seen. To his left is a little guy dressed as an Hasidic Jew, curled payot and all, all in black. He seems to be a miserable schmuck, with a permanent scowl that only grows deeper as he looks at his cards. Continuing around is a middle eastern gentleman in traditional garb with a forked beard and eyes black as Greek coffee. He has a broad smile showing far too many sharp teeth, but beyond that the perfect poker face. He sips purple liquid from a large goblet. To his left is a Native American with a feral grin and shaggy wild hair. His eyes are golden and he occasionally bellows out the platonic ideal of a laugh.

The Jew growls, “Oy, Timmy, bobkes you are dealing me again! I should wager with this garbage?”

“I take that to mean you can’t open, man. Jake? You got Jerks or better?”

The Arab just shakes his head but never loses that shark smile. “Gramps?”

The shaggy Indian hasn’t even looked at his cards yet. When he speaks, his voice carries an animalistic hint of danger. “Yep. I win.” He follows this statement with throwing a couple black coins into the center of the table. They seem to let out a scream as they hit the green felt surface. ‘Timmy’ follows suit, with the Jew glowering at his cards, “My gelt you won’t be walking away with you meshuga mamzers.” He tosses his cards face down on the table and pushes his chair back, “I’m going to drain the putz and find some nosh.” He stands up from the table and wanders off into the darkness muttering, “Why am I always the shlimazel at these events.”

“Ok, Josh is out. Jake?” The black eyed Arab tosses his coins into the pot, their screams echoing through the dark room. Timmy cracks his knuckles. “Alright. How many Jake?”

“Jake” puts three cards face down on the table and sips his drink, “Damn, he’s always such a baby. So Gramps, I heard that little chippy of yours has a new toy.” His voice sounds like the epitome of dark loneliness.

“Gramps” lays a single card down and chuckles, “He may be a whiny little bitch, but he always comes up with the best stuff. Especially when he’s drunk.” Timmy discards two as the Indian continues, “So my girl found one of his old gimmicks, and has been using it for a while. Her new boy toy seems to have a little something extra up his sleeve.”

Timmy deals replacement cards and another couple rounds of betting ensue. Finally Jake calls.

Timmy has three kings, Jake three Aces. Gramps lays down four jokers and a Jerk of Guitars and begins pulling the pot into himself.

Timmy laughs lightly, announcing, “Another hand for Coyote. Your deal Iblis.”

The Arab growls, “Fuck you, Leary. I’m not playing with The Trickster’s deck again.”

All of the face cards have your picture on them.

And that’s when