The Republican Party lowered his visor, took a drag from a stained Russian cigarette. How did I find myself in this leaky concrete basement under some pretzel factory in the West Loop, he asked himself. There were no time for questions. Above, he heard the L rattle and turn on rickety tracks, heading downtown. A single light hung above the table, leaving the edges of the room cloaked in darkness. He looked at his cards, then looked across the table. The Democratic Party was still, focused, his arms folded across his chest; his cards rested on the table face-down. The Democratic Party looked into the eyes of the Republican Party and saw fear, confusion. That last hand he played was pathetic, the DP thought to himself. Was it a bluff? Does the RP really have something this time?

Finally, the DP spoke, "If I were you, and I'm not, but if I were, I'd do myself a favor and call it a day. Cash in your chips. Regroup. Get your feet back on the ground. I'm tired of taking your money"

The RP looked at his hands again. Why is he talking like that? Why doesn't he shut the fuck up? You've got to be in it to win it, RP. And I do have the Ace of Spades.

The RP took a final drag from his Kalatov fag and smothered its ember in the ashtray. He removed his visor and ran his fingers through his hair. I'm a crazy muthafucka, he thought to himself. I'm a crazy kamikazee muthafucka. This shit ain't over. He laid his cards on the table and reached for his small, but still substantial pile of chips.

"I'm all in."


Oh, you've got a black guy? Yeah, well, I've got a black guy, too. And check this - my black guy is Republican.

Mathis @ 9:38 AM
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