As told by our Highlander:
The Nemesis returned to the table for his second appearance of the year under slightly strange conditions. Three reliable regulars were out sick, including both Padre and The Dude, which gave the night an off-kilter feel before the first card was even dealt. Still, six showed, the game ran, and the system held.
Despite a deceptively close finish, this was a rebuy-heavy night. Ray Gun, Speed, and Mitch all went back to the well at least once. Rico and the Nemesis avoided rebuys only by the grace of a couple of thin nickels (you have no right).
Ray Gun ended up the “big” winner at three dollars up, which in this economy qualifies as dominance. If that number doesn’t set a record, it certainly threatens one. Early on, Ray Gun and Doc split pots like it was a cooperative exercise, but both promptly returned those earnings to the table, restoring the natural order. Galactus giveth, Galactus taketh away, Galactus still wins.
After a one-dollar finish up, the Nemesis remains quietly perfect on the year: two appearances, two positive results. Time spent coaching in the minor leagues hasn’t dulled the swing.
Mitch finished even, as did Rico and Doc, after Mitch picked up two dollars in the derelict. In the end, the poker gods showed a preference for balance.
There had to be a loser, because math is cruel and consistent. This time it was Speed, four down, and the margin deserves context. The final result should have been even tighter than it was, but the night ended with an unexplainable bluff by Speed on the last hand—two pair pushed hard into a situation where a full house was not just possible, but likely, and where an obvious straight was already lurking in plain sight. Without that hand, the trophy was probably headed Speed’s way at roughly two down, and Ray Gun likely ties the Nemesis at one up. Instead, the ledger snapped shut as-is. The trophy was not in play, which is merciful because the only reason Speed would deserve the trophy was the questionable play on the final hand.
Outside the cards, conditions were ideal. Cigars were solid. Space heaters fought the cold to a draw. A respectable bourbon selection remained standing at the end, and the music landed in that rare sweet spot—80s and 90s deep enough to avoid pandering, familiar enough to avoid complaints.
In a moment of investigative duty, the Nemesis tracked rounds and timestamps for the first five cycles, in an effort to observe how the real professionals keep things moving. At six-handed, the pace averaged twenty minutes per round, or five minutes per game. Eleven different games were played before a repeat was called. Twenty-two distinct games appeared in the first thirty calls. Eights and fives made a strong case for being the cards of the night.
It was an odd table without Padre and The Dude—two of the most dependable regulars—but the game never drifted. The Nemesis missed the rest of the crew, but the return still felt like the major leagues: familiar pressure, narrow margins, and just enough nonsense to keep everyone honest.
Here the report ends.
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