Dead Man's Hand

The game is Texas Hold'em. The stakes are not chips.

Nine regulars sit around a battered oval table in the back room of the filthiest bar in town. You are the raven in the worn duster. Across the felt: an ex-prizefighter ram who bets like he punches, a crocodile dock boss who buys pots with his stack, an owl accountant who has already counted your outs, and a hyena who laughs whether she's holding aces or air.

Play real nine-max Hold'em — blinds, position, side pots, showdowns, all of it. Read the table, pick your spots, and pay attention to who's tilting, because every one of these animals plays differently and they remember what you did to them last hand.

Bust out and the house takes you out back

Lose your last chip and two hands drag you to the back room. One revolver, six chambers, one of them loaded. Survive and the house stakes you a short stack and shoves you back into your seat. Nobody gets a second favor.

Blinds climb. Seats empty. The room gets quieter every time somebody doesn't come back. Be the last one standing.