Two players sit at the outer rim of a horseshoe table. The dealer stands in the slot, his face a blot of stony nothingness.
One player, dressed all in blue, is an aging patriarch with thinning hair. He occasionally stutters and often speaks in looping sentences that end in places he never intended.
The other player, in red, is an aging patriarch with thinning yet still extravagant hair. His speech erupts as if he is spitting anvils and ends where even friends never expected.
The two men – we’ll call them Mr. Blue and Mr. Red – have emerged as finalists in the quadrennial national poker match whose ultimate winner will move into the grandest white house in the land. Red lives there now.
The dealer opens a new card deck.
“Finalists, are you ready?” he says.
“Yes,” Blue says. “Let’s settle this thing.”
“Wait!”
It’s Red, face pink, teeth threatening.
The dealer’s eyebrows lift.
“The cards are a disaster!” Red says. “Get rid of the cards and we’ll have a very peaceful game. I’ll win. I’ll keep the big house, frankly.”
