I was running late. It was well after midnight, meaning that I had less than five hours before I had to pack it in. My alter ego was none too cagey with the pasteboards, if you know what I mean. I grabbed a beer and a smoke and pulled up a chair. “Gil,” Steve said distractedly, chewing at his pipe and rearranging his cards. I nodded back. Romy was our host tonight, and hence the banker, too. He’d already folded, so I requested fifty bucks in chips. “Here you are, Hu-man,” he replied. I made sure to count the stacks, as the big ape wasn’t exactly known for his mathematical skills. I sat back and waited for the hand to end before kicking in my ante on the next round.
Tabanga, I noted, had the biggest pot. No surprise there, what with his poker face. Amazingly, none of the others ever seemed to pick up on his tell: His exterior heart beat faster when he had a really good hand. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to clue them in. Nor did I try to jinx things by constantly taking advantage of the situation. Instead, I saved that particular ace for when I found myself too far in the hole. I mean, cripes, if anyone should know what can happen when you push things too far, it’s me, right?
At first I thought that the chair next to Tabanga was empty. That was until I noticed the bubbles from Romy’s moronic gizmo bouncing off what seemed to be empty air. The scissors sitting there confirmed my guess, although the suddenly floating hand of cards sort of cinched it. Frankly, the guy creeped me out a bit. This despite that fact that, amongst our little group, Phantom had the least to answer for. Hell, he hadn’t even killed anybody except by accident. (Of course, I wasn’t exactly in full possession of my faculties during my little rampages, either. But, yeah, everybody here’s got an excuse.)
Besides, I’m the reason we don’t use the infrared lamp that allows us to see him. One time the light got jostled and turned on me. Romy ended up having to sit on me until the fangs and scales receded. I was more than a little embarrassed, needless to say. Anyway, ‘Banga would occasionally release this big cloud of smoke–he smoked these awful, gigantic stogies he got three for a buck, because he loved playing up how he was fireproof –and we’d see the outline of Phantom’s helmet and shoulders in it. What with the self-contained atmosphere provided by his headgear, Phantom was the only one willing to endure the noxious fumes from ‘Banga’s cigars at such close range.
Steve was to Phantom’s right, nursing a smallish pile of chips. Next over was Ro-Man, who, per usual, looked to be having a pretty good night of it. His secret was that his frenetic arm movements never coordinated with what he had in his hand. No matter how much you tried to compensate for that, it always threw you. He also had his customary side of the table to himself. Between his wild gesticulating and the viewscreen that his boss occasionally appeared on, he needed a lot of room. Every once in a while someone would complain about the (snort!) Great One’s kibitzing, but they’d usually get shushed up pretty quick. Once somebody got the guy good and cheesed off and zap, we were up to our butts in earthquakes and dinosaurs. Besides, he and Ro-Man usually ended up compromising whatever hand the latter was holding at the moment.
Unfortunately, we had a sixth player tonight, that jerk Eros. On the one hand, he was lousy at cards. On the other, he was an insufferable ass. We had never gotten along. He was always trying to get me kicked out of the group because I played while in my human form. Meanwhile, I always argued that he wasn’t a monster at all, alien or no. C’mon, look at the pudgy creep. If he’s not human he’s close enough.
Actually, he was kind of ours by default. He wasn’t ‘weird’ alien enough to hang out with that big Venusian and those other guys. (Ro-Man was, but enjoyed our company better, I guess. You could tell this burned Eros’ tail, the thought of which always cheered me up.) The Benevolent Aliens like that Planet X fellow and Cosmic Man and Mr. Smith certainly weren’t going to let him in. Besides, they kept thinking if they kept their noses clean Klaatu would drop by and grace them with his presence. Fat chance! Yeah, and Gort and Robby are going to have Chani and Tobor and the Twonky over for canasta, too.
Steve took the hand with a pair of Jacks and raked in the pot. As usual when he won, his eyes glazed over silver. Man, that always looks like it hurts something fierce. Of course, turning into a reptile-man whenever a ray of sunlight hits you is no walk in the park, either. I’d always suspected that Steve threw as many hands as he could manage to without making Gor suspicious. I’m not complaining, mind you; I’ve won more than a few pots over the years that I probably didn’t deserve to. And hey, if I can help out a pal and reap a couple of bucks at the same time, who’s the victim?
“Ah,” the now-dominant Gor chortled in that portentous style he has. “The savage joys of participating in your primitive games of chance, and the barbarous exultation of having dared all and won!” Considering that there looked to be about twenty dollars in the pot, I’d hardly think that he’d bet ‘all.’ No surprise there, though, as Gor was something of a braggart. Laughing inordinately over his rather minor triumph, he shotgunned a brewski and choked down a ham sandwich in that disgusting fashion of his. For someone who held himself so far above us ‘lowly’ humans, he sure was a slob. Still, putting up with Gor’s occasional rant and slovenly habits was the price for having Steve around. Me and Steve got along pretty well, undoubtedly due to our somewhat similar predicaments.
I fed the kitty and collected my cards. It was Phantom’s turn to deal, and I have to admit, I always got a kick out of watching those cards jump around seemingly in empty air. Phantom, like Tabanga, tended to always deal the same game. In his case, basic Five Card Stud. When you can’t talk I guess it’s easier to stay consistent. As I rearranged my cards, which were basically mud, I thought about what a disparate group we were. ‘Banga and Phantom were mute, Steve and I could bend an ear or leave it, while Ro-Man, Eros and Gor would rant up a storm once they got going.
Oddly, although Ro-Man was definitely our goofiest looking member, and pretty apparently wildly inept, I always felt he had the best cause for boasting. Heck, in his universe he destroyed pretty much all life on Earth. He was also the closet thing this group got to indestructible, our occasional card partner Butcher Benton not withstanding. Some would (and did) argue that the whole ‘dream’ thing disqualified him, but, hey, he was sitting across from me as big as life, and that was good enough for me.
As I prepared to meet Eros’ two buck raise, the ground shook, jarring the table. (Eros’ distemper over having his neatly stacked chips fall over afforded me a petty jolt of pleasure.) Loud noises assaulted our ears from out in the Canyon. Apparently Manning’s crowd was having a good time. Ugh, how that guy could sit there playing cards with what was basically his own self with half his puss blown off was beyond me. Of course, he’s supposed to be some sort of manic-depressive, so maybe it makes him feel better that he’s still got the right side of his face intact. Actually, when you’re one of three giant bald guys, and you’re not the one with half a face or the one possessing just one eye stuck in the center of your noggin, then I guess you’re going to feel pretty good about yourself.
Not that the guy didn’t have other problems. One time Beast and Cyclops, neither of whom are known for their superhuman intellects, if you know what I mean, were found munching on the group’s giant deck of cards. So for the next month or so they had to play oil barrel checkers while that firm in Gotham City, the one that makes all those gigantic typewriters and stuff, whipped up another deck. Manning also supposedly has women problems, although not the kind you’d think. Word has it that Nancy Archer was always trying to get him in the mood for a little romance. However, Manning’s supposed to have a bum ticker and so always begs off. Some guys can’t win for losing.
Anyway, Eros uses the opportunity to trot out his tired line about the ‘shocking’ lesson Archer and the Beast taught us about playing with high tension wires. Then he laughs, as if he hasn’t unlimbered that old saw about a hundred times before. One time Eros got so drunk that he made this joke when Butcher was present. Benton almost tore the goof’s head off before we pulled him off of him.
Still, I’m as bad, I guess. I use his mention of Archer to again suggest that we allow a girl to join our little band, if only to brighten up the scenery a little. That space babe poured into those silvery body-hugging tights would fill the bill nicely, I opined. (Especially if you managed to tip your chair back when she wasn’t looking; she has a nice big rent in the, uh, lower back of her uniform.) On the other hand, I heard she was strictly lookee-no-touchee. Maybe we’d be better off with this girl I met named Andrea, at least if we could get her away from her creepy ‘guardian,’ ‘Professor’ Lombardi. Man, was that chick built. Besides, this Andrea and me turn out to have a lot in common, and I was hoping to capitalize on that.
As usual, though, my suggestion got shot down. Eros, of course, was too high and mighty to play cards with a girl. “On my planet,” he sniffed, as he had many a time before, “women are for advancing the race, not for playing frivolous games of skill.” Man, that guy’s a jackass. Besides, he brought his boss to a game once. Between the two of them I got the distinct impression that the men on their planet don’t have much use for girls, if you get my drift. And you should have seen what the guy was wearing! Here he’s in charge of this intergalactic spaceship and he’s sporting this silk blouse with a battle axe on it! Jeez, and I thought Eros looked fruity.
However, Steve was against letting a girl in, too. He didn’t want Gor popping to the surface as he does whenever a pretty face was around. We also knew that if I pursued the idea the Great One would appear to expound on how he can’t trust Romy when the weaker sex’s around. I never really understood why aliens and robots and whatever, especially those who look nothing like us humans, always found our women so attractive, but there you go.
I lost that hand, and with three sevens to boot. Unfortunately, ‘Banga had a full boat, nines over sixes. Cursing our bad luck and his good luck, we anted up again. I collected the cards and dealt out another round of five card stud. We all made rather modest bets, having been burned pretty good on that last hand. I asked how many cards everyone wanted. Romy called for two, and sure enough, the so-called Great One appeared on the screen, waving that violin bow of his around like nobody’s business.
“Error! Error, Earth Ro-Man! You want three cards,” he blustered.
“But Great One, I need only two cards. I have proved it!”
“You abandon the plan?”
“No, Great One. I have rather formulated an estimate of my own.”
“Error! You play like a Hu-man, not like a Ro-man! Why haven’t you discarded your queen?”
“I have made an estimate on our strategic reserve. One queen should be retained for reference, in case of unforeseen contingencies.”
In other words, business as usual. By the time they were done yakking we were all sure that Romy had a lousy hand and bet accordingly. (He just can’t bring himself to get rid of queens, but hey, we’ve all got our quirks.) Meanwhile, I should have known that Phantom had something hot when he used the scissors to tap for only one card. I thought he was bluffing, though, and he beat my two pair with three fives. I could see that this wasn’t going to be my night.
Eventually, though, my luck picked up. Well, not my luck, really. It’s just that Eros started getting plowed, as usual, and boasting about his great cards. I mean, cripes, we’re playing Seven Card Stud, and I’m sitting there with three queens up, and everybody else has dropped out, right? And this is with eights wild, so they all know there’s a good chance I’m sitting on at least four ladies. Well, Eros is smugly shaking his head at me and saying, “Those cards won’t help you. As soon as I draw into this straight, you will be at my mercy.”
All I can say is that if Plan 10 involves Eros winning the Earth in a poker game, it’s destined for the same level of success as its forebears. Heck, we can see three of his five cards. If he’s going to hit a straight out of the deuce, seven and king he’s showing, well, he’ll need a lot more luck than he’s exhibited in the past. Even assuming that I haven’t drawn an eight, which I have, which means that his straight will mean squat even if he somehow filled it. This probably explains why we let the guy play cards with us.
So the night went. I basically broke even, a couple of bucks ahead or behind, but not enough to matter either way. The Phantom did about he same, but I think he comes for the companionship more than anything else, anyway. Romy and ‘Banga were ahead, per usual. Steve managed to lose fairly consistently while laying out as little money as possible, and who could blame him? Eros lost his goofy shirt, as if anyone would want it. Cripes, it’s like he shows up wearing his pajamas or something. And what’s with that belt, anyway? Does he make cookies with it?
I knew it was time to head out when Eros got so sloshed that he started explaining about Solaranite again. There he was, assembling a trail of chips and explaining how the pot was the sun and his cards were the Earth, blah blah. Frankly, it’s obvious that the guy’s got Invader Envy. I mean, c’mon, Romy is atom-bomb proof and kills every human on the planet but about three, and Gor can explode airliners long-distance just by squinting at them. (Of course, Romy’s also presumably ‘Gor proof,’ too. Given Gor’s ego, I can’t imagine he likes that very much. I’ve noticed he’s much more likely to make direct appearances on nights when Romy fails to make it to the game.)
In contrast, Eros invites gun bearing humans onto his spacecraft (and he’s not even bulletproof!). Then he explains that when he walks across the room and tosses a switch they’ll be under his power; and then he’s surprised when they order him to stand still. Sure, Romy blew it too, but heck, developing a fatal passion for a human woman is an occupational hazard with our crowd. Cripes, Eros still might have gotten away if their ‘superior’ race had invented the fire extinguisher or installed a sprinkler system in their saucers. Or how about assigning their ships co-pilots, for Pete’s sake. Instead, Eros is laying there digesting a knuckle sandwich while the only other person on board stares at some flaming equipment and is shrieking “What’ll I do, Eros?! What’ll I do?!” Maybe “advancing the race” should include some mandatory fire safety courses.
Actually, I’m starting to feel sorry for the poor schlub, which means that I’m soused enough myself that I should be heading off. I cash in my chips and head out the cave, tossing a wave back at the others. Outside I stop to suck in some fresh air and almost get knocked over by a gang of those little green guys. They’re really scampering, but then, they have an even bigger problem with sunlight than I do. Next week the game’s at my place, so I’ve got to remember to pick up a deli platter and the beer or I’ll never hear the end of it. I sure wish we had a good all-night grocery around here.
