Jesse Jones was a son of a bitch. No really, his mom was mean. Jesse himself was a cool guy. He was a solid poker player, always happy to pick up the dinner tab or cover another player’s drink tip if he didn’t have change. But Mrs. Jones was the meanest bitch I’ve ever met. I’m not the type to disparage women and I only use the term bitch when absolutely called for. Only once in my life have I ever blurted out the c-word and that was when a car fell on my leg while changing a tire. But if any woman in history deserved to be called a bitch, it was this bitch Mrs. Jones. She bitched about the weather, traffic, inept dealers and internet poker players. She kept a brick in her purse, bloodstained from some poor sap who tried to mug her. The bitch was merciless. She was so mean, she ran into a ghost at an old bed and breakfast and the ghost hightailed it out of there. When Jesse was born, she told the nurse to drop him on his head because it seemed malformed. When the nurse refused, Mrs. Jones grabbed her by the hair and tried to pry the newborn out of her arms. It took six nurses, four doctors and three shots of Diazepam to get her to let go. Before she passed out, she spit in all their faces, machine gun style, spit-spit-spit-spit.
Sitting at a poker table in between Mrs. Jones and Jesse was not on my bucket list, but all the other tables were full and there were a few fish worthy of being gutted. Jesse was a cool customer at the poker table, nothing fazed him. His mom on the other hand relentlessly chastised players into calling or folding, verbally assaulted them if they won a pot from her and god forbid they sucked out on her. The bitch would lose it.
The table was $2-4 no limit hold ‘em and Mrs. Jones came in for a raise to $12 from the button. I was in the little blind and looked down at rags. Knowing I wanted no part in winning a pot from her with rags, I folded. Jesse called from the big blind.
“Better watch it, boy,” Mrs. Jones seethed. “Don’t come beggin’ me for money after I gut your narrow ass.”
Jesse ignored her and watched the flop—Ace, Ace, 10. Jesse checked.
“Boy, I know you ain’t holdin’ that Ace. I ain’t got it either you piece of shit. I should have aborted your misshapen head. I bet 30.”
A player across the table whispered, “Is she really his mom?”
Jesse nodded. “You should hear how she talks to people not related to her.”
The turn came another Ace.
“Now I know you ain’t got that Ace shitbird,” she said. “Nobody with a head that ugly gonna hit quads on his dear old mum.”
Jesse checked and Mrs. Jones bet $50.
“I raise,” Jesse said and slid out an additional $200.
“You alien-headed motherfucker. You take this pot from me and I’m gonna bust you up good.”
The river came down a Queen.
“All in,” Jesse said.
“You dim-witted little fucker. Bet you think you just sucked out on me. You’re sitting on Queen-10 thinking I’m holding Jacks. But you’re wrong fuckstick. I call. I got Pocket Kings. Show me that Queen-10 you stupid piece of shit.”
Jesse smiled and held one card on the air. “I got the Ace you vicious cun…”
Before he could finish the one-syllable word, the blurry red streak of Mrs. Jones’ purse brick whizzed by my face and landed flush across the bridge of Jesse’s nose. Blood shot everywhere. I tried to stop her follow-up onslaught but she elbowed me in the jaw, kicked my chair out from underneath me and jumped on top of Jesse. She kneed him in the groin, pulled off her shoe and thrust the heel into Jesse’s eye.