Friday Night at Brazee’s
WE MEET AT Johnny Brazee’s house every Friday for poker: me, Mac (I think his real name is MacTavish, but everyone calls him Mac), Willie the Shyster (who’s a legitimate lawyer, but it’s what we call him), and Alec Copperberg (who changed his name from Silverberg after he took a beating in the futures market).
We’d been meeting and playing for about half a dozen years, the five of us. We used to change venues every week, until Johnny bought a house with a paneled den a couple of years ago, and now we all show up there every Friday at eight in the p.m. and don’t break up until after midnight.
Except that on the night in question the clock hits eight, or it would if it was that kind of clock, and we realize that Alec isn’t there. He hadn’t called anyone, and no one could ever remember him being late before, so we figured he’d blown a tire or got stuck in traffic, and we decided what the hell, the world wouldn’t come to an end if we waited fifteen or twenty minutes for him to show up, especially after Willie suggested that we could play the average hand in five minutes, and we could fine him an ante for every hand he made us miss.
Well, eight-fifteen rolls around, and so does eight-thirty, and Mac says that we could either play poker with just four of us, or he could turn on Johnny’s TV and we could all watch re-runs of Gilligan’s Island, and by an instant and unanimous voice vote—well, scream vote, actually—we decide to start dealing the cards.
The game was going pretty well, which is to say I was thirty bucks ahead, when I noticed an odor coming from the kitchen. I pulled out my handkerchief, realized it was the one with the image of Bettie Page on it, put it away, and grabbed a Kleenex instead.
I noticed that Mac and Willie were also holding handkerchiefs to their noses, and suddenly we all turned to Johnny Brazee.
“I think you have a dead skunk in your kitchen,” said Mac.
“Or at least a lovelorn one,” added Willie. “Though it’s hard to imagine that lady skunks find that attractive.”
“I’ve got nothing in my kitchen except my stove and my fridge and . . .” Johnny stopped to think. “And my sink.”
“I hate to correct my honorable host,” said the Shyster in his best courtroom manner, “but inanimate objects do not smell like that.”
“Unless they were animate prior to losing a battle with a Mack truck ten hours ago,” added Mac.
Johnny sniffed the air a couple of times and frowned. “Who would imagine that a piece of Florida Flossie’s cheesecake could smell that bad?”
“Not me,” I said.
“And it certainly can’t walk!” added Willie, staring at the kitchen door.
We all turned and looked, and there was something kind of large, and sort of green, and oozing slime over a few dozen tentacles, each of which could choke a horse or perhaps strangle him, and it didn’t smell any better as it left the kitchen and began kind of sliding toward us.
“I am Cthulhu!” it intoned.
“I’m Mac, and he’s Willie, and”—Mac pointed to me—“he’s Milton, and he’s”—he tripled his volume—“our host Johnny Brazee.”
“Where is he?” demanded Cthulhu.
“Right there,” we all said, pointing to Johnny.
“No, you fools!” Suddenly his voice became even more ominous. “I have come for Alec Copperberg, he who possessed the knowledge and the foolishness to invoke the powers of Yog-Sothoth to reverse his losses in the commodities market.”
“You just missed him,” said Willie in his best courtroom manner. “He was heading north when last we saw him. You can still catch up with him if you hurry. I don’t think he has more than a five-minute start on you.”
“Silence, fool!” growled Cthulhu. “Lie to me once more and I will defenestrate you. I guarantee you will not enjoy it.”
“Defenestrate?” repeated Willie, pulling out his tablet. “Can you spell that, please?”
Cthulhu stared at him coldly. “Do I look like I majored in spelling?”
“I think maybe we’ll both be a lot happier if I don’t tell you what you look like,” said Willie uneasily.
“All right,” said Cthulhu. “Where is Alec Copperberg?”
“We don’t know,” said Johnny.
“Do not lie to me, mortal!” growled Cthulhu. “There are five chairs at the table, and I only see four of you.”
“I know,” said Johnny.
“What does this mean?” demanded Cthulhu.
“It means that your eyes, all eight or ten of them, are working,” said Johnny. “There are only four of us here. Alec has obviously been delayed.”
“Let me consider . . .” said Cthulhu, lowering what passed for its massive head in thought. Finally it looked up. “If I destroy the house and all in it, he will take one look and go the other way. Therefore I will stay here and wait for him.” He glared at each of us in turn. “Unless there are any objections?”
“I left all my objections in my other suit,” said Mac.
“I only object when my clients pay me to,” added Willie.
It turned to me. “And you—the ugly one?”
“I object to being the ugly one,” I said. “On the other hand, I got no objection at all with you waiting for Alec to show up.”
“Then it is settled,” said Cthulhu.
“What the hell,” said Johnny. “As long as you’re here, you might as well grab a chair and sit in on a few hands until Alec gets here.”
The creature seemed to consider the suggestion for a moment, then shrugged, which caused some noxious little critters and foul-smelling slime to fly off its body.
“Why not?” it said at last, oozing most of itself onto the empty chair.
“You got money?” said Mac. “It costs money to play.”
“You want dollars, pounds, francs, lira, marks, shillings, yen, or rubles?” asked Cthulhu.
“You carry all that with you?” I asked, surprised.
“I started out this morning just with lira,” answered the monster. It sighed heavily. “It’s been a long day, even for me.”
“Two dollars to ante,” said Mac.
“Two dollars to Auntie Who, and for what?” asked Cthulhu, looking around.
“Two dollars to play each hand,” answered Mac.
Cthulhu reached into what looked like a body cavity along its left side and withdrew a pair of slime-covered dollar bills.
“Okay,” continued Mac, trying not to inhale through his nose. “I think we’ll start with draw.”
“Pen or pencil?” asked Cthulhu.
“Don’t understand me so fast,” replied Mac. “The name of the game is draw poker.” He spent about three minutes laying out the rules, then waited for the rest of us to ante up and dealt out five hands.
“Jacks or better to open,” said Johnny.
“Are aces better than jacks?” asked Cthulhu, looking at its cards.
“I’m out,” said Mac.
“Me too,” said Johnny.
“That makes three of us,” said Willie.
I looked at my hand again: a pair of sixes, a pair of nines, and a jack.
“I’ll open for ten bucks,” I said.
“Now you match it, raise it, or drop out,” explained Mac.
“I don’t have any bucks,” replied Cthulhu. “What country are they the currency of?”
“It’s another name for dollars,” said Mac.
“Okay,” said Cthulhu, tossing in a ten-spot. “Now what?”
“Now you keep as many cards as you want, hand the rest to the dealer face-down, and he’ll give you replacement cards.”
Cthulhu stared at its hand, and turned in three cards. Johnny immediately gave it three more.
“And you?” said Johnny, turning to me.
“One card,” I said, handing in my jack.
He dealt me a single card. I picked it up with my two pair, fanned the hand slowly until I could peek at the new card—and it was a nine.
“Up to you,” said Mac, looking at me.
“I’ll bid twenty,” I said.
Cthulhu matched my double-sawbuck with one of its own.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” I said.
It showed us three aces, plus a queen and a seven.
“Gotcha beat,” I said, laying out my full house and grabbing the pot.
“Ready for another?” asked Mac.
“Definitely,” responded Cthulhu. “This is fascinating!”
It lost again, but then it won two in a row, and finally we were able to tell where its mouth was, because its smile displayed four rows of ugly green teeth.
“I like this game!” enthused Cthulhu. “The only problem is that it’s over so fast.”
“You want something slower, something that’ll lengthen the tension?” asked Mac.
“Tension is what makes the world go round,” answered Cthulhu. “Well, tension and bloodlust and torture and pillage and—”
“Let me explain seven-card stud to you,” said Mac, who like the rest of us didn’t really want to hear Cthulhu’s want list of things that made its world go round.
The explanation took him a couple of minutes, and then I dealt, and we all looked at our two down cards, and bet on the first face card, and then each of the next three. I dealt the final down card, looked at my hand, and Willie and Cthulhu had me beat on the table, so I folded.
Willie stared at his hand for a long moment, and then shoved a ten and a five into the pot.
Cthulhu seemed to be concentrating on its own hand when Willie yelled “Cut that out!”
“Cut what out?” asked Johnny, puzzled.
“He’s peeking into my hand!” snarled Willie.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “He’s sitting across the goddamned table from you.”
Willie made a quick grabbing motion. “What about this?” he demanded.
We all looked at the mildly spherical object he held in his hand.
“What is it?” asked Johnny.
“Just follow the muscle or nerve or whatever the hell it is,” growled Willie. “You’ll figure it out.”
There was something attached to the object, and it circled the table until it stopped at Cthulhu’s chair and slid into an opening in its head.
“It’s his eye!” exclaimed Mac.
Willie glared at the creature. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s immoral to cheat?”
“Certainly not,” answered Cthulhu. “Otherwise I would have cheated from the start.”
“If you want to play with us, you won’t cheat again.”
“Never?” asked Cthulhu.
“Never,” said Willie. “I want your promise on that.”
Cthulhu raised an appendage. “Honor bright and greenie to the sky.” It shoved a twenty into the pot. “Raise you five.”
“I’ll see you,” said Willie, pushing another five into the pot. “What have you got?”
“Three Nyarlathoteps.”
“Those are kings,” said Mac.
“They are far greater than kings,” replied Cthulhu.
“In poker, Nyarlathoteps are kings,” said Willie.
Now that it had been explained in terms Cthulhu understood, it nodded its head in agreement. “And what have you got?”
“A queen-high straight,” answered Willie.
“That’s an Azathoth-high straight,” Cthulhu corrected him.
“Either way, it beats three of a kind,” said Willie pugnaciously.
I nodded my agreement. “Those are the rules,” I told Cthulhu.
“Fair enough,” said Cthulhu. “Though ‘fair’ is not usually in my lexicon.” It paused, kind of frowning, or at least folding the skin about four or five of its eyes. “Is anyone getting thirsty?”
“We haven’t even been playing for half an hour yet,” said Johnny.
“So sue me,” said Cthulhu. “I’m an Elder God. We get thirsty a little sooner than most.”
“So what’ll it be?” asked Johnny, getting to his feet and heading off to the kitchen. “Beer, or beer?”
Everyone chuckled except Cthulhu. “Beer, please,” it said. Then it looked around the table. “Isn’t anyone joining me?”
“I’ll have some beer,” agreed Mac.
“What about you?” it asked me.
“I’ve had enough beer already,” I answered.
“Then perhaps you’d like my favorite drink,” said Cthulhu, reaching into some other dimension and withdrawing an ornate silver goblet filled with some kind of liquid with a layer of green slime on top of it. It handed it to me, and I took a sip.
“Well?” asked Cthulhu.
“Kind of . . . I dunno,” I said. “Strong. And maybe a bit salty. And . . . I don’t know . . . something else. What do you call this stuff?”
“Shoggoth blood, with just a pinch of the Midnight Worm of Ikaalinen.” It lowered its voice confidentially. “It’s the Midnight Worm that does it.”
It lifted its beer bottle, poured the entire contents into an orifice that was roughly in the center of its face, then emitted a satisfied purr.
“May I have another, please?”
“Sure thing,” said Johnny, popping into the kitchen and coming back with another bottle.
“You like?” asked Mac, indicating the beer bottle after Cthulhu had taken about five seconds to drain it.
“Wonderful stuff!” exclaimed Cthulhu. “This has been a truly delightful evening. A great new game, the excitement of gambling, the noxious taste of an alcoholic beverage. By Azathoth’s blaspheming whiskers, I even almost like you guys. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in 14,303 years, give or take a month.”
“And what did you enjoy so much back then?” asked Mac before we could shut him up.
“It would take eighty-three hours and sixteen minutes to relate it to you, since that is how long Nuada of the Silver Hand survived.” Cthulhu paused, smiling at the pleasant memory. “Of course, now he is known as Nuada of the Crooked Toe, since that is all that is left of him.” It shook its head. “But in truth, this shapes up to be an even more enjoyable experience, though of lesser duration.”
Just then the front door opened, and in walked Alec Copperberg.
“Hi, guys,” he said. “Sorry I’m late, but someone trashed my car and my apartment, and—”
“Alec Copperberg,”intoned Cthulhu, getting to its feet—well, to most of them, anyway, “prepare to meet your fate!”
“Oh, shit!” muttered Alec. “I’m outta here.” He turned and raced out the door. “South America, here I come!”
“It could take me a few hours to catch him,” said Cthulhu, rising and walking to the door. “But keep my chair warm. I’ll be back as soon as I send what little remains of him to the forbidden city of R’lyeh.”
“Well, you do what you have to do,” said Johnny. “But some of us have to get up for work in the morning, so the game breaks up around midnight and they all go home for another week.”
“You won’t stay?” said Cthulhu, with a tremor in its voice. “Even if I ask you politely?”
“We can’t,” said Willie. “I’ve got to be in court at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“And my office opens at nine,” I added.
“And I was enjoying myself for the first time in more than ten millennia,” said Cthulhu bitterly.
“There’s an alternative,” said Willie, who was always the quickest on his mental feet.
“Oh?” said Cthulhu hopefully.
“I think it’s safe to say that Alec’s never coming back,” continued Willie. “That means we’ve got a permanently empty place at the table. Let some other nameless fiend from the pits of hell—how’d you put it—defenestrate him and pull up a chair.”
“You mean it?” said Cthulhu, its voice as innocent and hopeful as a child’s.
“Why would I lie to an Elder God?” said Willie. “Just please bring a strong deodorant next time, and go easy on the slime. Johnny’s gonna have to have the carpet cleaned.”
“Bring me another beer!” bellowed Cthulhu happily as it sat back down at the table. “Now whose deal was it?”
And that is how our Friday night poker club got its newest member.