Psychic Poker
No one is supposed to know what I do.
The envelope lies torn in my lap, teetering on my knee as my belly threatens to push it off like a jealous cat. I sit in my caravan, behind my dinner table slash desk, enjoying the Mooloolaba Beach breeze through my window. Australian climate’s fine. Blue sky. Yellow sand. Ugly shirts. It’s not a glorious life, but I make the most of it. I’m that kind of legend.
Caravanning lets me travel where I like and avoid people I don’t like. And mail from people I don’t like. I don’t like mail. I don’t read mail. I barely email. And I almost tossed this one in the bin with the rest. But the addressee was too specific:
To Mr. Tyson Young , The Best Psychic in the World
The letter flutters in one hand as the plane ticket sticks in my other. Questions tick over in my mind, but the most pressing comes out my lips.
“Who mails anything anymore?”
The whole setup is a taunt, of course. And the taunter worked hard to hide themselves from seering. People believe all sorts of rubbish, like psychics can learn things about a person by touching something they’ve owned. This had been computer printed, computer addressed, computer postaged, but not trusted to be opened if it’d been computer delivered. Fortunately, you don’t have to be psychic to be smart. Even without reading, I knew the letter declared one of three things: Mr. Anonymous believes too hard in the power of psychics, wants some sort of scientific proof that I am one, or desperately needs one now.
It’s all bloomin’ three.
Dear Mr. Young ,
Please accept this invitation to participate in the first annual Psychic Poker Tournament.
There is no fee.
You will be provided with ten million Chinese yuan to buy your seat at the table. Play until you win everything or lose. Six seats will be filled by invitation only.
I check the exchange rate on my phone and whistle. Sixty million yuan converted is twelve million bucks.
This is both a challenge and an experiment. There will be no media or fanfare. Your only reward will be all the money you win and the personal satisfaction of defeating five other psychics.
Please find your airline ticket to Honolulu included.
I look forward to learning if the World’s Best Psychic is named Tyson Young.
No signature.
It has all of the hallmarks of a legitimate scam: it promises everything is free, gives me almost no time to think—let alone pack—before my flight, and the personal note strokes my ego and pokes it at the same time. Nice touch.
Hell if I’m going, though.
I like anonymity. Not just because of the folks begging me to tell their future, but because of blokes asking how I’ve married three times. Sometimes, we lot like pretending we can’t see what’s coming and just live it. Hope and pessimism are our yin and yang.
Today I’m a pessimist. If some rich guy thinks he can lure me out of hiding so he can prove psychics exist, he’s gotta be dreamin’.
My phone is about to ring. So, I fold the letter, drain a glass of single-malt Starward, and pin down one with the other on the table. One lonely breakfast sausage resists rewrapping in plastic and becomes such an ugly mess of folds, creases, and tears, I give up and toss it in a bin.
My phone rings.
“Hoi,” I say, just to piss her off. “Who is this?”
“You know damn well who it is,” Cathy snarls, her already tinny voice accentuated by the phone’s tiny speaker.
Our daughter eloped a week ago. Didn’t need to be psychic to know she wanted to blame me for it.
I say, “Hello, Catherine.”
“Don’t you ‘Hello Catherine’ me. How dare you do that to my daughter?”
She doesn’t know I’m psychic. I told her, of course. You do stupid stuff when you’re in love. But she never believed me because—well, you do stupid stuff when you’re in love.
“What did I do this time?”
“You helped her!”
“I did?”
“Of course you did, you wanker. Edie just texted me from Hawaii. Said she won some all-expense-paid trip. She denies it, but I know it was you!”
My neck shivers and spine runs cold. I’m not surprised I didn’t see it. I don’t know everything—especially if it doesn’t involve me—but this sorta does.
Bastard knew I wouldn’t go for his little game, so he invented a reason. He lured in my daughter for leverage. Maybe even kidnapped her. It’s a good ruse, I reckon. And he didn’t even need to be psychic, just smart. Too smart.
I let Cathy scream at me for a few more seconds while I think. Is Edie in danger? No. At least, not if I go. There’s no reason to hurt her in advance. And a kidnapping would draw attention to his little experiment. But if I’m the only one who won’t go, she and her husband could die in an accident as a warning to others refusing a future invitation.
I tell my ex that I’ll handle it and hang up.
It’d be an odd thing, six psychics sitting in one place for a game of poker. What’s the worst that could happen?
I imagine I should go.
Brisbane to Honolulu takes twenty-six hours, two transfers, and half of a fifth.
Blue sky. Yellow beach. Ugly shirts. Not much different from where I left.
A little robot at the airport waves a sign reading T. Young and leads me to a driverless cab. I’m surprised by both, but go along with them. It makes sense. I don’t predict events. I predict people. Computers and drones and acts of God are beyond my ability. Which explains my third wife, but that’s another story.
My beard itches something terrible from sweat. I’d shave, but I’d look beet red and stupid. I scratch my chin and squint, to appear unfriendly and tunnel my vision. Don’t want to inadvertently spy trouble, especially round tourists. Their penchant for drama could sweep me away.
The car drops me off at a resort. It’s tall and wide and glittering white. I pass under some Loulu palms to reach the front desk. They wave a bit. I don’t wave back.
The receptionist, a young gentleman I don’t dare curse in front of, takes my name and my phone number. As he hands me a key, his smile ripples. Oh no. I brace. Time and space fold over between us. Ever so briefly, he looks like a cubist portrait or something surreal, wearing bits of his past and future and true heart’s desire on his sleeve. Luckily, he’s a kind bloke and I get nothing untoward. His shift ends in an hour and he’s got a hot date with his boyfriend named Keith. Tame stuff, really. What a relief.
The room is empty, so I go in. It’s one simple bedroom. No suite. Mr. Anonymous has suddenly got cheap. I laugh and check the fridge. Oddly, no booze.
I plop on the bed and decide I’m not going to go. I made it this far. I could fake sleeping in. Or order up cocktails and get so hammered, I can’t. Maybe I’ll wander the streets and get lost. Let my phone die of charge to be sure. Can’t hurt my kiddo if I’m just stupid lazy. I hope.
They’re all pretty good plans—but his is better. The door won’t unlock.
I call down, but the staff won’t pick up. I get cycled through menu after menu to select from, but can’t seem to find the button that will get me out of the room. I go to the balcony to climb down. Twelve stories of vertigo says I don’t.
I dial Cathy, but hang up. I dial Edie, but hang up. I know they won’t answer, each for their own reasons. I dial triple zero. Three naughts appear on my phone before I realize I’m not home. I dial nine, nine, nine, but get nothing. What’s the emergency number in this hell? I curse at the top of my lungs. I don’t know it. I should know it. But I’ve never needed emergency before. I’ve never let myself get into trouble.
Charles Darwin is laughing.
I flop on the bed and tell him off.
The sun sets and the telly drones on about different kinds of fish. It skips from a hideous lamprey to a cute local boy. I practice its name ’cause I’m bored.
“Hoomoo … hoomoo … nookoo … nookoo … ahpoo … aha.”
I’m surprised at how easy it is, but know I’ll forget.
I get hungry and gnaw on a pouch of Nobby’s Beer Nuts from my flight. My lips parch from the salt, so I suck down a five-dollar water.
The phone rings and I spit.
It’s gotta be Anonymous.
I have to answer it.
“Hoi,” I say, just to piss him off. “Who is this?”
But the voice is recorded. “Your seat is ready in the King’s Ballroom.”
There’s no inflection or character to discern anything. It’s another robot to keep me in the dark. Then it hits me. It’s an experiment. I’m not a genius. I just remembered the letter. But to keep it scientifically valid, the researcher keeps distant.
My fear slightly wanes. I don’t want to go. I refuse to be prodded and pricked. Whoever wins this will be a target for sure. And if they’re not dissected, they’d be pressed into service for someone for something. I shudder at both.
The door schlicks unlocked. I feel like a lion whose cage door just opened to fake grassland. I want to run through it, free. But I know what’s beyond is not right. There could be hunters or doctors with shears ready to snip, or worse … tourists.
I’ve decided not to play. Not well, at least. Certainly not to win. No psychic abilities in this bloke, they’ll say. Must have been a mistake. Our research was wrong. Let his girl go if we got her. I’ll lose quickly and scram. Grab some tucker and a beer and my daughter and fly back to—
The hallway’s not empty.
I see five other souls wandering round, all confused. Well, except one man whose nose looks like it got tattooed by a bus. He looks determined.
None of us say hi. We don’t have to. It’s like we know each other by scents cast off the trembling of each other’s plastic reality.
Imani’s the oldest. A grandmother from the southern US. She’s black as the night, but carries a smile that would blind you. She doesn’t show it. Not today.
Gregg with two g’s is a young guy. His blue eyes and black tats have seen time, and I mean hard. Murdered someone to stop something worse. We understand the temptation and nod.
Omar’s a sheik, but not really. He plays up the part for free food. The resort terrifies him, afraid his lies might just find him. I chuckle. He glowers, embarrassed. He knows that I know.
Ingvar’s a fisherman. He doesn’t belong here. He knows where to drop nets and when. His long silver hair is caked with salt, as if someone dragged him through surf.
Nate Nguyen is the gambler. His broken pug nose wrinkles in fear. He thinks he alone has been set up by our captor, until he sees me. I look less like a pigeon than some.
Then there’s me, Tyson Young, a bludger by trade who somehow invests in enough stocks to stay solvent.
We shuffle to the ballroom. It’s towering and wide, with gold carpet and crystals vomiting from the ceiling and sconces. One table sits lonely in the center, with six chairs and a robot dealer. To our relief, there’s a buffet fit for a king. We all dive in, almost smiling. The only chitchat between us consists of pleased grunts at the spread. No beer, unfortunately. Or wine. Not even coffee. Just water and juice.
This guy’s a cruel one.
The doors lock.
The robot calls us to quarter. It looks like a person of sorts—copper skin, red vest, and a hat. Probably expensive, but no money was spent on its looks.
We go to the black-felt table, dragging our feet and our fare.
There’s a mark at each place with our name. I sit across from the robot. Gregg holds Imani’s chair as she sits to my left. I wish I’d thought of that. Then he sits to my right. Omar and Ingvar take their time. Omar is twitching, too paranoid. Ingvar’s plate is too full. Nate sits down with resolve.
The robot speaks like an American.
“Welcome to the first international Psychic Poker game,” it drones. “I will explain how to play and help you adhere to the rules. The game is seven-card no-limit Texas Hold’em. The best five-card hand wins the round. You must buy into each hand, paying a minimum of 10,000 yuan. You each get two cards to use privately. Afterward, I will deal three community cards faceup for all to use. Then the first round of betting begins. …”
None of us care. Half already know the rules. Half want to punch the thing.
It drones on and doles out chips in towering stacks that sparkle from LEDs in their sides. Each face is a screen displaying a value. The smallest I read is ¥10,000.
Gregg whistles. Nate grabs a chip worth one hundred grand and bites it for good luck. The rest of us stare at him. He’s welcome to win, we all think. But he sneers, just as unhappy as us.
The robot orders us to ante in, but none of us move. It thinks we’re confused, so it plucks chips from us all and starts dealing.
Two cards fall at our fingertips. We don’t turn them over. I pull the world gently, stretching enough to see my four and a red king. A little more tug and I know Imani has twin nines. Gregg has a ten and a smiling jack. Ingvar has a two and a five, and I’m jealous. Omar and Nate share a pair of red aces between them. But Nate has a seven while Omar a queen.
The robot flops cards in the center, a mismatched set of three, six, and nine.
Gregg chuckles.
We wait.
And wait.
Each of us touches an edge of clingy time-space, not daring to move. We just look.
Ten sympathetic eyes slide to Imani as she purses her lips at her three nines. Poor woman. I’m no expert at poker, but I know simple odds. She will win this, if it’s just about cards. But she’ll fold before that happens.
That leaves advantage to Omar with his ace high and queen. He swallows.
Nate’s got a bigger problem. He’s automatically bet, so if everyone folds, he will win by default. He won’t show any psychic abilities—good for him—but that’s not sustainable for a whole game. Worse, he can’t control what we do.
Ingvar is first to bet, but isn’t sure of the game. If he bets anything, the game goes longer for him. Unless he can lose quite a bit. But he could win from everyone folding. But we won’t. He doesn’t know how to bluff. We all know his hand sucks. Letting him win is too obvious. At least his hand is so bad he can fold without anyone suspecting this time. So, he will. But next hand he will squirm like Nate.
Gregg won’t risk a new prison, no matter the money. He’d lose more from winning than most. He could call next—matching the bet—and still have a good chance of losing. But this is not normal. Unless an ace turns up next, both Omar and Nate will fold, claiming they can’t read a crook, and leaving him in the lead. So, Gregg’ll play to a type and fold his cards face up. His bluff will be blustering, obtuse, to look unpredictable. Just another criminal who doesn’t follow the rules.
Then it’s my turn. The king is the problem. If the aces jump ship, I’m lost. But the four gives me reason to hope. I’ll fold. I’ll snack. I’ll feel good about my dumb luck and hope every hand is as bad.
Imani will fold, as we all know. No glamour or glory. No pouting or pontificating. She’ll just end it.
Omar is sweating. He must fold—but as a grifter with vices, the money’s a tease. He could win the whole thing if we let him. But how long before his creditors find out? Twelve mil is a lot to a sane man. But a spender like Omar won’t last. And then there’s the chance this is all just a trap. No. He will fold and regret it.
So, Nate wins that hand. The next cards will be dealt and Ingvar’s the target. We see how it works and all fold once again. Nate loses a bit. Ingvar makes up for his loss from before. The next hand is Gregg’s—who loses the same way. Then me and Imani and Omar, in turn.
And we’re back where we started, with the same stack as before, playing poker in a room with a robot and our lives on the line.
Hours pass. Not a single card flipped. No chip changing hands. We all need to piss.
Gregg stretches and paces a bit, like he’s still in prison. “Don’t let me see your cards,” he jokes.
We laugh but don’t feel better for it. We’re too taut.
We think about playing for real. Not using our powers, just luck. Maybe jaw a little in between to act casual. But nothing now is friendly. Nate is too good and Ingvar’s too bad. Gregg is too emotional. Imani would have fun until she starts to lose. The conflict would color her smile worse than tea. Omar’s so desperate, he’d accuse me of cheating. Or almost. He’d realize the only way to cheat would be to be psychic, and he won’t admit that is real.
No. A friendly game is out of the question.
But they’re stiff competition. Even in chess, the greats like Kasparov and Carlsen only had to deal with one opponent at a time. They might imagine ten or twenty moves ahead but only consider a few alternate paths into the future. We’re six psychics warping to see six possible futures for each of the others. Six to the power of six—I use my calculator and whistle—that’s 46,656 sights … if we stay on task. Add another six and we’d be knockin’ on someone’s door.
Nate’s ego thinks he should win. He plots a new plan. Poker is about probability. Twenty-five percent of the deck is any suit—minus the suits revealed so far. Each card is 1⁄52 of the whole and doubling the decks doesn’t change that. But any card you need is one out of the total remaining cards unknown to you, which is less than fifty-two. But that’s only if you care about the suit. Otherwise your chance of hitting the correct face or pip of any suit is 1⁄13 of the remaining cards, plus or minus—blah, blah, blah. None of that matters. Nate sucks at math. He never needed it before.
But maybe, he thinks, just maybe he’s picked up enough from his opponents through osmosis to give him the advantage over the rest. Maybe he could throw us a curve to distract our predictions and he could use our confusion to win the whole thing.
The money would be incredible. Better yet, the boost to his reputation would be … devastating. He’d never be allowed in another game, ever. Unless he kept silent. But bragging is better than money. It’s the whole point of playing. He’d prefer death to that loss.
He sneers at Ingvar.
Ingvar doesn’t care. He wants to be here less than any of us. He’s not even got his land legs back. Win or lose, he just wants to go home. Besides, with a five and a two, why bother planning at all? He’ll only lose money, so he’ll call and be done with it.
He grunts toward Gregg.
Gregg feels forced. His life is a disaster and money would solve most of his problems. And Ingvar’s hand is so terrible, playing on is almost a sure win. The question isn’t whether to play or fold. It’s to call or raise.
They tug and look through me.
The two have me in straights. I’ve got one of the worst hands. Four and king are so far apart to be useless. Everybody knows that. Imani plays after me. With the best hand by far, she’s sure to question folding now. I probably won’t win, but how much could I lose in one hand? If Gregg calls, I’d have to raise. I could raise by a bit and whittle myself over an hour. Or I could raise large, using the king as my excuse. If Gregg raises small instead, then I’d have the same options. If he raised large, I could call and ride it out or raise again. Raising again, small or large, would seriously anger Imani, but that’s not my problem.
Imani glowers, displeased.
Gambling is a sin. The Devil uses it to elevate his disciples and ruin the faithful. So, she absolutely won’t play. Unless … maybe Jesus sent her to counter the Devil. Three cards of the same number should be real good. The rest of us seem afraid of it. And with God’s will on her side, she doesn’t need to rely on the Devil’s luck. So, she’ll match the bet. Or raise it. Depending on what I do. But only a little. And only if I raise a little. If I raise a lot, she won’t raise at all. Well, maybe a little. Or a lot. In any case, she’d be committing no sin because she’s not coveting, simply letting God work His will through her. Her reward then would be added to our punishment for our hubris. Or is it her own hubris she should fear? Lord, lead me not into temptation. What if this is a test? Should she resist like old Job or show faith in His will and teach these sinners a lesson?
She’s so cross-eyed, she can’t bring herself to look at poor Omar.
Omar is obsessed with himself. What would he buy if he wins? Who would he pay off—both in debts and bribes? Imani is his first hurdle to financial freedom, no matter how brief. He has the best hand after hers. If he got lucky, he could crush her on the first hand and never let her get back up. But he usually leaves nothing to chance, preferring to lie, cheat, and steal. He could play her own ego, instead. Let her raise round after round, thinking him a fool, and then go all-in at the end, drowning her in chips and confidence. He could prick her with doubt. She doesn’t know the order of hands. She doesn’t know odds.
But what if she’s unshakable? What if her belief in her god is so set, she can’t fail? And what if Nate follows suit? Or even me? The wrong card at the wrong time can end it all.
Then how would he escape? What ID should he use? Who would he dupe out of funds? For how long? Which air or cruise line? Which city would have him?
Every prediction he makes in this room wrinkles his future outside.
Nate glitches.
We all felt it coming. His soul creases and clings to itself. Realities overlap, a conundrum of possibilities entangle and threaten to tear. He backs off to smooth it.
It’s too late.
We see it all now.
Nate doesn’t care what happens to Omar, except how it affects what he does. Nate could afford a new wife. Or win back an old one. Which could lead to kids. Unless he lost now. Then he’d have to survive alone. Or find a new wife. Or win back an old one. But he’d likely fail both. Unless he’d learn something. Maybe change for the better. But that was as likely as winning this game against five psychics, a set of nines, and dumb luck. His fingers fade slightly, glowing chips falling through them.
Ingvar stamps his feet down. He must not give in. Just lose and get out. But what if the others don’t let him. Our collective push on reality is straining it. Probabilities gather, warp, and stretch. He might even win. His soles sink into the carpet.
Gregg won’t even hear it. He’s desperate for good luck after all he’s been through, like a mess of bad turns owes dividends he’s earned. We see all his realities. Grooms at his weddings and children they adopt. He shoots up alone in abandoned warehouses, no friend in the world but his fix. He accepts an award. He’s thrown back in prison. He’s elected to office. He lies, ancient, addicted, and dying faceup in a sun-burnt desert lot, leaving no trace he existed. Tattoos slide from his skin to the arms of his chair.
What the hell?
I toss over a plate of cheese, in case it’s drugged—but I know it’s not. I can feel the warp tug my skin like wet rubber. Ain’t got a plan. All bets are off, but they’re not.
The game’s worse than cling-wrap pulled by a toddler who’s all thumbs. It’s a whole schoolyard of kiddos dragging clear plastic like kites, tangling them as they run this way and that, stretching them beyond sanity to the brink.
Nate grabs all the blinking chips left and dissolves into nothing.
Omar’s flesh glistens. His lips spread, slippery and taut, showing barbs and a rasp ’stead of teeth. His neck swells and splits into gills. He squirts as he screams. Then coils in on himself and sucks his own gut ’til he’s gone.
The past is best forgotten. The present is twisting and torn. The future folds into a funnel, dragging us through it. We can’t stop predicting. That too-long-to-name fish will vanish. The Hawaiian volcano will erupt in reverse. Edie and hubbo and Cathy and the rest won’t escape.
The table pinches and whines then shrinks with a pop. The robot implodes. Time-space collapses and drags us in, through, and down. Our bodies stretch out like palms flailing. Resort, city, jungle, sky, moon, planets, and galaxies lash around us in a collide-o-scope of fractal shards lunging at us. Math screams an unbearable sound as it shatters.
My ears burst. My heart bleats. Lungs strain. I hold tight to what I think is left of reality, but fate pulls me in, spinning, and wraps me. I think I might suffocate but it’s twisted like twine into laser-sharp webbing. My blood sprays into horrific mandalas.
I scream to Imani for help, but she’s white as a ghost, her teeth hollow, words empty. Christ ain’t saving her now, as we fall toward whatever hell’s at the end.
Ingvar turns into stone, banging and bruising us poor flotsam in the temporal surf.
Gregg weaves plots like a madman, hope driving him headlong into the collapse. I hope he breaks through. But he snaps in twelve pieces and melts.
Imani shrieks as her soul is consumed by clear flames.
I’m all that is left in the vortex.
Or would be, if I went.
So, I imagine I shouldn’t go.
I shake loose from my future and blink several times.
Blue sky. Check. Yellow sand. Check. Ugly shirts. Check, check, and check.
The caravan’s fridge is just within reach, and I snag a cold tinnie. I crack it and sip it and sit back, staring at that damned ticket.
I’ll call the others to be sure they don’t go.
Edie and her hubbo’s at risk if I skip alone. But when all of us do, Mr. Anonymous will be ruined. Not just ’cause he failed to motivate us. He’ll wonder, Why? What did we foresee? Why won’t we come? And that lack of knowing will put him in a tailspin, ’stead of us.
No one’ll get hurt. No hands will be dealt. No pots will be lost or won. The world will remain a mess, but intact. And that’s all right by me.
I’m that kind of legend.
No one is supposed to know what I do.