Breedy Wins! A THR Poker Story
Breedy leaned back in his creaky leather chair, a glass of bourbon sweating on the desk, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” blaring through his speakers. His wife, (Name cannot be divulged doe to state law), banged on the office door, yelling about the noise, but Breedy just grinned, his eyes glued to the glowing poker table on his screen. The neighbors could complain all they wanted—tonight, he was in the zone, tearing through a no-limit hold’em tournament like a mustang through open plains.
He’d been grinding online poker for years, funding his whiskey habit and occasional trips to the racetrack with his winnings. Breedy wasn’t a pro, but he had a knack for reading players, even through a screen. Tonight’s final table was down to two: Breedy and some cocky hotshot named Asstrout, whose avatar was a smirking trout in sunglasses. Asstrout had been trash-talking in the chat all night, calling Breedy “old man” and “whiskey breath.” Breedy just sipped his bourbon and let his chips do the talking.
The blinds were sky-high, and Breedy’s stack was slightly behind. Asstrout raised big from the button, and Breedy peeked at his cards: pocket eights. Solid, but dangerous. He called, and the flop came 8-3-7, rainbow. Breedy’s heart kicked like a stallion—he’d flopped a set. Asstrout bet heavy, probably holding an overpair or a bluff. Breedy smooth-called, baiting the trap.
The turn was a meaningless deuce. Asstrout shoved all-in, typing “gg old man” in the chat. Breedy’s grin widened. He called instantly, flipping over his eights. Asstrout’s ace-king had nothing but air. The river was a blank, and the virtual chips slid Breedy’s way. The tournament was his—$2,000 and bragging rights.
(She who shall not be named) burst in, shouting about the music, but Breedy just raised his glass. “Won the damn thing, darlin’!” he roared, cranking the volume on “Free Bird.” Asstrout’s avatar vanished from the table, probably sulking. Breedy leaned toward the screen, typed “Tighten up, fish,” and hit send. Outside, a neighbor’s dog howled, and Breedy laughed, already dreaming of the next hand, the next race, the next bottle.
This is a fictional story created by Wade