Zero and the Neighbours Part 1 - Demo version 0.1 (1/4) By Joe Hakim

(1/4), (2/4), (3/4), (4/4).

The preview chapter contained on this page is taken from a novel in development, and as such does not represent the quality of the final product. (Author's note: This book is not being written in a linear fashion. The stories and scenes are being written as and when the author can get his shit together. Each one can be read as a stand-alone piece or as part of the bigger on-going narrative. In the finished version, this chapter will be around the fifth or sixth, although this isn't set in stone.

The author appreciates that this may be a little confusing as future extracts may be set before or after this sequence, but hey, we all have our little idiosyncrasies and shit. The author intends to keep you up to date with reminders and stuff, so just deal with it. Incidentally, if there are any publishers, agents or incredibly wealthy eccentric illiterates out there who would like to send the author some money so he can finish this bastard, it would be gratefully received. You can reach him by carrier pigeon at the usual address. The author would also like to acknowledge the fact that this statement could be inferred as being nothing more than the sad plea of a desperate, skint motherfucker with no other discernible talent other than blagging. Well folks, that's exactly what it is. Enjoy...)

Drawing Dead

Frank was one of the regulars. From the first day I started dealing poker on the tables, Frank was there. To look at, he was your typical moody old man - old in the Father Christmas sense - white hair, a huge white beard and a round gut that hung out of his shirt and over his belt. You could imagine him sat in a grotto in the bottom of Princes Quay with some mewling brat trying to yank his fake/real beard off. Frank would stare at you from behind huge thick glasses and then sweep back the flop of white hair that had fallen down across his forehead and say, 'I'd like to bet the pot,' and before you had the chance to work it out, he would tell you how much was in it.

He would roast the slower dealers, barking at them as they struggled to work out the side pots - who was in for what, what was in front of whom, all that shit that the dealer was supposed to be in charge of.

More often than not he would be wrong, but the trembling lumpy dealer (me, for my first couple of weeks) would do what Frank said anyway because he shouted the loudest. This meant that the rest of the players would have to step in and sort out the resulting chaos. 'There's four of us in this pot, and one of us only has seven out of a thousand raise, so that means it's nine on the side,' Frank would say, suddenly on the spot, trying to emphasise his experience in such matters by banging the table with the tip of his finger.

'There's two people left to call, Frank,' one of the other players would say, slowly, Toby or Jake, one of those lot, ready to strike him down in flames for fucking up a game already made difficult by the inexperience of the dealer. 'They haven't decided what they're gonna do yet Frank, and yer've gone and fucked everything up.' But they tolerated him, in spite of this, because Frank was a familiar face in Cassidy's Casino, and had been since it had opened. He'd played for years, yet had never won anything of any significance.

He'd watched people like Sam Stingray Upford become established players, receiving invites to top tournaments in Europe and America; Sam had even appeared in tournaments on the telly for fucks' sake...

Continued...Next Page (2/4)

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