In 2003, God chose an accountant from Tennessee, who led a simple, honest existence. He helped this man soar to victory in the World Series of Poker (WSOP), winning a life-changing purse of $2,500,000 in the process.
He groaned wearily at the countless comments remarking, ‘What an astonishing coincidence it is that a man whose surname is Moneymaker should win such a vast amount of cash!’ He agreed that would be an astonishing coincidence, but it was all part of His grand design. He’d really pared down the histrionics since the Burning Bush days, but He’d clearly gone too far the other way with such subversive tactics. All He yearned to achieve was to convey the message that, with a little faith, great rewards would be reaped.
Not to be disheartened, He tried again a few years later. This time, He appointed a rather sweet but misunderstood chap with a name evoking images of untold riches. In 2006, Jamie Gold defied the odds to pick up the record-breaking first prize of $12,000,000. God was positive that the humans couldn’t fail to comprehend the directive this time. Not only did they miss the point, but the plan ended up spectacularly backfiring as man’s greed and bickering over filthy lucre reared its ugly head. More irritating even than this was how insufferably smug it made Barry, as he considered the fallout from Gold’s win to be a personal victory.
Still The Lord persevered, for He was merciful and patient even when mankind proved to be blatant dumbasses. He continued to finesse the online game. But my, these humans could be brutal; their anonymous personas seemingly giving licence to unleash the worst in them. He was amazed at how swiftly they scaled the heights of offensiveness with negligible encouragement to merit such venom. Sometimes, it took all of His might to restrain Himself not to inflict one of the really bad plagues on them right then and there. But, just as He wavered, He’d recall the pledge He’d made on the inception of internet poker: that His godly status was to be left behind at the log-in stage. It was the only way this experiment could work. It was also imperative that He could never be accused of abusing His powers at the poker table, nor of having access to a super-user account. To ensure the authenticity of the implementation of these assurances, He’d appointed the impartial Elevated Grand Committee (EGC) to govern all facets of the online game.
If additional proof were needed of God’s ‘normal’ status while playing online, you only had to look at His recent hand history. Time after time, He’d been rivered in the most unceremonious of ways. Subsequently, it was true that He’d developed some anger issues from internet poker, which caused bouts of sulking unbecoming of The Master of the Universe, but . . . He was working on it. He too, like His children, was a constant work in progress. He looked at the screen with abhorrence. Oh no, it was happening again!
Another blood-curdling cry of anger was heard from behind the door. Isidore was grateful that he no longer had any blood to curdle nor bowels to evacuate, for this sound was one of pure fury.
Despite his departure from earth in the year 636, Isidore of Seville was still on a probationary period in the celestial zone. It took an awfully long time to get things approved around here – which, in the grand scheme of eternity, wasn’t really that long at all. A mere 962 years had passed before Pope Clement VIII canonised Isidore in 1598. This promotion had been contentious at the time, as rumour had it Clement decreed this canonisation after pulling a series of all-nighters, making the clarity of his decision-making abilities somewhat dubious. Allegedly, he was the first Pope to have imbibed coffee, and he got a little carried away by the feeling it brought forth within. He could barely sign the paperwork, his hand was shaking so much. On such caffeine-buzzing occasions, he had a tendency to agree to a whole lot of random stuff and his charges tended to sneak in the occasional document to sign that Clement would ordinarily discard. Controversy aside, though, Isidore had more than proven his merit over the centuries.
He’d continued to work studiously, steering mankind forward in all matters technological. To reward him for these pioneering inroads, Pope John Paul II decreed Isidore Patron Saint of the Internet in 1997. As ever, remaining consistent in the subject of elongated trial periods, the Vatican had yet to deem him worthy enough to make it official.
Back to the matter at hand; Isidore was here today – and he dry-retched (no innards) every time he thought about it – upon orders from the EGC. After many hours of discussion, they’d voted unanimously that The Almighty could no longer get away with exploiting His position online. Isidore had been given the daunting task of reprimanding God. No one of his status had ever done this before, because, well, it’s God, isn’t it? You don’t tell Him off, it doesn’t work like that.
The EGC had selected Isidore for the job because he was one of God’s own personal recruits and, therefore, it was hoped He would look upon him favourably. Since undertaking the role, Isidore had been fairly prolific in his achievements. He was rather proud of Twitter, although it wasn’t deemed a universal success and many sniped that it was ‘like the Tower of Babel all over again’.
Isidore followed this up with Tumblr, Instagram and Snapchat, but God’s disdain for all of these was apparent. His real bugbear was humankind’s propensity for taking selfies and other such displays of egotism. Although He was flattered as man was created in His image, He would seethe, ‘I did not design lips solely for the purposes of pouting.’
Another cacophonous din jolted Isidore back to his objective. This was swiftly followed by a familiar loud and distinctive crashing noise. ‘Caray!’ gasped Isidore, then, ‘Ay,’ after a painful current ran through his essence. ‘Lo siento,’ he said to no one in particular, knowing his apology would be heard. After all this time, he still resorted to cuss words in his native tongue during times of crisis. Hence the interminable limbo. With that thought, he finally understood why his title as Patron Saint of the Internet had yet to be made official by the current Pope. And in that moment of comprehension and humility, he edged a little bit closer and a warm glow exuded from his being. Isidore inhaled and braced himself once more. This time, he would knock, and no fear of what was occurring on the other side of the imposing heavenly door would deter him.
‘Oh, do stop loitering outside like a petrified schoolchild and come in!’ boomed God. Isidore should have anticipated that He knew of his whereabouts at all times, even more so when at such close proximity.
‘Ah, Isidore, how lovely to see you. Pray tell, what is the purpose of this visit?’ He knew, He had to. Isidore was about to answer when God interjected.
‘Tell me, when was your last good idea, Isidore?’
‘I think Isipedia was a big success, my Lord. It was a continuation of my work on earth, picking up where the Etymologiae left off—’
‘Except it’s not called that though, is it?’
‘No,’ he said dejectedly, ‘you thought Wikipedia was a catchier name, as you were listening to a lot of hip hop and hanging out with Biggie and Tupac at the time.’
Isidore recognised God’s tactics and that He was playing for time. For a supreme deity, He could be extremely transparent. Slowly and nervously, Isidore continued.
‘My Lord, I’ve come to discuss a delicate matter with you. It’s about your online chat etiquette . . .’
‘I see . . . do go on, Isidore of Seville.’ He hated it when God used his full name, it meant He was really mad at him. Plus He was using His extra-scary Old Testament voice for added intimidation.
‘Well, you see, Heavenly Father, I’m afraid you’ve exceeded the warnings and, erm, it’s been decided by the EGC, following some hugely inappropriate comments you made to fellow participants during the online tournament last night, that you’re . . . to . . . receive . . . achatban—’
‘What’s “achatban”? Is it a frequent player points reward?’ He asked excitedly. ‘Did I win a prize, Isi?’ God could be such a fucker sometimes. He was toying with him and revelling in it with the most ungodly demeanour.
‘No, Great One,’ replied Isidore, adding, ‘The Greatest There Is and Ever Shall Be’
for good measure and protocol. ‘You have been penalised with a – chat – ban . . . for three months,’ Isidore said meekly, confident with that declaration that he would never inherit the earth.
And so it came to pass that God was miffed.
Silence. Big, sinister, ominous silence. And then it also came to pass that Isidore was appreciative that he no longer had a urinary tract, nor wore pants, for they would undoubtedly be soaked through at this point. Fortunately, though, God’s a big chatter and was rubbish at sustaining the silent treatment for very long.
‘You, a mere messenger, are informing me, The Creator of everyone and everything, of what I can and cannot do?’
‘O Kind, Calm and Benevolent Divine One, I’m so very sorry, but this has been decreed in accordance with Your Holiness’s commandments and your wish to be treated like everyone else at the poker table.’ God looked sheepish, which bolstered Isidore’s confidence. ‘My Lord, some of the things you wrote in the chat box contained words of such blasphemy, banished on this very plane by your pure and pious self.’
‘Enough!’ God shouted. Seeing the look of fear in Isidore’s eyes, God took pity on him. He attempted to calm down, using some techniques learned from His mindfulness coach. Taking a deep breath, He began to recite the names of the WSOP champions: ‘Johnny Moss,’ – he omitted Amarillo Slim because he had committed heinous crimes for which he had yet to repent – ‘Puggy Pearson, Sailor Roberts, Doyle Brunson, Bobby Baldwin, Hal Fowler, Stu Ungar – Oh, Stu . . .’ How he loved Stuart Erroll Ungar. Such a charismatic, generous, lost soul. He’d put a little bit of His own poker prowess into Stu, but it didn’t help him in the end. He ached over His precious children and felt their pain. Isidore jolted Him out of these thoughts.
‘My Lord, there’s something else.’
He glowered at Isidore. Even though He really liked messing with him, because He was The Almighty, and it was one of the benefits of the gig, He remembered that this wasn’t the internet and therefore not how one actually behaves IRL.
‘Yes, my child,’ He said, the compassion returning to His voice. He did sneak in a hint of sarcasm, though, because God can be playful too.
Crap, He was going to kill him (again) with kindness. Isidore didn’t know which God he preferred.
‘Well, dear Merciful One,’ he said, as he looked over at the debris smouldering on the floor, ‘I’m afraid that I was also sent to inform you by the Upper Heavens IT Department that if you smashed up any more laptops, you wouldn’t be getting a replacement.’
God stared incredulously at Isidore, who was close to tears of both trepidation and genuine empathy for his Creator’s agony. Poker was His game, He loved it, and He didn’t want to become like the unfortunate people in the USA who’d been banned from playing in their home territories. And not just because some of them were terrible human beings.
‘But Isidore,’ The Lord beseeched, ‘you wouldn’t believe what just happened! Some muppet fish’ (God was allowed to call people this since He’d created muppets and fish and loved them both) ‘decided to call my raise, holding jack-deuce off-suit . . .’
Isidore switched off. He couldn’t bear to listen to any more of God’s tedious bad beat stories. ‘O Divine One, you said yourself with such wisdom that wanton destruction does not solve problems.’ Isidore shut up at this point for he knew he was now pushing his luck.
‘You are right, my child,’ God said resignedly. ‘I appreciate how courageous you were for being the one to confront me with this devastating news.’ God looked towards Isidore and with a coquettish tilt of His head, He continued, ‘Starting from now. No more smashing of laptops.’ Isidore could swear God fluttered his eyelashes at him as He said this. What was going on? Was God pulling an Eve and trying to flirt His way out of this?
‘I’m afraid that,’ he said, pointing at the smoking mess of shattered computer, ‘was your last chance, my Lord. You’ve maxed out your insurance claims.’
Creator stared hard at createe, and createe quaked in his turn.
‘You know, Isidore, when my people screw up repeatedly, I give them chance after chance. Do I not deserve the same clemency?’
God had a point. He really was very gifted at negotiations and it was apparent that He was going to be intransigent on this point.
‘Rules may be rules, Isidore of Seville, but take a look at the small print.’
Isidore looked bemused as a parchment scroll miraculously (AKA normal for these parts) and conveniently appeared before him, unfurling until it reached the clause in question: ‘In the event that His Holiness, The Lord, who created you and all your loved ones, selflessly dedicating Himself to your happiness, becomes a little too mortal while He metaphorically walks among His creatures . . .’ Isidore was about to comment on how overly wordy and clumsily written this document was, until God’s ire shook the room. ‘Continue!’
Sensing that really scary Wrathful Bible God could surface at any moment, he tried his hardest to keep the sneer from his voice and the stammering to a minimum. ‘. . . and the self-important and somewhat up-themselves Committee have the temerity to deem Him in need of penurious treatment, then God, your Father and, lest you forget, The Creator, has the right to challenge the bearer of this beastly news to a game of heads up, which said bearer is compelled to accept. And it shall be decreed that the victor of this momentous game shall be allowed to keep His internet and computer privileges.’
Although Isidore was the first to commend God on His many fine qualities, he was rather insulted by the cockiness of the author of this excruciating, maundering caveat. He was a little hurt that God would presume that He would have an easy victory over him, just because He was the All Knowing One – or, as He liked to remind everyone, ‘the original Big Slick’. Wasn’t that the whole point of poker and its raison d’être? That anyone, from any walk of life, had an equal chance of winning.
‘Gosh, your wisdom exceeds expectation, my Lord. As ever, You are full of surprises.’
Oh dear, he had abandoned any attempt at hiding the contempt in his voice. God rubbed His hands together with delight, confident of success. Isidore wasn’t suggesting that God had been neglecting him of late, for one could never doubt He was always there when you needed Him. It was more a case of the ever-expanding population and pre-apocalyptic problems on earth taking up increasing amounts of His time. That, and the fact He was currently giddy with insufferable childish glee at how smart He was for introducing risible contract clauses for every possible circumstance. His thoughts were so preoccupied with strategising His heads up game, He’d forgotten about Isidore’s lonely period and how he’d resolved it.
After a long period of isolation and introspection, Isidore decided that, in order to make the most of eternity, he should probably get out more. In the late 1950s, a spate of social clubs were set up in the upper levels to encourage mingling. Although he was a little apprehensive, having been used to his own company for several hundred years, Isidore decided it would do him good to join a heavenly group where he might make some new friends. It was during a meeting of the ‘Holy Smokes’ cigar club that he met the recently deceased Herb, who was to become his dearest friend. They had so much in common – their main shared passion being the dissemination of information. They were big fans of each other’s writing and, inspired by reading one of Herb’s books, Isidore honed some pretty impressive card-playing skills.
Herb began his career as a government telegrapher and code clerk, priming him for the job of cryptological officer for the American Expeditionary Forces during World War I. He had a natural aptitude for code-breaking which he rapidly developed. One of his greatest achievements was the successful cracking of the Japanese codes shortly after the war, when he’d been relocated to New York. Following the winding-down of his career in this field, Herb dedicated his time to one of his favourite passions. In 1957, he published a book that would remain a bible for the game of poker for decades to come. Isidore was inordinately grateful that he could say
his closest confidant, Herbert Osborn Yardley, the esteemed author of The Education of a Poker Player, was his personal poker coach. The game was very much on.
And it was with great gusto that God spake those immortal words: ‘Let there be poker!’
Table Manners
by Neil Pearson
‘I’m the only person here I don’t recognise.’
Nice opener: notes of humility, showy aftertaste. Self-deprecating humour inviting scrutiny from fellow diners, who are now considering whether the glimpse of intelligence just shown was calculated or inadvertent.
Nice opener.
Mark’s starter was served. Since receiving tonight’s supper invitation Mark had given a lot of thought to how best to comport himself in the rarefied company he would be keeping. The evening had now arrived, and he’d come to few conclusions. He did know he must speak. Speaking was, after all, what had secured him the invitation in the first place: what he’d said at the most recent company convention, and the conviction with which he’d said it. And he must speak early. Say something while the first course was still on the table, something which would command his fellow guests’ attention, something which would demand some sort of response. Nothing too outspoken, nothing he’d have to defend all night, but a mildly diverting talking point of some kind. He knew that if he didn’t chip in early it would become increasingly difficult as the evening wore on to contribute meaningfully to any conversation taking place around him. Most of his dining companions had the social ease that comes of shared history; he knew no one, except by sight. Early participation would be essential. The fellow diners he’d chatted to at the convention would expect him to be talkative: they’d seen his presentations there, seen him pitch with conviction and humour and zeal. It was that bullishness, uncharacteristic for Mark and which he had dredged from somewhere that day, that had put him right at the centre of things. At first it had merely sparked the usual clamour of argument and counter-argument, claim and counter-claim, but as the day wore on and he’d continued to stand his ground he had watched his colleagues slowly quieten, take him to task less often, ask fewer questions, give him a respectful, largely uninterrupted hearing, until eventually – and to his own quiet amazement – a general acceptance seemed to spread among those few who had stayed late into the evening that he really might be on to something. It was around that time that some really quite senior employees – one or two directors, even – had started to gather while pretending not to, had stood quietly at the back and eavesdropped, had said hello. And then one of the directors, at the very end of the evening and finding Mark within hailing distance, had turned abruptly away from the employee who had been boring her and had made a beeline for him, had spoken to him, had mentioned a quiet dinner a few days from now. Very informal, just a small get-together for supper, supper and a few drinks. Mostly social, of course, but we’ll throw some ideas about, talk a little about the future of the company. We’d love to hear more about where you see us going. Can you make it? Do come – it would be so good to have you along. Always nice to welcome a new face. Finally! God knows it had been a long time coming. But these were busy, important people: they weren’t having supper for his benefit. Middle-management employees received invitations like this all the time, but few received more than one. So he would need traction early on. He would need to identify a friendly face somewhere, someone he could use to help him unclench, help him speak with the voice that had got him invited here in the first place. Which was why he’d sent up the flare.
He Played for His Wife and Other Stories Page 15