The Small Man - Part V

Following my last confrontation with the small man, I had fallen into a period of prolonged depression where I simply stayed in bed all day, refusing all my family's attempts at communication and barely taking enough sustenance on board to keep myself alive. Numerous psychologists, psychotherapists and other assorted quacks were sent to interview me but I rebuffed them all. I wanted no part of a world that allowed the small man to exist in it and, by blocking out the world, I was able to gain some relief from the nightmarish memories of the small man and his fiendish tales.

One day however, a person of a different hue came to see me. His name was Brother Michael and he was a Buddhist monk in a Tibetan cliff-top monastery. Quite how or why my despairing family had come across him I did not know but, once he entered my life, I felt a deep calm fall across my soul and the evil visions of the small man ceased to violate my mind. After many long conversations of a spiritual nature, Brother Michael convinced me that my life could once again be worth living and that I should emerge from my malaise and re-enter the world. I agreed and booked myself on an expedition to Alaska. I had long wanted to visit this magnificent land and felt that the combination of spectacular scenery and solitude would provide the tonic that I required.

The travel arrangments proceeded satisfactorily and I soon found myself in Anchorage, eager to explore the unspoiled wilderness that stretched Northwards for many hundreds of miles. I rented a cabin on the banks of the Porcupine river and settled in for a week of salmon fishing and contemplation. As the week unfolded by that beautiful river I felt my fears recede from me like a tide and, with just one night left of my sojourn, I was fully prepared to return to my former life. I sat happily by the mighty river as dusk fell and cast my line into its waters for the last time. Just as my fly hit the pallid blue depths, there was a disturbance in the water right in front of where I sat. As I looked on perplexed, a shape gradually emerged from the waters. I blinked in puzzlement, shaded my eyes from the sun and focused again. When my eyes adjusted, the first thing that I saw was the devilish grin of the small man, somewhat hidden by his breathing apparatus. The next thing I noticed was the deadly-looking speargun which he was pointing directly at my torso.

I sat frozen in terror as the small man clambered out of the river and removed his aqualung, all the time keeping his speargun carefully trained on me. I knew what was about to transpire but was powerless to prevent it. The small man eased himself into a comfortable position and began to speak:

"A wondrous country this and not one that you would consider a fertile hunting ground for my stories. I met a man last week however who challenged this preconception. His grandfather had been a famous fisherman in these parts and, for many years, he had set sail from Anchorage to harvest the seas. He told me the following story. The fishermen had only six months of the year to make their living as the cruel weather conditions would not allow them to put to sea in the long winters. Thus, they spent their entire winters in port - drinking, whoring and of course gambling.

The favourite form of gambling in this frontier land was naturally poker and the stakes would often get elevated to crazy levels as the fishermen tried to release the frustration of being land-bound. The most famous poker player in Anchorage was Captain Larsson, a cunning Swede who owned his own trawler. He had the reputation of being the tightest player in the State and was a man who never willingly put a cent into a pot unless he was sure he was ahead. He was renowned throughout Alaska as a man who had never knowingly bluffed an opponent off a pot. His mortal enemy was Captain Ryan, a man who was Larsson's opposite in every way - a drinker, a fighter and a degenerate gambler who relied on pure aggression to win at the poker tables. He too owned his own trawler.

The game was invariably hosted in the main cabin of Larsson's boat, a spartan space which boasted no decoration save for Larsson's most prized posession; a display case containing a champion sole which he had hooked many years before as a young man. After decades reposing in the display case, the sole's skin had turned a reflective silver colour, almost mirrorlike. Larsson's customary place at the poker table was to sit with his champion sole at his back, from which position he would slowly grind down his rivals with his tight, measured play.

On the night in question, the game had already been in progress for two days straight and Larsson and Ryan were the two big winners in it, each sitting with a massive stack of bills in front of them and facing each other across the felt. All the other trawler captains had retired from the game, leaving a large chunk of their earnings behind and were congregated around the table, drinking and watching the confrontation of these two diammetrically different rivals.

As they watched, a large pot began to develop. Ryan raised to three thousand dollars pre-flop and Larsson simply called. The flop came down with two kings and a jack and Larsson checked to his opponent. Ryan uncharacteristically checked behind, perhaps sensing a trap. The turn card was a deuce and Larsson, as was his wont, snatched up his cards and held them close to his face. Ryan, seemingly disinterested, just stared at the giant sole in the display case behind Larsson's head. Eventually Larsson placed his cards back on the felt and threw ten thousand dollars out into the middle - an enormous bet. The idle chatter around the table ceased as the railbirds leaned in close to see how Ryan would react.

Ryan scratched his beard and contemplated the situation. After a considerable pause, he raised the bet to thirty thousand dollars. Larsson leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at Ryan. "You're bluffing" he stated out loud, "I raise one hundred thousand dollars plus my trawler". The other trawlermen gasped in amazement - surely Ryan had been caught out and would now have to fold his hand. A long, slow smile spread across Ryan's face. "I'm not the one who's bluffing here" he grinned, "I call". The blood drained from Larsson's face and he sat white-faced in shock as Ryan slowly revealed his cards - 72 - for two pair. The river was dealt - an innocuous three - and Larsson threw his hand in the muck. His bluff had failed and now his trawler was gone.

"How?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion, "how on earth did you make that call? You know I've never bluffed before in my life".

"It was an easy call," replied Ryan, "I just read your sole".

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