Low Limit Grinding with Howard Lederer

[NUTZ IN YA MOUTH]

I needed a break from the pressure of the big stakes tables, and found a nice $3/6 LHE game in a reputable Vegas casino, where I could relax, have a few drinks, and chat with fellow players.

After about an hour of playing, the old man sitting to my right decided it was time for bed and left the table. The seat was filled by a man sporting a grizzly beard and sunglasses. He looked oddly familiar to me - then I realized, it was Howard Lederer.

"How--" I started, before he cut me off.
"Shut the [censored] up, nutz," he hissed. "I know the [censored] FBI is still after you. I could have you put away for years, you [censored] jerk."
"OK, OK, calm down," I replied quietly, "But what are you doing playing this limit?"
"Well, I usually play the $2/4," he replied, "But I'm giving moving up a shot."

However, moving up limits wasn't so easy, Howard would come to find very soon. After losing nearly half his stack very quickly (and as a result, mucking cards at the dealer and cursing out other players), one particular hand popped up which set Howard off. He and a decrepit old woman in the 4 seat were betting back and forth, until Howard's stack was nearly exhausted, and he finally just called, upon which Howard turned over an Ace high flush, and the woman showed a straight flush.

Howard pointed at the cards and angrily looked at the dealer. "Look at this!" he said, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, "You've been dealing me this s**t all night!"

"Sir!" the dealer exclaimed, "You can't be using that word at the poker table."
"What word?" he asked. "S**t?"
"Yes. Now muck your cards, sir," the dealer ordered, while Howard still held on to his A9 of hearts for dear life.

"Alright, fine. If I can't say the word, I'll just have to show you what you've been dealing me," Howard responded, foaming at the mouth.

What happened next is burned into my eyes forever, unfortunately, as well as the other patrons at the table and the poor dealer. Howard unbuckled his belt, pulled down his pants, and took a giant [censored] on the A9 of hearts. He then stuck his fingers in his own fecal matter and put a streak under each of his eyes like a Chicago Cubs outfielder would do before a day game at Wrigley. Silence engulfed the table, before Howard broke it by clapping his hands together.

"Alright, let's go! Deal the cards!" he said.
"Fl... Floor!" the dealer screamed in horror.

A floor man came over, and we watched as his face turned to an expression of horror as he first saw the grisly scene. He called for security on his radio, and about 30 seconds later, they arrived. Wanting to cuff Howard, but fearful of coming in contact with his [censored], they told him to stand up.

Howard ignored them and continued to sit at the table, arms crossed, a maniacal smile on his face. "I ain't going. I ain't going. I ain't going," he repeated over and over, before security finally dragged him to his feet, slapped handcuffs on him, and dragged him away.

The game had obviously disbanded. Everyone had packed up their chips and left, and now only the cleaning lady was seated at the table, scrubbing it feverously and repeatedly exclaiming "Dios Mio!"

Just then, my cell phone rang. It was Annie Duke.

"Oh, God, Nutz," she said excitedly, "It happened again?"
"Yeah," I said somberly, "It was pretty bad."
"Number 1 or Number 2?" she asked fearfully.
Not having the heart to tell her, I just said again, "It was pretty bad."

I told Annie I'd be sending a car to get her, and her and I rode to the police station together. At the station, we were told that Howard wasn't there, he'd been taken to a mental institution in Henderson, so we headed there instead. On the way, her and I discussed pot limit Omaha strategy.