In Too Deep

I'ts 3:30am and the Swede has just lost his last hand, busted, and heading off to sleep. My voice is dry and cracked (despite the pile of empty beer cans in front of me) thanks to the constant chainsmoking of the Brit across the table. My eyelids are sandpaper but I'm not tired. How can I be? I was dealt 2 kings straight off and have been raising the pot at every opportunity. But the Irish bloke to my right won't fold. He's just learned poker and plays it horribly, losing huge bets on awful bluffs. But his beginners luck is uncanny and my hand falters as I throw another 10 matchsticks (our impromtu poker chips) into the pot. He sits to the left of Ibrahim. Ibrahim, and old but fit Iranian, who owns the guest house where this surly night is taking place, is an ex-colonel from way back in the Shaw's army. Earlier he had told me a long winded, beer fueled, and rather dubious story of the time he met Saddam Hussein on the battlefield. Anyway, he and the Irishman hate each other, that much is obvious, and have been taunting back and forth with wild, crazy bets on cards the rest of us would have long ago discarded as trash. The crusty Canadian, a retired fisherman from Vancouver Island, with broken capillaries strewn about his ruddy face, is calmy yet firmly running this game like the Vegas lounge lizard he is when not with his Thai "fiancee" over here in S.E.Asia.
It's hot tonight, here on Langkawi Island, and sweat drips down my back. It's my last night in Malaysia and the stakes are high. We've been at the table for 5 hours and it shows: haggard faces and the detritus of beer cans and cigarette butts.The cheerful taunting of the Irish guy has gotten to all of us and I'm starting to hate him... deeply. His nickname for Ibrahim was "Ayatolla". To avoid the brewing fistfight I changed the nickname to "Bob" and for the rest of the night this poor guy was Bob. But I don't feel bad because he cheats like a young Bill Clinton and we have to watch him closely and make him recount his sticks before tossing them into the pile. My "sure thing" of a pair of kings gets weaker with every card played in this hell that is called "Texas Hold 'em". "The most popular poker game in the world" says the Canadian in a way that sounds like a threat some how. I've no reason to doubt him at this point as I've never played before and he's proven himself the undisputed expert at this table (which actually isn't saying a lot). By now I am focused, committed to playing this through to its bloody end. I could quit with a respectable little pile of fire-starters but I want more. Besides the fool's bluffing and I want to shut that Irish lilt up for good. I push in my entire stack of matches and the idiot calls me! "Flip 'em" grunts our liver challenged Canadian and I do. I swear the Irish bastard was humming the "lucky Charms" tune as he raked in the mountain of wood with the 3 sevens he was holding.
Back in my room I assessed the nights damage. Five hours of poker, another step toward second hand smoke lung cancer, mild liver damage, loss of valuable brain cells, and worst of all... I was down almost SEVEN U.S. DOLLARS.