great master egyptian they call him, as he sits at the card table, scarab crown upon his head. he's come across the ocean to the carolinas to play, hand after hand, wager after wager. he likes the desperate games rich men play, betting ancestral grave plots in famous church yards, mountains, plantation houses. when the frilly, foppish bastards have cleared out, he goes down to the whore-houses & plays with the ladies there for unwanted children. you see, our boy here isn't egyptian after all. he's from carthage, long forgotten, buried by scipio in salted earth. baal-whatshisname & all that 666 shit. the satanic fucker makes deals that would break another, letting the paste-board slam down on the table like a gavel. he's this broken hearted evil idol, living it up in the new world, bringing with him all the sins of the dark continent. but today isn't his day, this game is going south, going sour, & it is all because of the little bitch sitting across the table from him, some oriental whore all dolled up in silk. slant-eyed little slut plays cards well, dress hitched up, showing the line where stockings meet bare leg. all the sulphur & brimstone ain't making her blink, let alone sweat, & the carthaginian is starting to think that bulge on her other thigh is a pistol. she snarls him up in the flop, spins him at the turn, & dunks him in the river. & the next thing you know.