First, I want this clear, none of you; none of you can know anger like I’ve known. If you want a taste of real anger that turns into hate, come spend 1,095 days in solitary, that’s three-years, man.

I don’t like criminals; they’re in the gutter. Just ‘cause I’m here doesn’t make me one of them, I was framed. Yea, I was framed by my girlfriend’s sister, Aggie. Her husband beat her up real good and she blamed me ’cause she’s afraid of him.

Well, I got three-months in the county jail, but was falsely accused of beating up two other inmates. That added six more months that I nearly got through. I had one week left when someone took the book my Mom had brought me.

I had a pretty good idea which low-life took it, so I cornered him for a little talk. I really did intend talkin’ and get’n my book back; to bad there were witnesses. They said I went bonkers and beat his head against the bars. The truth is none of ’em liked me and made out it was worse than I remember. He must have had a soft head or something,

This unfortunate turn of events landed me in solitary for the month it took the judge to send me to the State prison for eighteen more months.

Now, you tell me, wouldn’t you be building up a good anger; I didn’t do nothing to start with, and been railroaded into doin’ near four years.

I ain’t never been a bad guy, ask Mom; nothin’ more than fights, shoplifting, and a couple drunk charges.

I reckon the only reason I wrote this is to tell you, this. During this stretch in solitary my anger just went away. Now I hate; it’s a lot better than anger. I can now plan instead of react, and man; I’m goin’ to do some real damage when I get out of here.

You’re here just in time; they’re in the middle of the last hand. I’m Santo Antinori, and that’s my uncle Mort ‘Rip’ Calabrese on the right and Alphonso ‘Mad Dog’ DeSteffino on the left. They’re both in their late seventies, they both look exhausted.

They’ve been rivals for over forty years; a game of poker is war to them. Agreeing to play heads-up, each bought in with $150,000.00. They’ve been at four hours now and best I can determine Uncle Mort’s ahead by around $75,000.00.

Both were permitted old age retirement by the boss of the ‘Lias Family’ Big Bill, here in Wheeling. Not only did they retire with his blessings, but both as millionaires.

The pot is hot; it’s Uncle Mort’s bet, and look. He just forced Mad Dog all-in. The final down card is being dealt by the hired dealer, and it’s all over but the shouting and cursing.

The rules say the last to bet must call his cards, place them face up on the table, while the opponent either lays down topping him, or folds. The winner can now rake in his winnings.

Before my eyes, Uncle Mort picks up his last card, jumps up from his chair, starts to speak, but falls to the floor, cards clutched in his left hand.

Running to him, I kneel, it appears that he’s had a stroke. I grab his cards, stand and announce a full house, Kings over Jacks.

Mad Dog slapped three aces on the table and laughing, starts to scrape in the pile of chips.

Stop! The dealer yells, “the rules say you must announce your cards first.” I look at a table with $300,000.00 in chips, who is the owner? This folk is a $300,000.00 conundrum.

#RWF