Baccarat is not just its rules or even its edges; no, sir, the players defi ne this wonderful game. They create the excitement and the madness. But if you think baccarat as played in the highroller rooms of America is a sweet and demure game, you are mistaken. It is more akin to war—war against fate, war against the casino and, more important, war against the players who are winning while you are losing or who are losing when you are winning. It’s a wonderful study of human nature too.
The juice in a baccarat game comes from the adrenaline fl owing in abundance from myriad players who often come from all over the world and whose competitive, though highly superstitious, natures make them create explanations for why they win and why the loss. Many of these reasons are quite wild, to say the least.
Some baccarat players are too intense, however. One harsh, young, overly made-up woman at the Rio casino in Vegas, her body strategically bulging with both of her awesomely enlarged fake breasts falling out of her skintight dress, outdid the Taj’s Elvis in the drinks department… really outdid him. I mean, she left the building without even having to leave her chair! She was completely, utterly blitzed. I thought of her as Skintight.
On the ninth Bank win, with Sugar Daddy betting a stack of orange chips, Skintight went ballistic. She started slurring cursing Dom, slurring cursing me, and slurring cursing the dealers for allowing us to win. She cursed anything that could be cursed, including Sugar Daddy. Her elephantine glands bounced up and down, up and down, as she shouted and gesticulated and frothed.
She gave me a lap dance at a club. That’s how I met her,” said Sugar Daddy, sneaking back to give the dealers a tip. “She’s very excitable.” Oh, yes, baccarat is a war indeed. If you can afford that $100 minimum bet, then give the game a try. Keep the number of hands you play low, and enjoy the antics of your fellow players. And spin, spin, spin!