The people in the gaming business that are reading this column aren't going to be real happy with me when I reveal certain ways and means we have to help beat the players, in fact, the players reading this might not be real happy either knowing that there really IS a game within the games: a psychological advantage above and beyond all the houses' advantage. But take comfort in the knowledge that we also hold this edge in favor of the players that we want to help win. Yes, the tipping is a big part of the difference. We wait a little longer for the person tipping, we advise when they might miss a good move, and advise against a bad one. We let them cut a little more often, stroke their egos a little softer. We have to be tough and take a lot of shit at times, but not often. We have back-up against the idiots that want to disrupt the game, not follow the rules, or get personal with a player or worse, the dealer themselves.

When I encountered this next guy, I had my choices. I could have called the floorman over. He would have put an immediate stop upon hearing the line of bullshit that came out of the players' mouth. He would have cut him off, and probably had him removed from the casino, had he heard all the conversation that was about to take place. But I'm way tougher than that. I've learned through the years to read people and to deal with them in my own "special" way. If I get him thrown out, he gets to keep his money and just leave, money and pride intact. But the other choice I have is to ventilate his wallet as well as his pride, send him crawling out of the casino, tail tucked firmly up his rectum and even a chance to embarrass him in front of everyone doesn't hurt too much either. But read on and you'll see just how a good dealer beats a real asshole and REALLY enjoys it.

No matter what they tell you, dealers are basically self-employed. Their self-interest is to see that the players are happy enough to tip, win or lose. It's even more important that the dealers lean a little to the big tippers, and the better dealers are always a step ahead. Whether we use it or not are sometimes determined by the assholes that just have to try to play stupid mind games with me trying endlessly to get over on me. What they find in the end is that these are games to them, but business to me and I know my business WAY better than they do…and always will. They can treat me like the enemy if they want. They can sneer at me, give me dirty looks, call me names, call me the son of a neutered dog in Chinese if they want; I don't care. Some will tell me to shut up and just deal the games. That's understandable and I always go along with their wishes (yeah, right). Usually I'll just ignore them; I'll just talk to the other players instead, leaving the prick to stew alone while I and the rest of the table have a great time, making him look even more stupid after his childish rants. But every so often I just turn the tables, and when I do, I like to have my fun, and this is one of the best.

I came on the first game of my shift, a $5 blackjack table on a six deck shoe. The lone player at the game was a young, tall blond-haired kid. The nervous type. Drinking Beck's and chain smoking Dunhills, his hands shaking the whole time ( a dealer can tell a lot by watching a persons hands because their body language speaks louder than words) and was getting just loaded enough to loosen his tongue, and his losses enough to sharpen it to a razor edge. No matter what you say, although alcohol lowers your inhibitions, you don't say anything you don't feel inside anyway. But you can't tell me you're not scared of the money while grabbing your beer and cigarette and shaking like a dog shitting peach pits. Usually by Friday nothing can get to me. His first response to me coming onto "his" game was typical of a loser. "Who is this dealer? Ken huh? Are you a good dealer? You better treat me right if you want to make a tip. Where are you from Ken? Where were you born?" I detected a slight European accent, and drinking German beer and smoking Dunhills. This also puts the guy in the category of losers that are going to bitch the whole time while they attack your ancestry going back thousands of years, but I've had them before and I can give it back worse than they give it to me and losing money in the process only makes it that much sweeter. This guy was sitting on first base, just in the right spot for his smoke to find my fairly clean, pink little lungs. The first cloud I just brushed away and usually this is enough to give the person the clue that if I wanted toxic fumes in my face I'd move back to L.A. But what I got was just what I was afraid of; he sat forward, snickered, and blew the next cloud right at me. What came out of his mouth next was the opening bell of the first round. "You look like you're either Italian or a Jew, aren't you?" DING! The bell rang for the first round. "I'm JUST a Jew, although I wouldn't mind being half-and-half right about now, that would kill ya, huh?" I said. "And an American too, right?" He added with venom. "Very good, and you, where are you from? Where's the motherland?" I had to ask. "Can't you guess? Blonde hair, blue eyes, Beck's beer, I am your worst nightmare." My next comment would either get me fired or worse, an assault and battery charge. "Achdelieber, you're German right? Ja?" Now came the thick German accent."Ja, I am German." (Glad he said it first, that gets me off the hook.) "Ya see", I said, "You never know…and here I thought the Nazis were dead and gone by now, ya just never know." This conversation was only taking place because he was stuck a couple hundred bucks, drunk, and pissed off at everyone. We were playing alone at the table. He was baiting me and I was taking it, but I was going to beat him, trust me on this. But remember, in order for the Greeks to deliver the Trojan Horse, they first had to make the other guys think it was a gift.

The first piece of information I needed to know was how much he was in, whether he was winning or losing, and how much he had to play with, or in my book, how much I had to beat him out of to get him to beg for forgiveness and never take my name in vain again. By the next couple of hands I had all the information I needed to know on how to get this job done. "Forget that stuff man, how you doing, you up?" I asked. "No, I'm stuck two hundred, but I tipped the dealer before you and I'll tip you if I win." (Like I give a shit, but one thing I've learned is to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. So I put on the smile and the buddy-buddy bit and tried to keep the Nazi stuff out of the conversation for now.)

"How much you need to win man?" I asked.

"Five hundred and I'd quit," he said.

"Well if you're going to take $500 you better have at least two-three hundred to do it," I said in a friendly voice. I was fishing for his limit sign.

"I've got six hundred, but I won't lose more than another hundred or I leave." Then he added: "but I want your money. I can't let a Jew beat me out of my money." He snickered again like he was just trying to be sarcastic but I wasn't having any of it.

He was betting $20 a hand, and pushing it up to $30 or $40 if he won one or two. Now I just needed to see how he played to figure out how to beat him. This wouldn't take long. Two hands later on a pair of 4s with a 6 showing, he split the hand. This was a typical mistake made by the novice player when the move is to double on 8. "You're splitting 4s?" I asked to confirm. "Yes, why?" I said nothing and he lost on both hands. I flipped over the 16 and hit the 3 (I was pulling for a 5). I made sure I made the comment, "usually I don't have to ask, usually they just double down on 8." I wanted to put his mind on what I was saying and not on the next hand. As I dealt the next hand I commented on the last hand to distract him. "If you doubled down on the 8 instead of splitting the 4s… let's see, the first card was an eight wasn't it? Or was it a nine? Then you would have what? A seventeen I think, or was it a ten?" my voice trailed off. I had him distracted and that was the point. On the next hand he stayed on 15 against my Queen, probably because he was thinking about what my last comment meant and not about the hand. I flipped the 7 over for a 17 and snapped up his chips. The next card out was a 4. "I guess you should have hit that 15, you would have won."

As I dealt the next hand I said, "Hmm, that's like an $80 turn around when you make a mistake like that." "What do you mean $80?" he asked. "Well do the math: $20 you bet and $20 you would have won is $40 but you lost $20 and $20 so that's $40, $40 plus $40 is $80 right? And here I thought you "guys" (I'm not stupid enough to call him a Nazi in case anyone's listening.) were supposed to have superior intelligence." Now I've got two more hands out and he's thinking about everything EXCEPT the blackjack game.

"Yes, quite superior, especially to you Americans," he said venomously. Three hands later he looked down and realized the $100 in checks were all gone except for $12.50. His hands were shaking as the next $100 bill came out of his wallet. "Just quit talking and let me play." He said. A clear sign he was shook. He's bleeding in the water and the sharks are gathering.

As I headed off for my break, I said, "Put me on his game when I get back."

"Sure" the floorman said, not asking why, but sensing I had something in mind and he trusted my judgment.

Twenty minutes later, I returned. He had about $75 in front of him when I came back on the game.

"Not you again?" He said it with remorse.

That was all I had to hear, I owned him now. "Just like your worst nightmare." I said with my warmest smile. "You still got that $400 in your pocket don't ya?" I had to ask, I had to make him say it.

"Yes, and it's staying there."

"You staying here tonight?"

"No" he said, "I'm out of here in two hours." I thought to myself, I only need the next hour but thanks for the information.

Now I turned the speed of the game up a notch He put up his $20 bet and a $5 bet for me. This was a first. This was his way of apologizing; this was his way of begging for mercy. I had the Nazi on his knees and this time I was holding the cattle prod.

"Is that for me?" I asked pointing to the $5 bet.

"If you win, isn't that how you dealers play?"

"Well, I don't know about the dealers, but that's how we people play." Knowing damn well he knew what I meant by "we people".

"Come on," he said, "I wasn't serious about that Jew stuff; don't take it personally."

He was begging for absolution. He had lost that $75 in three hands and now the next two $100 bills came out of the wallet. (The bleeding suddenly turned into a popped blood vessel, the jugular had been opened and the blood was spurting out everywhere.)

"Here, I'll just give you green chips." My sweet way of egging him on to bet bigger. He slapped $50 on the betting spot. "Come on man," he said. I told him: "You're losing faster than you thought. You just have to hit a couple double down hands or splits to get even. Don't worry, it'll be o.k."

And the first soft 18 he drew against my 8. "There's a great double down hand, huh?" I said. He took the bait. He put up another $50 and hit a 7 turning the soft 18 into a 15 while I turned over the Jack under my 8 that would have pushed his $50 rather than losing $100.

"Ah shit, that's not right." I said. I cleared my hands and covered my mouth so he'd think I was coughing rather than the shit-eating grin I couldn't keep myself from. The cough I gave was really a laugh and I had to turn away so he wouldn't see me choking while I cracked up. I was half way there. He was stuck $300. "Goddamn it." He shook as he pulled the last three $100 from the wallet leaving him with only a couple folded papers in the billfold and nothing more.

"Just give me black," he snapped.

This is beautiful, I thought to myself. I was General MacArthur beating back the Nazi scourge. He won the next two bets putting him back in the game and he smiled with satisfaction.

"You'll get me even yet," was his remark, "That doesn't bother you does it?"

"No" I said, "I mean, you don't care where my family's from if I get you even." This only helped to raise his ire. A calculated move on my part again to distract him while he played.

"Well I'll be out of here in another 10 minutes."

"Limit's $500" I said. He had all his cash in chips sitting on the table. He had $400 and I had only a few shots left. Then the two 8s came out with my 7 showing and his $100 chip on the spot.

"Always split 8s, that's what the book says," I told him in my most assuring voice, "It usually works; besides, against my 7, two 18s are a winner, right?"

He put up another $100 while I split the two cards into two separate hands. I put the three on the 8 and he didn't need any prodding to double down on the 11, so he put another $100 on the spot and I slapped the card face down. The floorman was watching and procedure says to put all cards face up, but he knew I knew, and also knew I knew what I was doing. The next card out was another 8. "Split again? You still have another $100."

I knew I was taking a chance he could win all four hands but that's the business I'm in. He hit a 10 for an 18 and a 9 for a 17 with all $400 of his money on the line. I flipped a 5 from under my 7, bit my big Jewish lower lip and slid the next card slowly out of the shoe; I flashed the corner for myself seeing the upside down 7. I had to grin as I took the card out of the shoe as slow as possible.

"OUCH!" I said sarcastically, "looks like 19." And I picked up the two black chips from his 18 and 17. "You still have a chance to break even if you have a nine or ten under that 11." He suddenly perked up realizing it may not be over.

I turned the prettiest 5 of spades covering the 11. I used my best Homer Simpson imitation: "DOH! You lost them all, I can hardly believe it."

He cringed and his face turned pale. I searched for a gun to make suicide for himself as painless as possible. The game was over. History was repeated, the Nazis lost again.

"You want to keep playing? You need an ATM machine there Segfreid?" He had nothing to say. He was beaten.

"I won't be back," he said, looking sadly.

"I'll be waiting whenever you're ready."

Like I said in my last column, "I'M STILL A FUCKING ANIMAL!!" Oh yeah, and a "Seig Heil!!" to my buddy wherever he's washing toilets today to make his next $600 to take his next best shot at me. I'm still here baby…BRING IT ON!!

--Ken Pearlman