John was used to cognitive dissonance. He believed that communsim was altogether correct, believed that it was the optimal way to organize human affairs and the inevitable politicing that results from them, yet worked in a retail outlet that fueled the machine he despised.

He still preached revolution rhetoric like he survived without the capitalist system. Health problems plagued him, though he was only in his early twenties. They were all stress related, and he did such heavy research on health that any twinge in his body was a hint of a much deeper malady. Stomach ulcers, heart palpitations, rapid weight loss and gain, problems with the most elusive addiction he had: sleep. He was addicted to many, many other things, but most of them were socially acceptable.

Mental instability had been with him, like an abusive love affair with a high-school teacher, since puberty. He knew he was unstable, even cultivated the image among his friends, yet still could not resist chemicals that drove him closer and closer to the brink of outright mental collapse. Methamphetamine, Cocaine, TetraHydroCannabinol, Ethanol, and anything else offered. It was all beyond him to refuse.

Panic attacks were a symptom of his extreme, unmitigated, auto-biographical stress levels coupled with his brain's inability to let some things slide. He had panic attacks more frequently if he used recreational chemicals and didn't sleep for a few days. He knew all of this, yet kept pushing himself towards the edge. Creating a comfort zone was beyond him.

Stress was a keyword in his culture. Everyone had it, and somehow, everyone else had learned to live with it. John knew he couldn't handle stress, knew that extreme stress made his heart develop atypical rhythms that would last for days, knew that his panic attacks were only getting worse, and also knew that his first heart attack was not in the distant future. It wasn't standing next to him, persay, but was much closer than the distant horizon, like the serial killer that would, in time, devour his entire family. Just waiting.

Yet again, here he was. The Canterbury Card Club, pretending to be a professional poker player. John knew that dreams of playing poker for a living didn't belong inside his head. Since he was so used to things not matching up in his life, he kept pushing, but he knew that panic attacks had no place at the poker table. He tried to fight them off, but sitting in his chair, drinking sugar, water, and caffiene blended together rarely did much to calm his nerves. This was mostly due to the stimulants he was addicted to, nicotine and caffeine. He looked at the cards he was dealt.

They weren't bad. Some people would call them good, but John had learned that he was unable to lie without instigating the first stages of a panic attack. Professional poker players are required to lie without thought, and he knew that his inability was a disadvantage. His only defense was to let his oppresive demeanor show through, and undervalue any hand he would happen to have in the game. If he had the absolute best hand possible, he still believed that he could easily lose a great deal of money. Better players would attempt to capitalize on this weakness, only to find themselves beaten. The problem was that it only worked once. Depression was a very real and tangible thing in his universe, like a closet holding the secrets of a lifetime, when the door won't quite close.

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The action in this story isn't quite finished, in case you didn't notice, dear reader.