THE MAGICIAN And so, the legend goes something like this… A man rushed in and shouted, “He’s got a game!” And before he could barely get those words out, chaos and madness ensued. In a scene that looked something like a bell being tolled before an impending biblical plague, the congregation made a manic dash towards the door. Tournament players watched, at first in bemusement, and later in a dispiriting sense of abandonment, as the crowd rushed away from their tables, like miners to Mokelumne River during the Gold Rush. People stood four and five rows deep around Table 25 in the far corner, with those in the back standing on chairs, boxes or anything else they could find. They were a discordant bunch. College kids with University of Tennessee hoodies. Gun-slinging cowboy types with curled moustaches and pointy-toed boots. Punk kids with earrings and spiky hair. Skinny slackers with goatees and Pink Floyd T-shirts. Professorial types with their sweater vests, blacks with comb...
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