Double deck. Head-up. I'm gettin' hammered here. Blood's ankle-deep in the blackjack pit, and most of it's mine.

But wait -- opportunity rears its head again!

There's one more hand in front of the cut-card, and the TC totals plus 16. I haven't seen a double-deck count that high since Eisenhower lived in the White House, so I shove out the shillings.

Here come de cards.

I flip 'em, and find a 5-4. Five-four's not bad, considering the dealer's showin' a three. Since I'm willin' to wager he's got a 10 underneath, I commit the rest of the rent-money to a good-probability double-down.

All I need now is a drum-roll as the dealer hits me with -- would you believe it? -- a 10! Fairness and justice permeate all the earth (except maybe the Chicago police department) and my faith is restored.

So I won, right?

WRONG, pit boss-breath!

Dealer flips his hole-card, and just as you expected, it's a 10.

And then he hits it with an eight.

The rest, as they say, is history.

It gets worse.

A while later I'm head-up at another double deck table. Guy sits down with a stack of chips that would make a dent in California's deficit.

We play through a couple of shoes, and it's obvious he doesn't count anything except his money. Plays good basic strategy, but the more negative the count, the bigger he tends to bet. Of course you can DO that if you win. He wins.

Once again the cut-card's fast approaching, but this time we're looking at a count that's off the chart on the ugly side. I've got coffee-money on the square, but my new neighbor -- whom I now figure for a former Enron trader -- is betting huge.

We get cards.

Can't remember my exact hand, except I multiple-hit it up to 18 against the dealer's five. Eddie Enron owns a pair of sevens. Splits 'em, draws another seven, and splits again. Now he goes to work, and cards come out like Democrats at a Kennedy political rally. By the time he's finished, he's taken so many hits you can hardly see the layout, and he's stiff on every hand.

This time the drum-roll sounds for him.

Dealer turns his hole-card. An ace. That's sixteen, the way I figure it. Hits it with a six. Then with another ace. Then a two. And finally, a . . . seven.

I win!

Whoopee. I've got enough for a modest meal, and 'ol Eddie rakes in more than the Gross Domestic Product of Rwanda.

I HATE this game, and I'm never playin' again.

Until after dinner.