When they returned to the felt, Dimitar and the Frenchman both made it through the money bubble at the final table. There were still four players left in the event that Dimitar had full notes on from Sam, and he was using them to full effect. Of the players who remained, only the Frenchman, an American pro, and a Finnish former tennis player were unknown to Dimitar. Sam had also warned Dimitar to avoid the Finnish player, replying when Dimitar had asked him how good he was with the words, ‘You don’t want to know.’ 

Sitting in the middle of the chipcounts, Dimitar watched as the Finn (he thought he heard him being called ‘Antonius’) got into a raising war with the Frenchman. The pair were first and second in chips, and the pot, which saw Antonius bust with a straight to the French player’s flush, put everyone remaining into a tough ICM spot. 

‘I’m super-short.’ Dimitar told Sam on the next break. Sam told Dimitar that he was watching the live updates come through and that Dimitar needed to play more hands. 

‘I have twelve big blinds.’ 

‘So raise or shove. You cannot call any more.’ 

‘There are still six of us left. Don’t get me wrong, €95,000 would be great but that’s only a profit of €70,000. There’s €350,000 up top.’ 

‘You’re making a rookie mistake if you think about the money, Dimitar.’ 

‘How can I not? Elena’s life might depend on me surviving to the final three places. Tell me why I should attack.’ 

‘To protect yourself. You’re an unknown quantity and you’ve been on the tight side. You’ve got to play against that image to assert yourself. Represent strong hands.’ 

Two more players departed while Dimitar was short and suddenly, the final table was down to four players – the French player, a Portuguese local who neither Dimitar nor Sam knew, and a young chess grandmaster named Magnus Chekhov. Dimitar was soon involved in a pot with him. Chekhov bet on the flop, but it was small. It felt like a thin value bet for a single pair to Dimitar, and – sitting on a flush draw – he heard Sam’s words in his head. He moved all-in, and the Estonian player folded. 

‘You had top pair, right?’ he asked. 

Dimitar threw his cards into the muck but one of them came loose. It matched the suit in which two cards came on the flop. 

‘You didn’t want me to see that card?’ asked Chekhov, probing for a response. ‘Or you cannot throw nicely into the muck – like this?’ 

Magnus Chekhov proceeded to take both of his cards between his index and middle fingers on his right hand and flicked them into the pile so that they both landed face down beneath a pile of cards. Impossible to see, as quick as a magician.  

‘Nicely done.’ Said Dimitar, smiling a little as he stacked up a little more than his opponent. The Estonian nodded and smiled back. 

The local player was the next to bust, earning €160,000 when he lost a flip to the Frenchman. Then Dimitar picked up the goods – ace-king. He raised, Chekhov re-raised, then snap-called Dimitar’s resulting shove.

‘Ace-queen.’ Said Chekhov. 

Dimitar turned over his ace-king quickly, and the dealer positioned the cards to the left and right of the place where he would fan the flop. It came nine-high rainbow. Neither of them had draws. Chekhov stood up, a rueful grimace on his face. 

‘Looks like you got me,’ he said. 

A queen landed on the turn. Dimitar had been stoic until that moment. Now, his insides wanted to escape through his mouth. He got up from his seat and rubbed his hands through his hair, finally showing his lack of professionalism. 

He thought of his play and the set-up from the last hand, which gave him slightly more chips. He looked at the Frenchman to his left, enjoying the fact that he would soon be heads-up against either of his opponents with a big lead. 

There seemed to be an intolerable pause between the dealing of the ‘burn’ card before the river and a fifth community card. Dimitar breathed deeply. If he lost, then he had made the best decision he could. He had got it in good and been unlucky. He would soon be out if he lost the hand, as he would have less than a single big blind to his name. 

Then he flipped that thought. 

If he won it – if a king landed – then he’d need to concentrate on winning the event, on winning the next hand. 

He sat back down. 

And a king landed on the river. 

‘Good game,’ said Chekhov. ‘Good luck heads-up – you played great. A game of chess sometime?’ 

‘Hey, I’m not stupid!’ Dimitar smiled, and the two men shook hands. 

 ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now heads-up for the title. There will be a short five-minute break before we play to a winner.’ Said the Tournament Director, who as it passed midnight, was in no mood for the proceedings to last any longer than necessary. 

‘You’re nearly there.’ Simone said as she embraced him. The French player came over to shake Dimitar’s hand. 

‘Tu es vraiment un homme très chanceux.’ He said quickly, looking only at Simone. He refocused on Dimitar. 

‘Philippe.’ 

‘Dimitar. Bon chance.’ 

The two men shook hands, and Philippe went to his own spot at the bar. Simone led Dimitar to the terrace bar. They could see out across the whole city. It was late, and apartment lights were flickering out almost by the second.  

‘Only two words of French I know.’ Dimitar said. ‘Has he let anything else slip?’ 

‘Not about you.’ Simone said. ‘Or poker.’ she said, trying not to think about what Philippe had told his friend about how he wished it was her they were playing for. 

Dimitar ordered a drink and looked at his cell phone as it beeped. Simone watched as Philippe left to sit on his own near the poker table, watching as their stacks were repositioned opposite each other for dramatic effect.

He looked over at her and raised his glass. 

‘I just got a text from Sam,’ said Dimitar. Simone, momentarily distracted, returned to Dimitar’s gaze. 

‘Oh, yes?’

‘He said no matter what happens tonight, I should get to Valencia in Spain as soon as I can. A big cash game is happening.’  

‘Sounds promising. How big?’

‘Big enough to get me to a million if I play well.’

There wasn’t time to text Sam about what to do about Philippe, and the Frenchman wasn’t on the list of players Dimitar had researched. 

 

 

‘I’m going to have to rely solely on my wits.’ Dimitar said. Simone told him not to worry and that she would be on the rail – now behind a series of velvet ropes – watching him and listening to Philippe. 

The heads-up battle began with Dimitar facing a 3:1 deficit in chips. Soon after, Dimitar got lucky, hitting bottom set on a board where Philippe had middle pair. Dimitar’s shove on the river wasn’t called but two streets of value pulled him close to level. 

‘You have a… monster?’ Philippe asked. ‘I make good lay-down I think.’ 

Dimitar said nothing. 

They played on; Dimitar was unable to take the lead but stole pots where he could. Flopping top pair with a backdoor straight draw on K-9-8, he soon had his chips in for a chunky raise. 

‘I am all-in.’ Philippe said to the dealer, looking directly at him rather than Dimitar. This was the moment, Dimitar thought. This is when he thinks I’m going to fold. The point where he’ll get his big lead back.

Dimitar called. 

Philippe turned over two pair, an eight and a nine, both in hearts. 

‘A big call,’ said Philippe. ‘I knew you would make it.’ 

‘You thought I’d fold,’ said Dimitar as an ineffective deuce landed on the turn. 

‘I knew you’d call.’

‘When?’

‘I could tell that your… friend was French.’ 

That was when Dimitar saw it all. Philippe had first come over to the bar not to be overheard speaking strategy but to fake it. When he was talking about how he believed Dimitar would fold in a big spot, he was setting him up for a call. 

Dimitar – and Simone – had fallen for it. 

The river was a four. It was all over. Dimitar was runner-up for over a quarter of a million. It was a lot of money – more money than he had ever won in his life, let alone one crazy day. He shook Philippe’s hand and complimented him on victory. Dimitar left, standing to one side, while Philippe had photographs taken of him with the trophy. The photographer, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a twinkle in his eye, asked if Simone would like to join her partner in the shots. She was still standing close to him in order to hear what was said. 

‘Oh no, I’m not…’

‘Why not, madame?’ Philippe asked, and Simone smiled. Looking over at Dimitar, he made eye contact with her. He saw the sympatico between them in an instant. It was cheesy, it was a Gene Hackman film, but there it was—the French connection. 

There was a natural rhythm between them that made him think of Elena. 

Of home. 

He went to collect his winnings. He now had €347,000, a vast amount, although not yet the ransom stake. 

The bright lights behind the buttons of the slot machines and at the fringes of the table games seemed to have lost a little of their sparkle. When they met at the bar a few minutes later, it was Dimitar who broke an awkward silence. 

‘Valencia could be fun.’ 

‘I’ve been to Valencia, Dimi.’ Simone said. 

They headed over to the roulette wheel, and Dimitar was tempted to throw the whole lot on red. But he resisted, risking his float that was supplied by Sam. 

He put a €100 note in front of the croupier, who changed it for a stack of chips. Dimitar placed them all on the number six. 

 

‘Sticking with the devil?’ Simone asked, interlocking her hand in his one last time. The little silver ball hopped around the numbers too quickly for them to notice but landed on the number 13. 

‘Unlucky for some,’ said Simone. 

The roulette wheel spun on, slowing down as the croupier neatly raked 95% of the chips on the table into a wide black recess in front of her while her supervisor watched. She paid out an old man with just five chips. The old man was expressionless and reached forward to put the chips straight back on red for the next spin.

‘You like him, don’t you?’ Dimitar asked, looking back at Philippe, who was now at the bar.  

‘I like freedom. I love Porto. Maybe I could stay for a while. Not with him, with anyone, but…’

‘You’re going to stay.’ 

‘You are going to rescue another woman. I can’t see this lasting for much longer, can you?’

‘What is this?’ 

Simone cradled his chin in her hand. She had a faraway look that he had never seen before. It made her seem younger somehow. 

Dimitar had to admit that he would be more focused on money than ever before in Valencia. Sam’s help would be vital. Time would be sparse. Then there was Marseille and a showdown with the man who had sent him on this wild goose chase around Europe… if he made it that far. 

‘I’ll say goodbye, then. I’ll miss the journey.’

Simone glided up to him and kissed him briefly on the lips. 

‘I’ll be with you.’ 

Then they kissed again. Each of them closed their eyes, and when they opened, either two seconds or an ice age later – neither could be sure – they were different people.

‘Good luck, Dimitar. Go save your girl.’

‘I’ll leave the room key at reception. You’ve still got another night.’ He said, smiling.  

With one last glance, Simone turned and was gone, heading in the direction of the bar and the man who raised a glass to toast her arrival.

Dimitar left the casino and, after collecting his belongings from the hotel, hopped in a taxi to the airport. Within half an hour he had bought a one-way ticket to Valencia in Spain. Within the hour, he was on board, and ten minutes after that, he was asleep. 

Less than three hours after cashing out in the Portuguese capital, he was coming in to land, waking only when the wheels of the plane hit the tarmac. 

It was a little before two in the morning. Dimitar checked into the nearest hotel and threw his bag down. He took out the money he had won at poker over the last three weeks and stacked it neatly on the bedclothes. It totalled €347,000. 

He felt like a million dollars.

 

 

Dead Beat – Chapter 12

Dimitar’s life had included many big weeks. When he was nine years old, his mother had become ill and spent seven straight days in hospital recovering from kidney stones. It was harsh, painful,  and agonizing, and, according to Dimitar’s Mum, it wasn’t pleasant for her either.

When he was fifteen, Dimitar fell in love with Maria Ivanov. She became the love of his life during a week-long school trip to Bucharest, Romania. On the coach ride home, she returned as the love of his friend Ivan’s life, while Dimitar was hooked on a girl named Ana from his Science class. It was all about experimenting, and so was the bus trip.

When he was 28, Dimitar fell into a torrid one-night stand with the late Mrs Rachel Serf. Out of spite, he had pretended to be his best friend Georgi in an effort to stop his best friend from making a move on the girl he adored—Elena. This affair was revealed to Peter Serf, and when Serf found out, he kidnapped Elena from the hospital and sent Dimitar a message. 

 

$1 million in one month… or Elena dies. 

It was a unique ransom request—a buy-in to a heads-up match for everything. Elena’s life and his own were on the line, and $2 million was at stake. 

That was three weeks ago. Since then, Dimitar has raised over a third of that money and traveled to Valencia, Spain, for one last chance to turn €347,000 into the million dollars he needed. He would still have to get to Marseille, where he had established Serf was holding Elena. But he couldn’t arrive without the million. 

If he did, she was dead. 

‘Valencia is a beautiful city, Dimitar.’

‘It’s just a city, Sam.’ Dimitar replied. Outside his hotel window, the sun was out, cacti glimmered on the balcony. The picturesque view was interrupted only by the low droning hums of the air conditioning units.

Sam Houston, a high-rolling cash game professional who had his finger on the pulse of seemingly every city, had managed to get Dimitar into a cash game. This high-stakes game would be his best opportunity to turn his bankroll into a million dollars. 

‘Under other circumstances it’s just a city or a girl on your arm. Speaking of which, what exactly happened on the boat?’ 

‘Nothing. I won some money, that’s all.’ 

‘Dimitar, I’m just trying to help you.’ 

‘I know, Sam, I’m just tired. Tired and worn out from running around Europe for three weeks. Now you want me to sit in cash game full of sharks?’

‘I don’t want you to. I could give you the money. But Elena’s captor was specific, you have ten cash game sessions but if you put the money into a tournament, the only way you can win a million is by risking $100,000 at a time, with rebuys. That gives you one tournament. The turn of a card could end it all.’ 

‘So how’s it going to be different in this cash game? It’s No Limit, right?’ 

Dimitar could almost hear Sam smile, he presumed from his comfortable apartment in London.

‘Yes, it’s No Limit. But you’re not going in with your whole roll. You don’t need to. How much do you have to your name?’

‘Three-forty-seven, euros.’ 

‘OK, the minimum buy-in in €100,000, so that’s perfect. You’ll sit down with that, and you’ll win money.’

‘A million?’

‘You don’t need to win a million, you only need to win €653,000. You’ve got one week and… four hours. Double your money each day, and you’ll have the ransom money with more than enough time to get to Marseille.’ 

Dimitar looked out of his hotel window at the arid landscape outside. Heat rose from the ground in waves as midday approached.  

‘Do you really think I can win this money?’ Dimitar asked. 

‘I’m certain of it. I wouldn’t be wasting my time helping you if I thought otherwise. Now let’s talk about the players you’ll be facing.’

*

 Exactly 400 miles away in Marseille, Elena had been locked in their hotel room for most of the time they’d spent in the South of France. When Serf would leave to meet with Jeremy Rundle for an update on Dimitar, Elena was expected to stay in the room as the two men spoke outside the corridor. They revealed nothing to her but doubled up on ensuring she couldn’t get away. 

During the day, there were moments when Peter Serf was out of her sight. But whenever he was away, Jeremy Rundle was close by. She felt like the atmosphere had changed and that she had missed her chance to get away, to deny Serf the ability to hold her – and Dimitar – ransom by keeping her prisoner. She still had the knife but had needed to move it from under the mattress. 

The first morning the chambermaid had come to change their bedsheets, Elena had panicked, fearing the discovery of her only weapon against Serf and Rundle. She’d managed to squirrel the knife away and hide it under the linoleum upon which rested the complimentary ironing board. Since then, she hadn’t touched it. But she knew it was there. Time with Serf was bearable. He was nervous, sullen, and almost silent. Rundle, however, was different. He seemed to relish playing the part of the jailer while she sat in the hotel room, looking out of the balcony at the sunlight playing off the surface of the crystal clear pool. 

‘Bet you wish you could jump in that pool from here, don’t you?’ he gloated. 

‘From ten floors up?’ she asked sardonically. ‘Give it a try yourself if you like.’ 

‘I’m not to leave your side all afternoon.’ 

‘Is the boss out making money while you’re minding the merchandise?’

‘You won’t provoke me, bitch.’ Rundle said, grinning. Two rows of tiny teeth made him look like a pumpkin designed by someone with small hands. ‘I’m happy to help him. He’s gotten me out of some scrapes over the years. And I pay my debts.’ 

‘He’s not the national bank. You’ll still owe him even after you’ve done this for him.’

Rundle didn’t reply. 

‘Does it make you feel good to keep a young woman prisoner against her will? It’s at least five years in prison where I come from for aiding and abetting, and probably more because we left Bulgaria. I’m not sure you’d get time off for good behaviour inside.’

Again, Rundle said nothing. He just moved a little closer to her, from the far side of the room to the end of the bed. She inched higher up on the pillow and returned to her book while he watched her. She was in an expensive hotel room with a bed purposely built for maximum comfort. Any food or drink she desired would be hers, and her stab wound, save for a scar that would allow her never to forget her injury, was healed. 

In another room with less comfort, she might have been happy. But in the gilded cage she found herself in, she was scratching at the bars.

 

 Dimitar was out of the sunshine in Valencia and took no notice of the evening sunset that cast a deep pink hue across the sky. He was focused only on the cards in front of him, and for the next eight hours, he won. Thanks to Sam’s advice and the insider knowledge of several tells on his opponents, Dimitar ended his first night up by €152,000, leaving his bankroll just a thousand dollars short of half a million. 

It had been three weeks and one day, and at midnight, with just six days remaining, Dimitar returned to his hotel room halfway to his month-long target. 

But for now, he had other work to do. He moved the desk chair to the end of the desk. Only three feet, but it was enough for what he wanted to do. He cleared everything else off the desk and sat with the hotel notepad that came with the room at the opposite end of the desk to his chair.

He took the deck of cards that he’d purchased from the casino out of his pocket and sat in the chair. He removed the cards from the deck and threw the case on the bed. Then he took two cards between his index finger and middle finger and flicked them towards the notepad. 

He missed by around a foot. 

By the end of the deck, he had hit the notepad a couple of times. Not where he wanted, and not nearly quick enough. But he figured he had a week to practice and make it work for him. Dimitar picked up the cards that had fallen on the floor, or were scattered on the desk, or had fallen too short. He opened up his cell phone’s Notes app and wrote down how many cards had lodged underneath the notepad.

The number was zero. 

The next day, Dimitar won just €50,000, but he continued to play the best poker he’d ever played. Sam’s tips for the players still held, but they were high rollers and learned to plug leaks quicker than the usual player Dimitar would play against in what felt like a previous life. 

On Day Two in Valencia, Dimitar continued to practice flicking two cards towards the notepad. He worked at this for over two hours at the end of the evening in the privacy of his room. He had even quit the cash game action a little early to put in a little more practice at the desk while sitting in his chair. As he worked at this skill, his mind began to clear. 

He thought about Elena, of course, but the more he did, the more he felt like she would cope with anything that came her way until he could get to Marseille. 

The number of stars between them had reduced over the past week. It would be zero when he made it to the French coast. 

That night, he went to bed after his best rotation. He’d landed 20 out of the 52 cards into the notepad. They stuck out at various heights, which wasn’t good enough, and they weren’t close together, but it was progress. 

‘You are here again, young man,’ said the Spanish gentleman in seat three, known to the others as ‘Bronco,’ as Dimitar sat down. The local man was as wide as his chair and about as tall. He had long sideburns and a haircut that ran half a foot down his back. Over the first couple of days that Dimitar had played cash, he’d been there. On the first day, he was to Dimitar’s direct right. On Day 2, he had sat two spots to Dimitar’s left. On both days, the Bulgarian had made money from him. 

‘Every day. I like it here.’ 

‘You like the weather?’ 

‘Sure.’

‘You’re wearing chainmail.’ 

The table laughed. He was referring to Dimitar’s gray sweater, which he’d worn at the casino each night. 

‘That’s me, the white knight.’

‘You think you’re a hero?’ 

 Dimitar thought about how he’d raced around Europe at the behest of his enemy. 

‘I’m no hero.’

‘You can hero call, no?’

‘Sometimes it’s just the right call, Bronco.’

‘Oh, you speak like you know me. You know Bronco.’

‘I like you.’ 

‘I am undecided about you, chainmail.’ 

Dimitar knew from Sam that Bronco could take an aggressive line away from the poker itself. He knew that at this stage, three days in, Sam said that Bronco would either quit or go big. Day 3 was, therefore, painful for Dimitar because while he took from everyone else, he knew what he had to do. 

A board of king-ten-seven led to Bronco betting big, which, on these sorts of flops, meant he was drawing, often with a combo. The turn brought a three, which matched the suit of the king. On the river, both the straight draw and flush draw fell short. Dimitar bet with his pocket sevens, which had flopped bottom set. 

‘I raise, all-in.’ said Bronco. There was close to €280,000 on the table. But Dimitar knew that if he was to win the pot and take that money, he’d still be €300,000 short of what he needed to make. He also knew that the game would likely break because Bronco would first spoil the atmosphere and then make a big play about not returning to the casino. As Sam described it, he often did this for a week or so.

 

Dimitar was sure he had the best hand. The flush and straight draw had both missed, and Bronco wasn’t playing like he had a big hand. But Dimitar didn’t have a week. He needed the game to continue, and he had to keep Bronco at the table for four more days. 

Dimitar flicked his pocket sevens face down across the table. One of them landed neatly into the muck, but the other sprang up off another card and landed face up on the felt. 

‘You went all that way with two pair?’ Bronco said. He threw back his head and brayed like a donkey. 

Dimitar smiled politely, and at the end of the night, he had only broken even. He was still €450,000 short of the million and only had four more days. Bronco, however, was up over a quarter of a million. 

‘See you tomorrow, chainmail.’ 

Dimitar did a solid job of looking annoyed, after all, he’d folded what he believed to have been the best hand. But he had ensured the whale would come back to the table. 

On Day 4 at the felt, Dimitar had to reload, which was dangerous and mildly terrifying. He’d busted through one €100,000 stake when his pocket aces were rivered by pocket queens. It took him six hours but he won it all back and more. The notes that Sam had given him were still helping a little, but he’d largely forgotten them and was acting on instinct. He’d played over 45 hours of poker with the group, which had featured 19 different players across the four nights. He was starting to see patterns or play that he hadn’t three days earlier, starting to act quicker than he had two days ago, and even taking advantage of Bronco more obvi

‘You beat me tonight, but not last night, chainmail.’ 

‘Tomorrow, then, Bronco.’ Dimitar said with a light, warm smile. The mask of professionalism only dropped when he was back in the hotel room. This time, it was past midnight. But practice was worth it. He was getting better and better at flicking his cards, and that night, he went to bed after 35 of them had found their way into the notepad, many of them low down. 

The next day, he won again. It was only €80,000, but it put him close to $865,000. He was one big winning night away. He returned to his room, told Sam the good news, and then practiced solidly for three hours. He landed 48 of the 52 cards in the notepad. The other four cards had fallen just short, and he put two of those down to tiredness in his hand, which he knew wouldn’t be a problem. 

With one night to spare, Dimitar won the pot that put him over a million. It came from Bronco, who chased a flush and made it but lost a stack of €200,000 to Dimitar when the Bulgarian completed a full house on the river. 

‘You got me. I am done.’ Bronco said, standing up. Dimitar thanked his other opponents and offered to buy Bronco a drink. The Spanish man accepted, and they made small talk at the bar for a few minutes. Dimitar left the man at the bar with another drink he’d paid for and was walking out of the casino when he passed the roulette wheel. 

There was a tall brunette working at the wheel, and she smiled at Dimitar. He thought of Simone, who by now may well have been part of the Porto elite. Dimitar shook his head, trying to shake off the memory. He had over a million dollars to his name. He placed €1,000 on the table and asked for a single chip. 

‘All on six.’ He said, and the girl shook her own head in sympathy. The wheel turned, and she spun the ball in the opposite direction. Dimitar watched the ball bounce into 23, then into 11, and was starting to walk away when the ball hopped once more before dropping neatly into the six. 

‘We have a winner, ‘ the girl said, quickly altering her pitying expression to one of congratulation. She moved €36,000 in chips across to Dimitar, and he picked it up. He walked away, thanking her by leaving the original €1,000 chip for her work. 

Exchanging the €35,000 in chips for cash, Dimitar left the casino with the rest of the money much closer to him in a chest-mounted phone holder he’d purchased the day before. He held the €35,000 in his hands and, on the steps of the casino, pondered his fortune for the moment. 

Did he now have the devil on his side? 

He walked down the steps but had to dodge around a homeless man who was huddled into the corner of stairs near a bench. Crouching down, Dimitar handed him the €35,000 in cash. The homeless man sat up straight and could barely string the words together to thank Dimitar. He got up and took off down the street before Dimitar changed his mind. 

Dimitar watched the man as he crossed the street and walked directly into an off-license at the Jardí de Polifil gardens. Dimitar waited until the man exited the shop clutching a carrier bag loaded with bottles and watched until he was out of sight. A decision that had been foggy in his mind had become clear. 

Now, all that mattered was getting to Marseille, and Peter Serf. 

One heads-up game would decide the life of the woman he loved.   

Dimitar had a plane to catch. 

 

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About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

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Edited by Maury Orton and Shawn A.