The Friday Poker Table · Paris, France

Paris, France — where the McSkunkville story finds new porch lights. These days, parcels from the Skunk Store find Paris doorsteps every season, and McSkunkville keeps a porch light on for Paris.

Every Friday night the back room fills: the trucker, the tow man, the court clerk, the hose-clamp foreman, and one rotating guest chair that has hosted everyone from the Pullman porter to the Don himself. The pot is Skunk Coins — imaginary, wishful, worth exactly as much as the bragging rights, which is to say everything.

The table talk is the true currency: kids away at college, the Joneses' pool, the 8:15 that has never once been late. Bluffs are permitted; lies are not — this is McSkunkville, and even poker follows the doctrine.

House rule, posted on the wall: play like a Skunkian. Clean hands, clean fur, and if you must release the stench of defeat, aim it at the cards — never the company.

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