One time in a cowboy bar in Wyoming, I was challenged to play a game of chess by a bare-chested biker wearing leather pants and golden chains. Not kidding. Half way through the game he started to fling his arms in the air yelling, “I’m coming to get you! I’m coming to get you!”. Unnerving. He beat me. I hate being beat, so we played again over shots of tequila. I lost. Again. This is not that game.