A/N: This was originally going to be one chapter in a long series of "Boardwalk Empire" slash/crack stoires. After a year or two of nothing coming from the idea, I've decided, screw it. I'm just going to post this chapter as a one-shot. If I writer others in the future, I'll upload them as their own stories.

WARNING: This story is not for the easily offended. Targets of the politically incorrect humor this time around are Jews, Irish and homosexuals.

I don't own "Boardwalk Empire."

Margaret Thompson hadn't known Angela Darmody well, but the poor woman's death had shaken her nonetheless. She recalled the last time she'd spoken to Angela, at some party of Nucky's. They'd been causally conversing about Jimmy and Nucky's "business," and what exactly it was that they did when their wives' and mistresses' backs were turned. Angela had said something very strange.

"Maybe they don't want us to know because they're afraid we might enjoy it. Too much." Angela had smiled coyly at Margaret, and then left for the refreshments table.

Now, a good year or two after poor Angela had been shot, Margaret lay awake, wondering what it was Nucky Thompson was doing with Arnold Rothstein in New York. Arranging a murder? Arguing over the price of illegal alcohol? Fooling around with mistresses? Margaret couldn't fathom what she might possibly enjoy about any of that. She usually didn't want to wonder what Nucky was up to when he went away. Her staunch moral compass couldn't handle it.

But was it moral to just sit here and turn a blind eye?

Yes. She owed it to the children to keep herself in good spirits, so she could keep them in this lavish new life. She would do more damage by spying on Nucky and learning the truth…

After a good twenty minutes of wrestling with her morals, Margaret whispered to the night, "Ooooh fuck it."

She slid out of bed and picked up the telephone.

"Hello? Yes…I need a taxi."

Arnold Rothstein had booked the finest hotel to host this gathering of gangsters. Between meetings, the gangsters met in the reception hall, to gamble and get hammered. Nucky Thompson took a seat at the poker table, opposite Arnold Rothstein.

"So Poker it is, then?" Nucky inquired.

Arnold responded with one of his infamous, slow-spreading grins. "In a manner of speaking."

Nucky refused to allow himself to be intimidated. "Meaning?"

Arnold adjusted his cuffing. "In Havana, they have their own way of playing Poker."

"Do they now." Nucky had a feeling he knew where this was going.

Arnold glanced up at his young apprentice, Meyer Lansky. "Meyer, would you care to do the honors?"

The young nerd straightened, and placed his hands behind his back. "The rules of Strip Poker are identical to those of traditional Poker, except in repercussions. Rather than betting on money, the two parties bet on articles of clothing. For every round lost, the losing player must remove one item of his wardrobe. The game ends when one player becomes fully nude."

Arnold finished, "And the winner gets to be on top."

Nucky blinked, refusing to be phased by any of this. "Naturally." He shuffled his cards. "Shall we begin?"

Arnold raised one diabolically-carved eyebrow. "You're not even the slightest bit intimidated? Perhaps you're looking forward to losing to me." That evil smile again.

"I may be a better player than you think, Arnold."

At the back of the game room sat a long table for refreshments, complete with a massive bowl of alcoholic punch. One of Rothstein's lower-level gangsters stood behind the table, serving the punch with a large spoon. When no one was looking, the server was suddenly yanked under the table and silenced with a muffled punch. Margaret rose up in his place, wearing his suit and mustache, hoping no one would notice the difference. They didn't.

"You know," Arnold said, shuffling his own deck. "I always figured you for a straight."

Nucky replied, "You figured me wrong."

Margaret wasn't sure what a "straight" was. She tried to meet the eyes of one of the flappers and gangsters that she served punch to, hoping she might ask someone, but never got the chance. So she gave up and decided to ignore it.

She watched, as Nucky and his nemesis began their game. So, this was the notorious Arnold Rothstein. God in Heaven, why hadn't someone told her that man was so sexy? His slow snakelike demeanor, his soft orgasmic voice with just a hint of a New York accent, his tailored suit that somehow created the perfect combination of "gangster" and "nerd." No wonder Nucky was so envious of him. Or admirable. Or both. All she knew was that Nucky obsessed over Rothstein, and she now understood why.

Margaret watched in despair as her husband lost a round. Now he had to remove a piece of clothing. Arnold watched sadistically Nucky, grinning like a jackass. Nucky coolly removed his bowler hat, and set it on the table. Margaret wasn't sure what the stripping was for. What did nudity have to do with determining which gangster would come out "on top" of the organization? Maybe their clothes were symbols of status. She made a mental note to research the culture of the bootleggers when she got the chance.

The game continued. Nucky lost his overcoat, his vest, and his belt. Then, finally, he won a round. Forcing a smile, Arnold Rothstein gave a small nod and said, without looking away from Nucky, "Meyer." Meyer took Arnold's straw hat off with both hands, and set it carefully on the table.

The men conversed as they played, using phrases Margaret couldn't quite grasp the full meaning of.

"I suppose an intermediate position is better than none at all." Arnold said quietly at one point.

"If action is your goal." Nucky countered.

Nucky made a raise.

Somewhat non sequitur, Arnold asked, "Do you recall our first encounter Mr. Thompson?"

Nucky set down his chips. "We were in college. Your roommate was away. You told asked me if I'd ever tasted a 'hot, sizzling, kosher Hebrew National sausage.'"

"Is that how I worded it."

"Direct quote."

To Arnold's apparent dismay, Nucky won the round. Arnold removed his pinstriped suit jacket and handed it to Meyer, who folded it.

Arnold grinned and gestured to Nucky. "You were a type I recognized."

Looking slightly offended, Nucky asked, "What type is that?"

"A small-town gladiator, peering over the fence, eager to stick his fingers into a piece of pie."

Nucky made to take a drag from his cigarette, then changed his mind. "I don't like pie."

"Well, I have learned something new about you."

Margaret had the funniest feeling that they were speaking in riddles, and that "pie" didn't really mean pie.

Arnold's banter continued throughout the game, but his luck did not. Nucky surrendered one shoe, but poor Arnold lost his white collar, his belt, and finally his buttoned shirt. Margaret had spent the entire game up till now wondering whether he'd reveal the toned six-pack she'd been fantasizing about, or a lumpy middle-aged-man-bod covered in hair. It was actually neither. Arnold was pale, scrawny and hairless. No wonder he wore such bulky suits; he was trying to conceal the truth that he was in fact an awkward math-loving nerd, who couldn't beat up Donald Duck. Over his bare torso, Arnold still wore his bright turquoise bowtie.

Nucky eyed Arnold inquisitively. "Why not surrender the bowtie Arnold?"

Shuffling his cards, Arnold said quietly, "You may have my bowtie when you pry it off of my cold, dead corpse."

Nucky raised an eyebrow. "I'll keep that in mind."

Arnold soon lost his shoes, and his Steamboat Willie socks. When Nucky beat him yet again, and Arnold began to unbutton his slacks, Meyer placed a hand on his arm.

"It's getting late," Meyer said softly.

"The night is young." Arnold replied.

"It's nearly dawn."

"They're eating dinner in China."

With a smirk Nucky offered, "Someone'll be eating something before the night is through."

Arnold's pants soared across the room, and landed over Margaret's face. Committed to her punch-server rouse, she remained still as a statue, still holding the serving spoon. She didn't pull the pants off her head, for fear that Nucky might look over and recognize her behind that mustache. She stood in the dark for the next several minutes, listening to her husband crush Arnold Rothstein in his own game.

"Okay Arnold," Nucky finally said. "It's either the bowtie, or the shorts."

Using the punch spoon, Margaret lifted one pants leg up for a peek.

Arnold wore briefs. Go figure. They were a bright blue, like many of his suits, with a white "I (heart) NYC" logo. As Arnold's hand went to the hemline of those briefs, Meyer leaned over once more to whisper,

"Would it be better if people didn't see you like this?"

Arnold gave just the tiniest swallow, before calmly replying, "Humility is a virtue, Meyer."

"Hey," Nucky called across the table. "It's not the size of the shipment. It's the quality of the liquor!"

Margaret didn't see what the big deal was with men and their "manhood." Big or small, they all looked hideous down there. When Arnold climbed out of his briefs however, she had to stop her mouth with her hand to keep from giggling. She hadn't even known it was possible to be that small. "Smug kike midget" indeed.

"Technically," Nucky pointed out, "The game doesn't finish until all articles of clothing are removed."

Arnold straightened his bowtie, the only thing standing between him and full nudity. "I may consider forfeiting this game."

"And my prize?" Nucky looked up at him.

"On the table."

Nucky glanced around. "What, right here in front of everyone?"

"If you would prefer privacy, my office is a door away."

"I think I'd like that."

Margaret double checked that no one was watching her, and made a beeline for Arnold Rothstein's office. She hid herself in the closet, hoping to God that Arnold wouldn't need to get in there to retrieve any paperwork needed to transfer Nucky to "the top" of the organization, now that he'd won.

Nucky and Arnold strode coolly into the office, and locked the door behind them.

"You've done enough false advertising about your 'Hebrew National sausage," Nucky scolded. "And all anyone really gets is a mini hotdog. Now it's time to for Arnold Rothstein to shut up and try a real Johnsonville sausage!"

Arnold faced Nucky, with one eyebrow arched almost nervously. "I don't suppose you Irish practice circumcision?"

Nucky gave Arnold a long look, before dropping his trousers.

Arnold closed his eyes and sighed. "Goyem."

Nucky forced Arnold over the desk, and moved around behind him. Margaret felt a pang of sympathy for Arnold, as he let out a barely audible whimper.

"Oh quit your whining," Nucky snapped. "You did this to yourself, you little whore."

Finally, at last, Margaret slowly began to process what Arnold and Nucky had actually meant by "being on top."

For the next many moments, Margaret saw nothing but the bare ass of her husband moving back and forth, as both gangsters groaned and wailed in ecstasy.

A/N: If you enjoyed this depravity, I highly recommend two stories by The Plastic Owl: "Take it All In," and "Lining Up the Shot." They're short one-shots, they're the perfect mix of disturbing and hilarious, and they inspired this little crack-fic you just read.