The Big Throwdown

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USARPS League co-commissioner Matti Leshem is lanky and intense. He sports a freshly shaven head and Hollywood facial fuzz and paces the party like a puma, giving direction to various film crews capturing the weekend for an A&E network special. He introduces me to Jason Simmons, 36, known in RPS circles as Master Roshambollah, the sport's top ambassador.

Bald and pensive, Simmons looks like RPS's version of David Carradine from Kung Fu. He created the Master Roshambollah character in 2001 while he was working at consulting giant Arthur Andersen; when the company was going down the toilet, he stumbled across the World RPS Society website, thought it was funny, and started posting messages under the guise of this 'spiritual con man . . . part Baptist minister, part used-car salesman.' In a 2004 Washington Post article about a local tournament, Simmons said his ultimate goal was to serve as a commentator for the sport. It sounded ridiculous at the time, but here in Vegas he is providing just that service for A&E.

Leshem suggests I play Master Roshambollah in a match, which proves humiliating. After a few stalemates, he beats me without breaking a sweat. It happens so fast I can't recall any of my throws. Was I offering tells? He doesn't elaborate, except to say that he picked up on a pretty common algorithm. There is something in his calm confidence that makes me believe him, and I did notice a momentum change, a point at which I was suddenly put on the defensive. Master Rosh chuckles politely and likens it to the hunt: The hunter doesn't let the hunted know he is being hunted until . . . or something like that. He then shows me how a slight twitch of the finger (call it a muscle spasm) can throw off a hand-watching opponent: 'With receptive opponents, if they see the scissors, chances are they'll throw scissors,' he says. Master Rosh refers to this as an ancient Hindu technique called 'subliminal advertising.'

After my time with the master, I make my way into the crowd and test my skills on Ashley, a spunky young blond from Toledo, Illinois. She lifts her shirt to expose a long scar on her midsection and explains that she could really use the $50,000 prize to pay her medical debts. Locked in, and not nearly as drunk as Ashley is, I dominate our match. I am done with gambits--this is all instinct. I lean heavily on scissors, forcing stalemate after stalemate, and then drop in a rock to close the show. Wandering the casino over the weekend, I meet more contestants and consistently beat them by just opening my mind and feeling what I should throw next. Am I finding my way on what Master Rosh calls 'the path'?

Contrary to reports from the regional tournament rounds, the officiating in Vegas is crisp, overseen by legendary boxing referee Richard Steele, and now the pool is down to the final two. Gone is Amber, the former child runaway whose pen-scrawled message 'scissors first' across her bare midriff foiled many an adversary. Gone is Dave, the young hippie from Boulder who favored rock and carried a notepad to tally the throws of his next-round opponent. Even the costume contest winners, a father and son dressed as Barney Fife and Otis the Town Drunk from the old Andy Griffith Show, are done. Once untouchable, they have all been reduced to bystanders. Some pick at the remnants of the complimentary buffet; most continue to hoard Bud Light as this magical weekend nears last call.

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