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It’s noisy as hell in this dodgy pool hall.   Minding beers in the nearest corner booth while Harm smokes cigarettes and pots balls and Kane fails miserably at trying to outdo her in either.

Game before, he came back with his shitty fake id and the drinks as I lined up the winning shot and Harm leaned on her cue.   Probably fucking brilliant strategy that she then asked at that very minute: “So what the fuck is up with you this week, Jonathon?”

Kane promptly aided and abetted: “Yeah, what gives, man?   You’ve barely said a word all night.   And that’s nothing short of a miracle…”

Great.   So now I’m here behind the 8-ball.   Go the straight shot, or bounce something clever off the sides?   There were obstacles to something straight down the line – happy to miss a turn, but didn’t want to give up the fucking game, did I?  

Stop thinking – just get the ball rolling.   Took my cue and took a shot.

 

“My ‘Uncle Eddie’ has fucked off on me, and taken all the finances with him.   Some bloody guardian he proved to be.   So – hit to the corner pocket.”

 

There it was, in simple black and white, as the balls kissed with a crack.   If the gameplay wasn’t quite by the rules you and I know, the other players didn’t call it.

“Shit,” said Harm.

“Shit,” said Kane.

“Shot,” said Jonathon.

 

NEXT ENTRY…

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