It's Friday again and down to the Tavern we go and the wind's blowing hard tonight almost aching for a fight against the buildings and the streets and the sleet's forming and the sunset's crooning and I've got to admit it seems like trouble's blooming. Or at least I hope it is, is that wrong? I want something, I want a show this evening. I want anger to flow amongst bloodied suds between one of my oldest buds. And the hustler. Stretching out his bomber bound shoulders across his haggard pool cue and he says to my pal he wants to play a game, a 50 against a brew and everyone's egging him on even though this feels too good to be true but I don't care to part my lips to speak some sense, the song's shit, some bitch singing about the honesty of her hips and I'm dying for a fight to break. I want the room to shake I want flakes of glass to still be lodged in his face when we get to class on Monday to break away from the mundane and now it's raining hard as Marshall 'busts out' over a decent guitar loop and still everyone gets the feeling this geezer's got a scoop on the game we've convinced my mate he knows how to play.
"Pot the black ball before I clear the table and you win"
Keep your mouth shut let your mate take the bet and finish your gin. Whatever happens all that matters is that you really win and the hustler's cue starts to clatter against the chipped coloured balls and the connections ramble thought the claustrophobic pool hall back to the bar out to get lost in the cars on the street and this guy's potting them with and expert precision and my mate's regretting his decision to play along; the hustler's yawning as he continues to rack them up and my mate's in a fury stripping the flem from his throat to spit in the face of the hustler getting ready to gloat as he rounds off on the last ball that counts. And I'm on edge as I can feel the violence mounting. That old fucker's in for a trouncing or a lashing or a battering. Whatever you want to call it a beating is brewing and even now I can feel the fists and faces meeting at the edge of my seat.
"You regretting this yet?"
he asks with a cocky finesse that I'll admit impresses me somewhat due to the distress it give his opponent my friend, his attitude will surely be the final component in his downfall and I'm lounging against the wall watching this all unfold with a smirk.
But, his arm jerks unexpectedly.
The last shot is lazy and grazes by the 8 Ball to rest it's fucking arse on the cushions and this turnout's a fucking farce to be perfectly frank. A scratch, a fucking scratch, Jesus it's like this fucker put the latch on his skill just to perplex me. I could die from the dullness starting to swoon through the room. My mate finishes what the hustler could not and it's at no ones cost but my own. The hustler lost some pride and a 50, but I had to feel my hiding hopes sifting and grinding away through my mind into the droll disappointment piling in the trash with beer snacks and orange rinds.
Am I so completely alone? Am I the only patron of this bar with a want to see something so completely bizarre so completely removed from normality? A bottling to shatter this stale reality. Fucking hell the calamity of these colliding words.
"good game good game"
Oh what a fucking shame how fucking lame how lamentably tame am I'm walking now down Woodside Lane alone dejected, the battle I expected evaporated before my very eyes and I could tell you lies about why I wanted the fight to be had. I could tell you that my mate cheated on his ex, or did something deplorable that made me vexed but I want the truth to stay intact tonight in the clearing blackness of the night. There's no reason for my desire to see anger flare up like fire in his eyes as he looks down at the aged hustler dying on his tattered tartan bar stool, the blood pooling around his trusty cream cue and the sirens sounding off outside as Trident swarm rounding off around the Tavern. I just can't fathom another fightless night where nothing of interest breaches the surface of my youthful exploits. What exploits? There's nothing around to report, just the sight of the purple punching the black out of the night in streaks as sunrise starts to speak over the sleet and remains of the rain and the chrome moon fades in a haze starting to submit to the creases of day above my head.
And I'm going home.
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