There was movement from the corner of my eye. I whipped my head around but there was nothing to be seen. A whopper wrapper, an empty pack of smokes, a beer bottle. My nerves were playing with my mind. I wasn’t quite sure where I was, but I knew I was in a bad area. This was no place for a white guy stumbling around at three a.m.

I checked my pockets. No cash. No phone. No wallet. Fucked. If I ended up dead it would be weeks before I was reported missing, and the tracks would be long cold by then. They couldn’t have planned it any better.

Six hours earlier I had received a phone call. An old buddy wanted to shoot some pool and said he might have some targets lined up. Targets for a very dangerous game that I hadn’t pursued in a very long time. Not since the last close call, but that’s another story for another time. I had no idea why he was calling me. We hadn’t talked in over two years and I hadn’t picked up a pool cue in over a year. I was pretty much out of the game, even as it lingered in the back of my head daily. It was a passion of mine and I used to be a force to be reckoned with, but I let it take me far too deep into the depths of a tainted world. A world where passion becomes a need. A need to win, a need to make money, a need to consistently stand on top because you knew you couldn’t be touched. It was a deadly drug indeed, but, I needed the cash so I figured a couple games couldn’t hurt and I was itching to get the cue out again.

I got to the pool hall first. No sign of my buddy, but I was used to that. He wasn’t a very prompt guy and I was grateful for that. I’d have time to grab a couple beers before settling in to play some warmup games.

I sat down at the bar and ordered a Newcastle before glancing around at the games being played. A young couple in the corner taking their time and flirting as they moved around the table. An older gentleman in the middle shooting with what could be a grandson, mentoring, teaching. Some drunk college kids pounding down their beers and slamming the cue far too hard to be useful in a game where finesse and accuracy were key. Luckily the place was pretty empty, it would be easier to come in, do the job, and slip out without too many people remembering what my face looked like.

With another Newcastle and a set of pool balls, I was ready to warm up a bit. I wouldn’t play hard, in fact I’d miss most of my shots. I’d get frustrated over simple straight shots. I’d hit just hard enough to make the ball wobble in the corner and pop back out instead of going down. I’d put far too much english on a bank shot, just to make sure it went wild instead of gliding smoothly across the felt into the hole that I’d picked for it. Occasionally I’d throw out a “fuck” or “bullshit” just to make sure people were paying attention and remember that I was the guy that couldn’t sink a straight shot if his life depended on it.

Two more beers later the rest of the party showed up. My buddy and two other guys, that were itching for some money games. I was under the impression we picking from the crowd, but even as others strolled in and picked up tables while I was practicing, I should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. I had a reputation, and unfortunately, these two new guys knew about it. They were also convinced I would never take their money away from them.

I was ready to walk. My gut told me to walk. My head told me to walk. And then I saw the wad of cash. I should have known better, but I wasn’t walking away from this.

I let them warm up while I grabbed a few more beers and relaxed. I played better at the right level of alcohol. Too little, and I couldn’t relax and just let it happen. Too much, and I got sloppy. Never sloppy enough to lose, I’d just be a bit too relaxed. The key to my consistency was a constant level of alcohol going through my brain.

Then the money came out on the table. It started out innocently enough. We’d win some. We’d lose some. This was the game we played. We had to make sure the targets wouldn’t walk away frustrated. We had to make them think they had a chance to win all of the money. I knew we’d walk away with that wad, but it was going to take time. They were taking shots of whiskey while I was drinking my Newcastles. I had no idea what kind of tolerance they had, but the way they were pounding through shots, it wouldn’t be long before they started getting sloppy on the table.

After a couple hours of going back and forth we upped the bet enough to be worth it. I needed to get going and I was about done babysitting a couple of drunks anyways. One game, two games, three games, all in a row won. We were up almost a thousand each with a race to six to be the finish line. Three more games and the night would be done and I’d be walking home a happy man.

I went to the bathroom before game four started, and that’s about when it all became a blur.

When I came back, I was handed a beer in good faith by one of our targets. No hard feelings he told me, it was just money, and it was just a game. I felt good knowing that not only was I going to take his money, I was going to shake his hand before walking away.

Except I didn’t get to shake his hand, nor did I get to walk away.

By the end of the fourth game I was so dizzy I was seeing triple. I couldn’t stand still, my legs felt like rubber and I was sure I was going to collapse at any moment. As I made my way to the bench to sit down, I was intercepted by my buddy. He coaxed me outside, told me I just needed some air and a cigarette.

As we made our way outside, I was blind sided. My pool cue snapped across the back of my head. Stars shining in the back of my eyes as I fell forward, face down into the middle of the alley only to be yanked right back up to my feet. My eyes cleared just enough to see my attacker. This old friend of mine. Years had it been since we’d seen each other, but a grudge never forgotten.

You see, we played against each other once. It was a grudge match. I knew I was better then him, he thought I’d never win, so it set off a hate filled race to ten. Nine ball and Eight ball. Rotate every round so neither of us would have a major advantage. He was so confident he would win, he even bet his prized pool stick on the line. A thousand dollar cue.

Unfortunately, he lost.

Taking advantage of the situation and his mental state, I snapped the cue in two over my knee. I had gotten what I wanted. I beat one of the best.

Now I was about to pay for that action.

My first thought as I hit the ground was to defend myself, but my head was so fuzzy I didn’t know which way the punches and kicks were coming from. I was picked up, thrown down, tossed side to side. He planned this well. He knew I couldn’t pass up on the money, and he knew that I’d never pass up a free beer.

Drugged and beaten, I passed out.

Off in the distance, a siren blared. Off to my left, a gunshot ran out. I was running out of time. There was no way out.