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"Behind the Eight Ball," by Dulany Weaver

It was a desert spot out in the middle of nowhere, a place that reeked of old smoke and old memories, a place that most truckers and prostitutes found beneath their dignity. I was with my buds, downing some suds, shooting the crap and shooting some pool. I was gloating about some other games I had played with some blondes in Boston, when a brain-dead wooly mammoth strode out of the ice age and over to the table, slammed down some of the long green, putting it all down to see if my pool skills were as impressive as my stories. His sumo build and mean disposition stripped me of my impulse to tell him to go play in traffic, so I racked the balls and he broke. Through some miracle or magic, three striped fiends ducked into their caves. The beast cackled and my heart tried to beat through my ribs as I realized I was quite a few smiling portraits of Franklin short of the bet. I almost cringed when two more boys in the striped suits got goosed and ran home. But, then, a quick shot, lucky for me and worthy of a colorful monologue from him, struck, and I finally got my chance. I aimed with the utmost care as my collar got to tight and the room too hot, and my body poured out sweat like it was sour milk. I sank a solid seven-ball, and through some magic of my own, another of it's kindred. Another shot planned out like the Sistine Chapel yielded a similar result. I became cocky after that, and the ball I wanted to drop avoided the pocket like it was the entrance to Hell itself. The beast snickered. He leaned over to shoot, and, on his next shot, I regretted that last beer when my blurred vision showed me that the goliath had sunk two spheres of my responsibility through his own drunkenness. But his impassioned imitation of the latest dance craze showed me that it was true! I was so awed by my stroke of luck that I flubbed the next shot, and nearly sank his cowardly nine-ball, with a yellow streak down its back. He bent over the table intently, and I saw how the rage over his previous failure was affecting his motor skills. With shaking hands, he desperately aimed, tense and fixated on his coming shots. My last blunder had opened up the table for him, and a quick series of shots was all that stood between either victory or the answer to the question of an after-life. I focused on the orbs, seeing if ESP alone could make the cue ball veer from its course. The cue cracked against the bone colored weapon of wealth, and the ball's little legs ran over the felt like it was red carpet. But, lo and behold, its course wasn't true, and it chose to push the eight ball into the pit rather than its cowardly neighbor! I had won! I stuffed the deniro in my pocket as the ape showed off his impressive vocabulary and his skills at Tae Kwon Do board breaking. I laughed exaltantly, ordered a round of beer on the house, and the vision of the fair, blond Niner standing on the precipice of the pocket brought me back to the Blondes from Boston...