(no subject)
Martirio lights a cigarette in the back of a pool hall. Not too big a fan of smokes, he inhales lightly as the Mexican cigarette tears through his throat. He had a preference for Marlboro Reds but these weren’t typical American brand. These were the Mexican offshoot, imitations at best. Mexican cigarettes had a more harsh feeling going down but Martirio always smoked one fast just for the head rush. The first hit reminds him of the smell of the teacher’s smoking section back when he was in elementary. That smell and the smell of gasoline drove his blood wild.
Martirio takes out a triangle rack and places it on the pool table. He puts two quarters into the pool table and the balls rumble free. He starts placing all the balls on the green felt of the table, when the creaking sound of the door squeaks.
As his nose tickles to the smell of burning tobacco, the door slowly swings open and the sunlight outside breaks the monotony of the pool hall.
The floor of the place is tile from the 1970’s, cracked and stained from decades of life bleeding upon it. As the door opens, the sunlight exposes a hole in the floor as wide as a bowling ball. One pair of black shoes steps in, standing in the hole momentarily. The shoes look patiently polished to perfection. To either side of these shoes stand two other pairs of feet. On the right stand a pair of similar shoes, not nearly as shined as the first pair but close. On the left a pair of black Converse Chuck Taylor’s reside. The shoelaces are black with Misfit skulls laced loosely through and permanent marker inks random scribbles on the whites of the shoe. Behind the three pair of shoes is another pair of shoes, Nike looking but undiscernable to Martirio smoking in the back of the room.
In tandem, the four pairs of feet walk in as the door shuts the light out behind them.
The leading pair of black shoes reside beneath a pair of black slacks, ironed tight to perfection. To the right of this are a pair of legs draped in dark pants, slightly faded, especially at the knees. Two pairs of legs over, jeans hang slightly above the Converse, torn and cut like acid-washed rejects. The legs behind all of them are still out of eye’s reach as Martirio chalks his pool-stick and takes another drag, careful not to get any smoke in his eyes.
Tucked into the leading black slacks is a white pinned-striped button up shirt. The muscles behind the t-shirt ripple behind the black vertical lines. A silver necklace dangles just below the collar, catching the neon glow of the room. A black polo t-shirt hangs un-tucked to the right, unbuttoned and stained brown near the collar. To the left, is a plain white-t with Popeye arms protruding from the cut sleeves. Behind all of them is still a mystery, as Martirio carefully racks the balls on the table.
He had a annoyance for people who couldn’t rack correctly, as his father often slapped him across the face for doing it wrong when he was too young to know any better. He plucks his fingers in between the balls in the triangle, sliding it into perfect position. Looking up, he stares at the four still walking in, as they approach a vacant table in the middle of the room.
The leading pair of eyes, deep and brown belong to Rick Ruiz. Inside Rick’s head is a steady rhythm as he pulls out a seat at the table.
What’s on his mind is the nature of iridescent lights as the pool hall lighting flickers upon his skin. He’s also wondering who the guy at the back of the bar playing pool is, but doesn’t give it a second thought. His hand in his pocket molests his lucky poker chip.
Underneath his shirt, at the elbow is a brace. His lust for the thrill of gambling had his arm in a bind after a game of Texas Hold ‘em two nights prior. He’d gone all in with pocket Jacks against a flop that was obviously against his favor. He’d bet double or nothing, disregarding the fact that he didn’t have the 500 dollars to pay up. When all was said and done, he’d been granted a day to pay up. The next day at the tracks he’d redeemed himself on a dark horse.
Light complexion colors his skin, and his jawbones make him look like a movie star. His perfect nose points his face like a compass arrow.
Pulling up a chair next to him is Matt Rieser, but to those reading he’ll be referred to as “Bones”. He’s a lesser version of Rick, a sad excuse for an imitation. His hair shorter and spikey, standing much like a bad cow-lick. He’s slightly chubby and breathes hard through his nose.
Meanwhile Martirio scratches the cue ball, knocking in the 8-ball at the same time.
“Fuck!”
"Vegas, get us something to drink," his voice leaves his mouth sounding soft but commanding.
In his dirty Converse and torn jeans, Vegas looks over at Rick with an open hand. Bones slaps a 10 dollar bill into his open palm. Vegas’ blue eyes give him a doll-face look that is far beyond the opposite of his true demeanor.
“Yessah massah,” he says turning towards the bar.
The Barkeep is skinny, and slightly balding. His glasses magnify his eyes to a laughable size. He’s got a strange obsession for mnemonic devices as today’s beer’s drink specials read:
Amberbauch
Budweiser
Carta Blanca
Dos Equis
Estrella
He also killed a man when he was 13-years-old.
†