Bourbon Fri Oct 30, 2009 4:58 am
Over two decades ago, a table had been lovingly crafted. Fine felt was carefully adhered to the dark walnut formation, creating undeniable harmony. Any skeptic could have laid a level across its surface and immediately realized the flawlessness of the masterpiece. Every groove, every curve, every bevel was the pinnacle of perfection in the maker's eyes.
Red felt now gives way to bare table where drunken patrons have misdirected the tips of their wooden cues. The smokey walnut's exquisite finish has been irreversibly smudged by countless condensation-covered coasterless glassware. Fake emulations of oral hygiene pepper the underside of the table, forming their own man made stalactites. Half-a-clip's worth of bullet holes penetrate deep into the wood, reminding both poolsharks and prey alike of the city's constant threat of violence. The table has been fornicated upon tenfold the amount of times its been shot, and that only accounts for maybe one-fifth of the stains.
To say this table had seen better days is a vast understatement.
A new patch of fluid quickly works its way into the table's cloth surface, its caramel color turning the faded red felt the color of blood. Little bits of half-chewed boba root are scattered across the once perfect plane, threatening to dry and become part of the table's legacy permanently. The dark murky liquid spreads farther out along the felt like storm clouds swallowing up a corner of the sky.
A crimson clad ruffian stands over the table, wiping his 9 o'clock shadow with the back of his sleeve. His nose runs from the sudden expulsion of the contents of his mouth. His long eyelashes interlace over his eyes as he clamps them shut, his mind replaying the scenario on the back of his eyelids. He barely manages to inhale a quick rattling breath before his body forces the wind out of him again in short jovial bursts of air. His laughter draws a glance from almost everyone in the bar, though nobody seems to give the beverage-challenged guffawer a second thought. Eventually the man's able to catch his breath enough to coherently address his counterpart.
"He Tried to cuff Samphy? Th' hell was the idiot thinking?... Tiny lil Cambodian is probably -more- deadly when he aint tryin to aim his .45 cal penis-extension around!" His sleeve gets soggier as he wipes away the grime thats trying to slither out of his nostrils. His laughter barely ceases between sentences. "Hell of a first month for Brig. I'm glad he had a run in with the Muay Thai champ of southern San Paro. That'll learn him to keep his ass outta my neck of the woods."
"Your little cousin has been blipping on people's radars though, Bourb. It aint in your best interests to have your blood relative shaking things up on our side of the circus. You know what people'll do to you if you're caught sending him anything more than a Christmas card... And even if you do wanna show him whatever rosy-cheeked illegitimate offspring you might have, your cred won't be the only thing yer puttin at risk."
"Well, fuck. Lets just hope he aint gettin' outta that bed for a while. One less five-o on the street means one less set of wheels tryin' to run us off, eh?... Now lets get outta here before Louie tries to make me pay for damages on this piece of shit table."
