| ~ Barcrawl~ Well, I thought to myself, This is definitely a change. I stood in the doorway of the bar slightly longer than I actually needed to. No need to let them know that I was sizing them all up. I sidled up to the bar and grabbed a stool. Thank God for fake ID's. As far as the bartender knew I was twenty-two, named Tricia Jones, and had every right to the Bud Ice I'd just ordered. Hell, he hadn't even carded me; he'd just wanted to make sure that I was paying for my first drink up front and in cash. Looking around at the crowd, though, I wasn't that suprised; the majority of the crowd looked to be just as underaged as I was. I guess the guy was more interested in making a profit than worrying about how old his clientele was. Judging by the jacked up prices and the size of the crowd, I'd say that he was definitely turning a profit. Not that everyone in The Sailor wasn't legal, mind you. The guy on my left was in his late thirties, and the forty something pig on my right was obviously drunk and delusional, considering how many passes he was making at me. My Bud couldn't come fast enough. Once beer was safely in hand, though, I decided it was time to see more than the limited scenery offered by sitting next to the bar. Time to head for greener pastures. The Sailor had a pool table along the far wall, and it looked like something that was worth checking into. It was a little on the far side of beat up, but that didn't matter; it was still something that I could cash in on. I'm not great at pool, but I am good enough to win bets with drunks. And if said drunks don't want to give up their money, well...I have my ways. A smile and a little bit of charm usually got most shell out my winnings, while others...I had to supress a feral grin. Oh, others had turned out to be entertaining. As I made my way over to the table, I began to reconsider my game plan. It looked like someone had beaten me to the punch, and judging by the ornery crowd, he was good. Not as skillful as me at stringing a crowd along, though, or they wouldn't have been so pissed off. See, the best way to string a crowd along is to make sure that the match stays very, very close. Never take fancy shots if you can help it; in fact, never do anything that can't be attributed to luck just as easily as to skill. More drunks will play with you if they think that you are just a lucky bum and they still have an ice-cube's chance in Hell of winning. This clown, though, seemed to get his kicks out of riling the crowd up. He'd miss several shots in a row, allowing his opponent to pull ahead, and would then send all of his balls rolling home, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind as to how skillful he really was. What he was was a damned show-off. As far as short guys go, though, he wasn't a bad example: bushy hair so black it had blue glints in it; a lean body that, judging by his arms, was still very well-muscled; a short beard that grew from ear to ear, just outlining his jaw; a nose that would have seemed too big on anyone else but just seemed right on him; and piercing hazel eyes that shifted from a focused brown to a satisfied blue as yet another of his opponents bit the dust. There was a certain grace to his movements that tripped my "little but lethal" alarm, but it was his eyes that made my adrenaline spike, my knees go weak, and my breath freeze in my lungs. One glance from those eyes, and I felt as though I had been stripped, analyzed, assessed, and then dismissed as non-threatening. Kinda like how a rabbit must feel when a wolf passes it up for bigger prey... Watching the crowd, though, I knew that it was time to take this guy down a peg or two. The last thing I needed was yet another bar fight with my scent all over it. I'd just gotten to this God-forsaken town, and I didn't want to leave it before I had picked up some cash. As I moved closer, though, my nose picked up a familiar scent...definitely mutant, and coming from Short, Dark and Studly. Then I caught one of the undertones, and I had to fight to keep my eyes from widening. This guy reeked of adamantium! Curiouser and curiouser, I thought to myself as I added my "name" to the list of people waiting to play. The rules are different in every bar, but this one seemed to keep its rules pretty basic. If you were the challenger, you paid for the game. It was challenger's right to break. No betting unless the challenger and the champion both agreed on it. If you were going to take a fancy shot, you had to call it; and playing slop-shot was definitely frowned upon. Finally, the last sucker before me lost his money, and I stepped up to pick out my stick, giving the guys at the table plenty of time to admire me. It never hurts to advertise a little bit, and I knew that I looked striking in my black leather. The only thing I had on that wasn't black was the white tank top underneath my jacket. I thought about just taking the jacket off, but decided that I didn't want to start scaring people just yet. At 5' 6", weighing over 200 pounds, I am built like an Amazon. Most people just don't realize it until either that jacket comes off or I start slugging people. I picked my stick and sauntered back to the table as Shorty was racking the balls. "So, darlin'," he drawled, "ya playin' fer pay er pleasure?" "How about pleasure, for our first game?" I purred, "I'll let you decide after that." I knew that I could be getting myself onto dangerous ground with that. When a guy asked a lady if she was playing for pleasure, he didn't always mean just for love of the game. ~ Continue ~ |