Ripples in a Stagnant Pool

The silence that followed Kaizer's pronouncement – "Not yet, anyway" – stretched just long enough to become awkward. The lanky teen with the frosted blonde tips, the one who seemed to be the mouthpiece, blinked. He exchanged another glance with his stockier companion, whose jaw was set in a mixture of disbelief and nascent irritation beneath the brim of his backwards baseball cap.

"Not yet?" the lanky one repeated, a scoff coloring his tone. He hitched up his baggy jeans, trying to reclaim some semblance of nonchalance. "Pretty cocky for some random kid we ain't never seen before. You just move here or something?"

Kaizer simply shrugged, bending down to rack the balls again. The smooth, worn surfaces of the balls felt comforting under his young fingertips. He focused on arranging them perfectly within the cheap plastic triangle, each ball snug against its neighbors. It was a small act of control, a grounding ritual. "Something like that," he replied vaguely, not looking up. Let them wonder. Let them underestimate. That was always the best way.

"Look, man," the stocky one interjected, his voice lower, rougher. He pushed himself off the adjacent table, taking a step closer to Kaizer's table six. Kaizer could feel the kid trying to project intimidation, puffing his chest out slightly. "We run things around here, y'know? Me 'n Spike." He jerked a thumb towards the lanky teen. "You come in here, runnin' racks like... like you think you're somethin'. Kinda disrespectful."

Spike and Tank, Kaizer thought, suppressing a smile. He remembered names like that from countless halls across the country. Every local pool room had its self-proclaimed kings, usually loud, moderately skilled, and easily provoked. He finally straightened up, meeting Tank's gaze evenly. His own eyes, holding the weight of decades, felt strangely potent in his young face. "Just playing pool," Kaizer said calmly. "Didn't realize the table came with territorial rights."

Spike chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Everything 'round here's got rights, newbie. Especially when someone plays like they're hustling." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "So, what's the deal? You practicing for something? Or just trying to impress someone?" His eyes flicked pointedly towards the front of the hall, where a couple of girls were now watching the freshmen fumble around.

Kaizer almost laughed. Impress teenage girls? He'd spent years playing under the crushing pressure of thousand-dollar sets, televised tournaments, and the critical eyes of world-class opponents. The idea was absurd. But he needed to play the part, at least somewhat. "Just getting the feel," he said, deliberately vague. He picked up the cue ball, rubbing it clean on his jeans – an old habit.

"Getting the feel," Spike mimicked, rolling his eyes. "Right. Look, you wanna play? Or you just gonna keep practicing your drills like some kinda robot?"

Tank crossed his arms. "Yeah. Put your money where your mouth is. Or maybe just your time. Friendly game? Nine-ball. Winner keeps the table."

This was the predictable next step. The challenge, couched in nonchalance but driven entirely by ego. They saw his skill, couldn't reconcile it with his appearance, and their territorial pride demanded they put him in his place or, at the very least, figure him out. For them, losing table time was a minor sting to their pride; for Kaizer, it was an opportunity.

He considered them for a moment. Spike was all lean angles and nervous energy, probably a faster player relying on shot-making over strategy. Tank looked like the muscle, maybe a power breaker, likely prone to frustration when things didn't go his way. They were exactly the kind of players the old Kaizer would have methodically dismantled for rent money.

"Nine-ball," Kaizer echoed, nodding slowly. "Okay. You break." He gestured towards the rack he'd just set up.

Spike grinned, relief and anticipation warring on his face. He clearly thought Kaizer's easy agreement was a sign of naive confidence. "Alright, newbie. Your funeral." He swaggered over, grabbing his own cue from a case leaning against the wall – a flashier model than Kaizer's simple maple stick, probably fiberglass with some fancy inlays.

Tank stepped back, giving Spike room. Kaizer leaned against the wall near the corner pocket, adopting a relaxed posture but watching intently. He wasn't just watching the break; he was watching Spike's stance, his grip, the tension in his shoulders. Reading opponents was just as important as reading the table.

Spike set up the cue ball, took a few exaggerated practice strokes, then unleashed a powerful, slightly uncontrolled break. CRACK! The sound echoed louder than Kaizer's controlled tap. Balls flew across the table. The one-ball zipped into a side pocket. The cue ball, however, careened off three rails and ended up near the head string, leaving a long, awkward shot at the two-ball, which was nestled near the foot of the table. A powerful break, but sloppy. No control.

"Yes! One on the break!" Spike announced unnecessarily, already circling the table, eyeing the two-ball. "Looks like easy pickings."

Kaizer remained silent, observing. The shot wasn't impossible, but it was tricky. A long cut, with the three-ball potentially blocking the path to the next logical shot. Spike, high on adrenaline and the successful pocketing on the break, didn't seem to see the danger. He chalked up aggressively, leaned down quickly, and fired at the two.

He made the two-ball, but just as Kaizer predicted, his cue ball cannoned into the three, sending it rolling away and leaving the cue ball stuck awkwardly behind the four near the side rail. A classic case of tunnel vision – focusing only on making the immediate shot without considering the consequences.

Spike cursed under his breath. "Damn table rolls funny." He looked at the layout, his earlier confidence visibly deflating. He had no clear shot at the three. He could try a bank, but it was low percentage. A kick shot was even tougher. The smart play was a safety.

But Spike wasn't playing smart. He was playing angry. He tried a wild, two-rail bank shot at the three. The angles were all wrong. The three missed the pocket by a mile, ricocheting off the rail and leaving the balls wide open. The cue ball rolled to the center of the table.

"Your shot, newbie," Spike muttered, stepping away from the table with ill-disguised frustration. Tank just shook his head slightly.

Kaizer pushed off the wall, his movements deliberate. He surveyed the table. It was an open invitation. A roadmap to victory laid out before him. He could probably run the remaining balls – three through nine – without much difficulty. But that wasn't the point right now. The point was control. The point was sending a message without being overtly confrontational.

He addressed the three-ball. A simple stop shot, pocketing the three and leaving the cue ball perfectly positioned for the four. Clack. Thump. Done.

He moved to the four. A touch of bottom-left spin, sending the four into the corner while the cue ball drifted gently across the table, opening up the angle for the five. Clack. Thump. Executed flawlessly.

The five was straightforward. He focused on speed control, ensuring the cue ball traveled just far enough to leave an easy shot on the six, which sat near the center. Clack. Thump. Like clockwork.

Spike and Tank watched in silence now, their earlier bravado completely gone, replaced by a dawning realization. This wasn't luck. This wasn't a fluke. The kid wasn't just making shots; he was dictating the flow of the game, placing the cue ball on a string.

Kaizer lined up the six. He could easily pocket it and move on to the seven. But he saw an opportunity. An opportunity to demonstrate something beyond simple potting ability. The seven-ball was near a side pocket, but the eight-ball sat directly in the path the cue ball would naturally take after hitting the six. A standard shot would leave him hooked, forcing a difficult kick or bank.

Most players, even decent ones like Spike, would just take the easy six and worry about the seven later. Or maybe try to force the cue ball with excessive spin, risking a miss or a scratch.

Kaizer saw a different path. The ghost stroke.

He shifted his stance slightly, adjusted his bridge hand minutely. He aimed at the six, but his focus was entirely on the cue ball's journey after contact. He applied a precise amount of right-hand side spin – english – combined with a touch of draw (bottom spin). It required an incredibly accurate hit on both the cue ball and the object ball.

He stroked smoothly, the tip hitting the cue ball exactly where he intended. Clack. The six-ball rolled cleanly into the corner pocket. Thump.

But the magic was in the cue ball. Instead of following its natural path towards the blocking eight-ball, the combination of draw and side spin took effect. It hit the rail behind the six-ball's pocket, spun back against the expected angle, curved around the obstructing eight-ball in a gentle arc, and rolled softly to a stop, leaving Kaizer a perfect, straight-in shot on the seven-ball.

It was a subtle masterpiece of cue ball control, invisible to the casual observer but screamingly obvious to anyone who understood the physics of the game.

Spike's jaw literally dropped. "What... what the hell was that?" he stammered, pointing a shaky finger at the cue ball. "How'd you do that? It was gonna hit the eight!"

Tank just stared, eyes wide. "Side spin," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But... that much? And that accurate?"

Kaizer offered a small, enigmatic smile. "Just playing the angles," he said softly, already moving to line up the seven. He potted the seven easily, then the eight. The nine-ball sat waiting near the corner pocket where he'd left the cue ball after his exhibition on the six. A simple tap-in.

Clack. Thump. Game over.

He'd won the first game without Spike or Tank even getting another shot after the break. And he'd done it with a casual display of control far beyond anything they likely comprehended fully, yet couldn't deny seeing.

"Rack 'em," Kaizer said quietly, retrieving the cue ball.

Spike looked stunned, running a hand through his ridiculous hair. Tank leaned down, picked up the triangle, his movements mechanical. The air crackled with unspoken questions and shattered confidence.

"Again," Spike said, his voice tight. "My break was shit. Double or nothing on the table time."

Kaizer raised an eyebrow. "Double or nothing on zero is still zero," he pointed out mildly. "But sure. Your break." He wasn't here for table time. He was here to reawaken the dormant beast within, to feel the familiar burn of competition, even at this low level.

As Tank racked the balls, Kaizer leaned back against the wall again, letting his mind drift. This felt... easy. Too easy. These kids were flies to be swatted. He remembered being fifteen, struggling with shots like the one Spike missed on the two-ball, feeling intimidated by older players. Now, the roles were reversed, but magnified a thousandfold. He had the knowledge of a grandmaster in the body of a novice.

It was a strange dichotomy. Part of him, the weary sixty-three-year-old, felt a pang of sympathy for these outmatched kids. Another part, the ruthless competitor honed over decades of high-stakes hustling, relished the effortless dominance. He had to temper that ruthlessness. Flying too high, too fast, would attract the wrong kind of attention. He needed to build slowly, re-establish himself, maybe find a mentor figure – though who could possibly mentor him now?

His gaze drifted around the hall. The same faded posters. The same sticky floor near the snack bar. The low murmur of conversation from other tables. He saw Mel behind the counter, still polishing, but his eyes seemed fixed on table six more often than not. Mel missed nothing. Kaizer made a mental note: be careful around Mel. The old man might not play much, but he understood the game. He'd recognize unnatural talent when he saw it.

Spike stepped up to break again, visibly concentrating this time, trying to channel his frustration into focus. He hit it hard, but with slightly more control. A solid ball dropped. The cue ball stayed near the center. A much better result.

"Yeah, that's more like it!" Spike declared, a flicker of his earlier confidence returning. He surveyed the table, solids scattered nicely. He had a clear shot on the three-ball.

He made the three, then the one. He lined up the five, a slightly tougher cut shot. He took his time, focused, and pocketed it cleanly. He was playing better now, fueled by the sting of the previous loss. He sunk the six and then the two. Only the four and seven solids remained, plus the eight-ball. He had a decent shot at the four.

Kaizer watched impassively. Spike was a decent shot-maker when he wasn't letting his emotions get the better of him. But his positional play was still rudimentary. He pocketed the four, but the cue ball drifted too far, leaving him tough on the seven, tucked near the corner.

Spike studied the angle, biting his lip. He could try to force it, but the risk of scratching was high. He looked at Kaizer, then back at the table. Reluctantly, he opted for a safety, nudging the cue ball gently behind the eight, leaving Kaizer hooked.

"Your shot," Spike said, a smirk returning. He'd managed to turn the tables, forcing Kaizer into a difficult position.

Kaizer stepped up. The cue ball was indeed hidden, no direct path to the lowest-numbered ball, the nine (since Spike was solids). A kick shot was the obvious play. Most players would try a one-rail kick, hoping to nick the nine and leave Spike safe in return.

But Kaizer saw more. He saw the geometry, the ghost lines. He could do better than just a safe nick.

He walked around the table, studying the angles from different perspectives. Tank and Spike watched, curious about how the 'robot' would handle a truly tricky situation. Mel, Kaizer noted peripherally, had stopped wiping the counter altogether and was leaning forward slightly.

Kaizer visualized the path. Off the side rail, then the head rail, catching the nine-ball on its left side. But not just hitting it – hitting it with enough controlled speed and slight english to send the nine towards the opposite corner pocket, while the cue ball itself deflected safely away. A two-rail offensive kick. Highly difficult, bordering on showboating if it failed.

He bent down, his young body surprisingly limber. He found his aiming point on the first rail, factored in the spin, the speed of the table felt – slightly slower than tournament standard, he noted – and drew back the cue.

Silence descended around table six.

He stroked forward, a smooth, controlled punch. The cue ball struck the first rail precisely, zipped across to the head rail, kissed it lightly, and angled down towards the nine-ball nestled near the foot rail.

It hit the nine exactly as planned. Click. The nine-ball sprang to life, shooting across the table directly towards the far corner pocket. Spike and Tank tracked its path, eyes wide.

Thump. The nine disappeared into the heart of the pocket.

The cue ball deflected harmlessly towards the center of the table.

Game over. Again. This time, won with a spectacular two-rail kick-in of the game-winning ball from a supposedly impossible position.

Spike just stared at the empty pocket where the nine had been, then back at Kaizer, his mouth agape. Tank let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. "No freakin' way, man. No freakin' way."

"Beginner's luck?" Kaizer asked innocently, allowing a small smile.

Spike slammed his fancy cue butt onto the floor in frustration, immediately regretting it as Mel shot him a death glare from the counter. "Luck? Bullshit! Nobody makes that shot! Not like that! Who the hell are you?"

"I told you," Kaizer said, starting to unscrew the joint of his cheap maple cue. "Name's Kaizer." He glanced at the plastic timer Mel had given him. He still had about twenty minutes left, but he'd accomplished what he set out to do. He'd confirmed his skills, felt the table, and made an impression. Pushing it further right now, embarrassing these two further, served no purpose.

He pocketed the chalk he hadn't even needed to use. "Table's yours," he said, nodding to Spike and Tank. "Thanks for the games."

He turned to leave, cue in hand. Spike and Tank were too stunned to say much, just watching him go. As he passed the counter, Mel caught his eye. The older man's expression was unreadable, that perpetual frown firmly in place. But his eyes... his eyes held a flicker of something Kaizer recognized from old-time pool veterans. A flicker of assessment, of seeing something beyond the surface.

"Kid," Mel grunted, his voice raspy.

Kaizer paused. "Yeah?"

Mel gestured vaguely towards the table Kaizer had just left. "That... side-spin curve around the eight. And that two-rail kick on the nine." He paused, polishing a spot on the counter with unnecessary vigor. "Ain't seen shots like that 'round here since... well, since a long damn time." He didn't elaborate, didn't ask questions, just made the statement. A subtle acknowledgment.

"Just playing the angles," Kaizer repeated, offering a slight nod before pushing through the door, the bell jingling his exit.

Outside, the late afternoon sun felt warm on his young face. He took a deep breath of fresh, non-chalk-dusted air. The world seemed sharper, possibilities humming around him like electricity. He'd just spent an hour in his past, playing like his future self. The ripples had started. Spike and Tank wouldn't forget him. Mel had noticed him. Word would spread, slowly at first, about the quiet kid with the impossible shots.

He gripped his cheap cue tighter. This was just the beginning. He had decades of knowledge, a body untouched by age and abuse, and a burning desire to rewrite his story. The felt was waiting.