Sinking Balls

The sound of the break shot seemed amplified in the confines of Benny's garage, echoing off the concrete floor and cluttered walls lined with old tires, forgotten tools, and dusty boxes. Kaizer felt the vibration travel up the warped house cue, a jarring sensation compared to the smooth energy transfer he remembered from high-end equipment. The break wasn't perfect – the cheap cue tip didn't grip the cue ball quite right, imparting less spin than intended – but it was solid enough. The balls scattered widely, and thankfully, the one-ball nestled conveniently near a side pocket. No balls dropped on the break itself.

Spike stepped up immediately, chalking his cue with aggressive jabs. "Alright, newbie," he muttered, eyes narrowed, clearly still stinging from their encounter at Rack 'em Up. "Let's see if your 'angles' work on Benny's bumpy felt."

Kaizer faded back, leaning against a stack of old newspapers, adopting the practiced nonchalance of a seasoned player observing his opponent. He watched Spike's stance, his stroke, the tension in his shoulders. Spike addressed the one-ball, aiming for the side pocket. It was a straightforward shot, but his stroke was too quick, too jerky – fueled by nervous energy and the desire to impress the onlookers, including Jake Miller, who watched with a detached, analytical coolness.

Clack. The one-ball went in. Thump. But Spike hadn't paid enough attention to the cue ball. It rolled too far, catching the edge of the five and stopping dead, leaving him awkwardly positioned, almost hooked behind the seven, for the two-ball which sat near the far corner.

Spike cursed under his breath, glaring at the table as if it had personally betrayed him. He circled the table, assessing the difficult layout. He could try a thin cut on the two, risking a scratch, or play safe. Remembering his disastrous safety attempt at Rack 'em Up, and likely feeling the pressure of the audience, Spike opted for aggression. He leaned down, contorted his body unnaturally, and tried to force the thin cut.

Click... Roll... The two-ball missed the corner pocket by a wide margin, rolling harmlessly towards the center. Worse, the cue ball clipped the seven on its way past, nudging it slightly but coming to rest in the middle of the table, leaving Kaizer a wide-open shot at the two. A rookie mistake born of frustration and pressure.

"Your shot, 'genius'," Spike spat, stepping away from the table, his face flushed with anger.

Kaizer pushed off the newspaper stack, his movements deliberate. He ignored the warped cue, the uneven lighting, the murmuring onlookers. His focus narrowed to the green rectangle before him, the familiar geometry of the balls. The two was easy. The three sat nicely near the head rail. The four was accessible after the three. He saw the path, not just for the next shot, but for the entire rack.

He stepped up to the two-ball. Simple stop shot. Let the subpar cue do the work, don't try to force it. Clack. Thump. The two disappeared. The cue ball stopped dead, leaving a perfect angle on the three.

He moved around the table with quiet efficiency. His stroke, even with the bad cue, was smoother, more controlled than Spike's frantic movements. He pocketed the three, using just a touch of follow to drift the cue ball out for the four. Clack. Thump.

The four went down, then the five. He wasn't playing with the same effortless grace he'd displayed at Rack 'em Up – the cue required constant compensation, the worn felt made precise cue ball control trickier – but his fundamental understanding of position play, his decades of ingrained knowledge, compensated for the equipment deficiencies. He wasn't just making balls; he was navigating the table, anticipating the next shot, the one after that, dictating the flow.

The murmuring from the onlookers quieted. Jake Miller watched intently now, his earlier smirk replaced by a calculating frown. Tank shifted his weight, his expression unreadable but clearly recognizing the superior skill on display. Spike just seethed silently, leaning against the garage wall, arms crossed tightly.

Kaizer addressed the six-ball, then the seven. Each shot executed with minimal fuss, maximum efficiency. He left himself a slightly tricky, long shot on the eight-ball, with the nine conveniently positioned near the pocket he was aiming for. He could have played safer, left himself easier shape, but a part of him – the old showman, the competitor – wanted to demonstrate control even under these conditions.

He took an extra moment, visualizing the path, feeling the balance point of the warped cue. He stroked smoothly, hitting the cue ball precisely where intended. The eight-ball tracked perfectly down the rail, dropping silently into the corner pocket. Thump. The cue ball, hit with just the right speed, rolled gently forward, nudging the nine-ball, which tipped obligingly into the adjacent pocket. A subtle, almost accidental-looking combination finish. Game over.

Silence hung in the garage for a beat, broken only by the hum of the bare bulb overhead. Kaizer straightened up, placing the house cue back on the makeshift rack. He looked at Spike.

Spike stared at the table, then at Kaizer, disbelief warring with fury on his face. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill, and practically threw it onto the table felt. "Luck," he muttered, but the word lacked conviction. He turned abruptly and stalked towards the back of the garage, needing space.

Kaizer picked up the ten dollars. Added to the fifteen in his pocket, that made twenty-five. Exactly the entry fee for the tournament. He'd done it. Played one game, won the money he needed for his immediate goal. He could leave now. Walk away clean. Fulfill the promise he'd made to himself.

He turned towards the exit, the crumpled bills clutched in his hand. This was the moment. Stick to the plan. Get out.

"Leaving so soon, Kaizer-Just-Kaizer?" Jake Miller's voice, smooth and challenging, cut through the silence. He'd stepped closer to the table, picking up the cue Spike had abandoned. "Didn't you say you needed table time? Warming up? One game ain't much of a warm-up."

Kaizer paused, his back to Jake. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the garage on him. Leaving now would look like running. Like he had just gotten lucky.

"Got what I needed," Kaizer said, trying to keep his voice steady, still facing the doorway.

"Which was?" Jake pressed, circling the table, idly tapping the cue butt on the floor. "Spike's ten bucks? Doesn't seem like much of a score for someone who plays like... well, like you do." The compliment was double-edged, acknowledging his skill while implying his motives were purely financial, small-time.

Kaizer turned slowly to face him. Jake met his gaze, a confident smirk playing on his lips. "Unless... you're afraid your 'luck' only works against Spike?"

The bait was obvious, crude even. But effective. Kaizer's pride, the old hustler's instinct not to back down from a challenge, flared hot in his chest. Leaving now felt like admitting defeat, validating Spike's pathetic accusations of luck.

And then there was the cue. The McDermott D-17 waiting for him in the digital ether, attainable for a hundred dollars. He had twenty-five. Another seventy-five needed. A few more games here... if he won... he could have enough for the cue and the entry fee. Walk into that tournament properly equipped, ready to face Jesse Riley, ready to make a real statement.

It was just pool. Just a few more games. He could control it. Win what he needed, then leave for real. The rationalization felt slick, easy, dangerous. He knew, deep down, it was the same logic that had tripped him up countless times before. The 'one more game' that turned into an all-night session, the 'small stakes' that inevitably escalated.

"Afraid?" Kaizer repeated, letting a small, cold smile touch his lips. The decision crystallised, the internal protest overridden by the immediate desire for more money, more validation, more play. The promise to himself dissolved like smoke. "No. Not afraid." He gestured towards the table with the ten dollars he'd just won from Spike. "Your break, Jake? Or you want to keep talking?"

Jake's smirk widened into a genuine grin. He tossed the ten dollars Kaizer had given him earlier onto the table, matching the bill Kaizer had won from Spike. "My break," he confirmed. "Standard ten a game?"

Kaizer hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Go big or go home? No. Control. Keep the stakes manageable. Don't get greedy. Not yet. "Ten's fine," he said, putting his newly won ten dollars back onto the table edge, keeping the original fifteen safely tucked away. Play with their money first.

Jake racked the balls with practiced ease, his movements smoother, more confident than Spike's. He took a few purposeful practice strokes, his form looking solid, controlled. This wouldn't be as easy as playing Spike. Jake seemed calmer, more calculating.

As Jake leaned down to break, Kaizer caught Tank's eye across the room. The stocky teen wasn't sneering like Spike or smirking like Jake. He just watched Kaizer with a quiet intensity, a flicker of something – respect? caution? – in his expression. Tank, Kaizer suspected, understood better than the others exactly what kind of player had just walked into Benny's garage.

Jake broke powerfully, cleanly. A ball dropped – the three-ball. The cue ball spun back towards the center, leaving him a perfect opening shot on the one. A much better start than Spike had managed.

Kaizer leaned back against the wall again, the rough concrete cool against his back. He'd crossed the line he'd drawn for himself. The twenty-five dollars for the entry fee was technically secured, sitting right there on the table, but now it was back in play, risked for the chance at more. The familiar, addictive hum of the game, the thrill of competition and risk, pulsed through his veins.

He was back in the thick of it, playing for money in a dimly lit garage, under the watchful eyes of local sharks. It felt wrong, a step backwards. Yet, undeniably, thrillingly, it also felt like coming home.

Miles away, Mark Jessop's question hung unanswered in the digital silence of The Phreak Zone's Billiards forum, a ticking time bomb beneath Kaizer's carefully constructed double life. But Kaizer couldn't hear the ticking. All he could hear was the sharp clack of Jake Miller pocketing the one-ball, and the siren song of the game pulling him deeper in.