Betting on a Pissing Contest

Treu, who towered at nearly six and a half feet and a good head taller than me, was lanky, and had a permanent smirk etched upon his muzzle that suggested that he knew more than anyone else in the room, or, at least, he thought himself mighty clever for thinking himself so.

“Hey there, Treu,” I said with a quick nod---the international handshake guys use when attempting to be cool with each other.

“You think you can beat our new friend Garland here?” Frost extended his pool stick out to Treu.

Pretending to not notice his chief’s gesture, Treu selected a slightly longer stick that was leaning against a cedar wall next to the skeletonal remains of a long deceased pool stick rack.

With his back still turned towards the wall, Treu said, “Who knows. With all the defeats we have had at the fangs of the Reische Family,” he turned around to match cunning eyes with Frost, “maybe it’s my turn to slip up.”

“I don’t think your pride can let you lose, despite your mediocre playing.”

I gave a cough. When that didn’t break the tension or end the uncomfortable silence between the two, I slapped down a handful of irregular sized coins. “Twenty shillings says you can’t do what Frost just did.”

It worked. The appearance of money always does. Not that I didn’t find their little pissing contest fascinating. I was mulling over how much of the conflict and the choosing of Treu to play me for money were acts in the hustle, and how much of it was actual conflict. If much of it was the latter, I could use it for my own amusement.

“Twenty, huh? Has the drinking already made you that loose with your money?” Treu said while returning the attention of both his gaze and smirk to me. “You are on, kid. You can put down the bet anytime, Frost.”

The leader of the werewolf pack opened a leather pouch tied around his waist just above his long tailed loincloth, and, in a neat single stack, placed his bet on the railing next to my own coinage while saying, “You aren’t bad, city kid. This is truly a gamble.”

The whole “kid” routine was really getting on my nerves. Besides, Frost paid far too much attention to dropping that bet on the table, and now I had made their con. Treu was good. He was fan-freakin’-tastic, most likely. Hoping I would play and bet loosely with new found determination due to hurt pride, Frost was attempting to sell the idea that he, in sporting nature, had handed the bet down to a lesser player while, in truth, he had played me to gauge my skill level and then pick Treu, his ringer, to secure the win. I wasn’t sure if the conflict between them was part of it. Perhaps, he was aware of the possibility that I would suspect the hustle so he was faking doubt over whether or not his ringer would purposely lose the match to embarrass his leader, yet rival. There was only one way to find out, but I needed to buy a little more time.

“Go ahead and break, Treu.”

Not arguing, Treu walked himself and his stick to the kitchen end of the pool table, ducking his head beneath a candle stick hanging from the ceiling along the way. Bending his lean body over to take aim at the cue ball, he said, “So, tell us, kid. What racket did you cause with Reische nest?”

He broke. Two solid balls---the two and the six---sank into the same pocket.

Bastard.