Overstaying a Welcome

Treu stiffened at Frost’s reproach. “It isn’t that I doubt my pool playing ability,” said Treu, “it is just that I don’t believe our most sacred object of our pack should be used as a gambling chip regardless of the odds.”

“Must I remind you,” reminded Frost, “that the war between us and the Reische Family could finally end if we held both objects?”

“And if we lost them to a stupid kid, our only hope would be that the vampires never recover their heirloom, either,” Treu said.

Frost, wearing the ceremonial red loin cloth that signified he was pack leader, stepped from the partial shadows of the corner of the bar and back into the flickering light illuminating the game at hand. “Listen, Treu. If it was not for some cunning gambles through out the years, both under my watch and the daring strides of our ancestors, our people would not be alive today. I appreciate your concerns, but part of being a good leader for your brothers is to know which gambles are worth taking.”

“This one is not worth it,” Treu said a bit louder than Frost. He was eager to let all his brothers know his official stance.

“I believe it is,” said Frost mildly, “and by order of your pack leader, we will accept the wager from the Blue Boy.” Frost, in a tone as even as the eye contact he was making with Treu, added, “Even if I must finish the game myself.”

I could practically hear Treu’s teeth grind under Frost’s glare from where I stood. Breaking the eye contact between the two alpha males, Treu, muttered, “Fine,” and pointed his pool stick at me. “You’re up, kid, and I promise you this will be your last turn. Wrap up your story while you shoot because you will not be allowed to talk during mine.”

I nodded. There was going to be no argument from me. Keeping my head attached to my body a little bit longer was a good deal as far as I saw it. I had no illusions in that, regardless if I should win or lose, these werewolves were going to kill me. I just had to pray that I was reading the power struggle between Treu and Frost correctly.

Leaning my pool stick against the table, I cracked my knuckles while reviewing my possible shots. He had none of his balls on the table, while all mine still remained to be knocked in. I picked back up the stick, and aimed at the cue ball from above at a sharp angle. I could feel whole drunken pack of dogs watching me.

For whomever is reading this little journal of mine, I would just like to point out that I don’t necessarily feel good about what I was about to relate in my past tales with Sir Pelican or with what was going to happen next with the werewolves. I don’t feel bad, either. My only defense is this: living on the edge is the only life worth living, and saving one’s own neck is the only item of ethics worth considering.

“I thank you all for being patient with me as I tell my story. We are nearing the end of it,” I said and struck down on the cue ball with my aimed pool stick. The angle of the shot sent the ball flying up in the air, nearly tapping the bottom of the candle mantle hanging above the pool table, and back down on the opposite side. At the same time it landed back on the table, it, with great force, hit and sank the striped 13 ball into the left corner pocket.

As I lined up my next shot, I said, “Little did I know that I would soon never see Sir Pelican, Philip the Fool, or the Annoying Mute ever again…”