It was the night of the big party. Everyone who was anyone would be there, lingering the hallways of better, richer folk pretending that in fact they are the richer, better folk. But there are some in the town that aren't at this party, who aren't pretending that they're famous.
       It was an old tavern, set back from the main street a little bit. An old run down place, you wouldn't really think too much of it. It more like eye sore, an untidy wooden piece of crap that remains the same while the city is becoming bigger and more beautiful. No one seems to care anymore that it is an eye sore. There was a rumor going around some time ago that the place would become a national landmark of the city, but the townies decided that a bar, or in their minds, a house of sin, shouldn't be a tourist attraction. There was something special about this place, its pool tables. It attracted all the wrong folk from around the state.
       The tables were something of beauty. British in origin it's said. Handmade it's said. Priceless it's said. There were four in the bar scattered across the floor. There were three hard, brown, Cape Town oak tables with a deep, rough, green felt. The legs were wide and hand carved, meticulously finished to represent those of hounds. Oh, a sight to see. The last table which sat in the back of the tavern was one of great importance and was covered with a deep brown tarp. It was a mahogany table, which was in length nine feet; the felt was a deep maroon. It was a classic; the legs were crafted by the owner no more than a hundred years ago to resemble the legs of the lion. Engraved on the side of this table was the word "Rex".
       The rest of the bar looked like any other. There were mostly regulars there. That night, the night of the party, but there was one new face. A young man sat at the end of one of the side panels which lined the perimeter of the place. He was about twenty years old with dark hair and skin and was cunning. He just finished a game with one of regulars where he hustled him out of ten dollars, in his case a whole day's wage. He ordered just bourbon dry. The thought of a real man drinking anything with ice disgusted him. You could tell it in his eyes the way he ordered, the way he looked up at me when I asked him "if he wanted that shot on the rocks."
       He was known by no name but the "Hustler", and that night he hustled everyone out of their wages to a grand total of about two hundred dollars. No one would show him up. No one would try to get their money back. Until the door opened. It was another usual the player of the covered table. He was called the Apothecary. There was myth centered on him, one of the oldest men in town. He lived in a castle in the woods; it might be the one where the party was going on through no one knows. His face was hooded with dark black hair. His eyes were covered, but you knew he could see and see clearly into the soul of any player. He carried his stick with him where ever he went it was almost a kind of wand. It was a dark wooded stick, must have been made of willow. There was a grip on the bottom end that was worn down and embodied the exact placement of his hands.
       He walked in to the bar slowly. He was a man that also took his time and never was a panic or drunkenness. It wasn't in his nature. He got to his table and the motion of the room went on again. For when he walked it was all quiet. Nothing moved. The clock on the side of the door didn't even tick.
       "Anyone want to play?" the Apothecary said in a low tone. Not many people wanted to hear him say that for they were afraid that they would loose more than just there wages, but their dignity.
       "Yes, I'll play you" coming from the other end of the hall just as low. The Hustler stepped out from where he was at and walked over to the Apothecary.
       He was excited, the Apothecary. He took out his pack and slowly picked-out the cigarette that met his approval, and pulled out his lighter. The cigarette was lighted; he inhaled slowly and exhaled slowly and cupped his mouth so the smoke would come out the side of his mouth like some kind of steam engine. It must have been the tobacco because the fog that came about his head was something of magic.
       "Why don't you break" said the Apothecary.
       "I will be glad to" the hustler said in an almost obsequious tone. It was obviously sarcasm, but you could tell that the Apothecary didn't mind so much.
       The game was on. Everyone was standing around like it was two orphaned children fighting for a piece of steak, gambling what little money they had. Pool was just another vice or another means for some temporary relief something a whore couldn't give you. Rarely do you see these men enjoy without a bet. It's not in their nature.
       The hustler stacked the balls into the triangle and lined it accordingly. He laid the stick on his thumb and he struck. The balls scattered two stripes went into the right pocket but that was it. The Apothecary surveyed the maroon felt like it was Eden. He planned his move like it was chess or maybe something more like it was war.
       "Bar Keep, Can I have a drink?" the tone was soft, direct and evident that it was the Hustler speaking.
       "Sure, what will it be?"
       "Hm, Vodka."
       "Okay"
       He took the vodka out. It was under the front bar table. It was dusty. That liquor wasn't often picked. Most of the people in the town were Irish and whiskey was the only thing that would fill that void in their lives. He poured the liquid into the shot glass. The hustler walked up slowly imitating the Apothecary. Took the glass and drank it as fast as it was poured. He walked back to the table.
       He took his stick in his left hand, and placed the short more narrowed end between his thumb and index finger and quickly broke the triangle in the middle of the table. The balls scattered across the maroon felt like bugs do when they hit the light. Two striped balls went into the right pocket. The Hustler looked with glee across the table; he was the only one who had admired the work he had done for the first move.
       "Ha…I'll give you the next move." Said the hustler.
       "No take it…you got two balls in." Replied the Apothecary.
       "Right." The hustler took the stick again and tried to work some kind of magic over the table. Angled and measured the distance between the cue ball and the red striped ball by the left side pocket. He struck fast. The ball twisted and was knocked off course. The Apothecary smirked and took another long deep hit of his cigarette. Walked toward the table, took his stick out and placed in the exact place between the thumb and the index finger. He struck the ball slowly but with such a great power that it went far enough to knock the solid red ball in the left bottom pocket. He rubbed the felt like it was a lion and there was a sense that the purring sound was coming from the table. It was alive and happy that the master was back. He made another shot the same way just getting the solid blue ball in the left top pocket. And on his third shot he missed.
       "So I guess you're not so invincible?"
The Apothecary finished his cigarette not hearing what the Hustler said to him. The last deep hit was amazing. The hustlers face went from boldness and trepidation to a pure lily white. There was heat in the room that covered everyone, and within this heat was a certain smell the undercoated undetected scent of something. The men could smell faintly. But the crowed around the table like it was the source they were physically attracted to the game, to the battle.
       The game went on for hours. It seemed that both men were equally matched. By the chime of the clock of twelve there was only four balls left on the table. One striped and one solid the other was the eight ball and the cue ball.
       It was time for the hustler to show that he was the greatest in the world. He took the shot it was fast and quick. No one warned him of the danger of his action. The crowd stared at the Apothecary as he pulled out another cigarette and lit it with his remaining one. Took two deep hits and exhaled them both out slowly. He lost. He congratulated the hustler on his game he even bought him a drink. The bar keep gave him a bottle to drink from on the house to keep in the internal demon of the Apothecary down and tame. The hustler took the drink unaware of his surroundings or what was going to happen next. He felt something, an omen maybe, on the back of his neck. He rose slowly and started for the door. Excusing himself…saying he had another engagement, something about a party on the top of the town. He got outside the bar and walked up the hill. The Apothecary finished his drink and walked out. He followed the Hustler closely. He was the new hunt. There was a new speed in the steps of this old shadow. He got a hold of the hustler hit him across the head. Picked the roughest rock off of the streets and break him. When his face was gone and the blood was hardening on the Apothecary's black cloak, he knew that the hustler was dead. He was glad. He killed for the sake of killing. He pulled out another cigarette and took many deep and long hits. He was more alive after he killed. His demeanor changed completely his death like figure took the shape of someone who was full and alive. He walked away from the death and back to his party and new man.