(no subject)
Martirio lights a cigarette in the back of a pool hall. Not too big a fan of smokes, he inhales lightly as the Mexican cigarette tears through his throat. He had a preference for Marlboro Reds but these weren’t typical American brand. These were the Mexican offshoot, imitations at best. Mexican cigarettes had a more harsh feeling going down but Martirio always smoked one fast just for the head rush. The first hit reminds him of the smell of the teacher’s smoking section back when he was in elementary. That smell and the smell of gasoline drove his blood wild.
Martirio takes out a triangle rack and places it on the pool table. He puts two quarters into the pool table and the balls rumble free. He starts placing all the balls on the green felt of the table, when the creaking sound of the door squeaks.
As his nose tickles to the smell of burning tobacco, the door slowly swings open and the sunlight outside breaks the monotony of the pool hall.
The floor of the place is tile from the 1970’s, cracked and stained from decades of life bleeding upon it. As the door opens, the sunlight exposes a hole in the floor as wide as a bowling ball. One pair of black shoes steps in, standing in the hole momentarily. The shoes look patiently polished to perfection. To either side of these shoes stand two other pairs of feet. On the right stand a pair of similar shoes, not nearly as shined as the first pair but close. On the left a pair of black Converse Chuck Taylor’s reside. The shoelaces are black with Misfit skulls laced loosely through and permanent marker inks random scribbles on the whites of the shoe. Behind the three pair of shoes is another pair of shoes, Nike looking but undiscernable to Martirio smoking in the back of the room.
In tandem, the four pairs of feet walk in as the door shuts the light out behind them.
The leading pair of black shoes reside beneath a pair of black slacks, ironed tight to perfection. To the right of this are a pair of legs draped in dark pants, slightly faded, especially at the knees. Two pairs of legs over, jeans hang slightly above the Converse, torn and cut like acid-washed rejects. The legs behind all of them are still out of eye’s reach as Martirio chalks his pool-stick and takes another drag, careful not to get any smoke in his eyes.
Tucked into the leading black slacks is a white pinned-striped button up shirt. The muscles behind the t-shirt ripple behind the black vertical lines. A silver necklace dangles just below the collar, catching the neon glow of the room. A black polo t-shirt hangs un-tucked to the right, unbuttoned and stained brown near the collar. To the left, is a plain white-t with Popeye arms protruding from the cut sleeves. Behind all of them is still a mystery, as Martirio carefully racks the balls on the table.
He had a annoyance for people who couldn’t rack correctly, as his father often slapped him across the face for doing it wrong when he was too young to know any better. He plucks his fingers in between the balls in the triangle, sliding it into perfect position. Looking up, he stares at the four still walking in, as they approach a vacant table in the middle of the room.
The leading pair of eyes, deep and brown belong to Rick Ruiz. Inside Rick’s head is a steady rhythm as he pulls out a seat at the table. He has a weak-spot for gambling which almost cost him a finger two months prior when he went all-in on a bad hand. He managed to pay off his debt when he got lucky the next day betting on horses at the local track. Light complexion colors his skin, and his jawbones make him look like a movie star. His perfect nose seemingly points his face like a compass arrow.
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