Pick your Games

"You go right on ahead. I've got a beer to drink," Doc tells Mark. It's probably about time Mark learned some manners.

Mark returns to the pool table. "I guess it's just me against you, honey. Trust me, you'll enjoy having me against you." His smug attitude begins to wain when the butch biker lesbian smashes the balls across the table on the break.

Doc ignores the next few minutes of clacking. Mark has gone silent except for the occasional swear and frustrated remark. The ladies are laughing at him.

A buzzer signals that Doc's laundry is done. These machines work remarkably fast. He finishes off his beer and heads back to grab the clothes. He glances at the pool table. The biker has sunk everything but the eight. Mark is shooting. He has three stripes still up, all in good position, except that the cue ball is expertly trapped behind the eight.

Doc grabs the clothes. The stain on his leather jacket is miraculously removed. He folds the rest and packs them in his satchel.

There is a final clack. "Bullshit!" It appears Mark has sunk the eight, losing the game. He throws the cue on the table.

"You lose, cowboy," says the victorious biker. "Kelley, he's all yours."

"Thank you, Janet," replies the spectating biker. She stands up and tightens her studded knuckle gloves. This woman is short and heavy. It would take a truck to knock her over.

"Kelley!" shouts the bartender. "Take it outside, please! You'll set off the disturbance alarms again, and I don't want to deal with cops today."

"That's 'cause you're the one who's gonna hafta bail her out, Lance," Janet chuckles.

Kelley pulls a switchblade. "Let's dance outside, cowboy. I don't wanna shit where I eat."