With my morning hygiene procedures completed, I linked up with Fleas and the rest of my coworkers inside the hotel ballroom to begin our seminars. The bulk of the day was largely consumed with the attendance of the required workshop training sessions. At the conclusion of the training day, I discussed with my newfound compatriot some of the options that we had available for our nocturnal entertainment. I advised Fleas that the best place to score some play with some hot chicks would most likely be at the local nightclubs. I was confident in my swooning capabilities but I thought that maybe I could utilize Fleas as a wingman in case I ventured into unfriendly female airspace.
After considerable deliberation, my conspiring coworker and I decided to visit some of the downtown venues to go trolling for strange. An hour later, Fleas and I had walked to a local hotspot deep within the bowels of Kansas City. We selected one particular nightclub that appeared to be pulsating with poontang and were greeted at the entrance by the doorman. Entry was denied. We tried to get into other dance clubs that surrounded the first and were further denied. Fleas was wearing a hockey jersey at the time and we soon learned that such attire, as we were repeatedly told by each consecutive doorman, was considered gang related. Furthermore, the nightclubs that we wanted to enter actually had a dress code that required some sort of fashion sense that neither Fleas nor I had prepared for prior to arriving in town. With our plans in disarray, we resorted to alternative means of titillation.
Fleas told me that he could shoot a strong game of pool while we discussed some potential auxiliary plans for the evening. I had grown up with a billiards table in my parents’ home so I was not unfamiliar with a rack and cue. Fleas suggested that we should go barhopping and try on the locals for a few games of pool and perhaps score with some native hotties in the process. After concurring upon a new course of action, we walked away from the highfalutin nightclubs and quickly located some nearby bars within the same downtown area. We were pleased to find no doormen at the bars. There were also no dress codes. In fact, upon entering the first cum-stained joint that we discovered, Fleas and I immediately went from having an underdressed status to an overdressed status in comparison to the other patrons. We stayed for a few minutes to peruse the meat market of local hussies and then moved on to the next establishment.
At some time approaching the midnight hour, Fleas and I walked into one particularly seedy watering hole where we found a solitary billiards table. Adjacent to the 6-holed felt was a small chalkboard where patrons could scrawl their names to indicate that they wanted to have the next game. The victor of the challenge was allowed to keep playing at the table so long as he kept winning. The current table captain had a partner with him and was only having teams of two challenge him and his buddy for possession of the table. Fleas placed his name on the chalkboard together with mine and, after the dominating pair had trashed three other teams ahead of us, we became the next challengers.
Fleas had not exaggerated to me about his proclaimed skill at 8-ball. In fact, he proved to be far better than the table captain. Combining his skill and my showmanship, we quickly conquered the former crew and took possession of the table. Several teams subsequently challenged us once Fleas and I brandished ownership of the occupied felt. We managed to fend off each of them and maintained our staked claim.
After a couple of hours of beating up the locals at their own game, the chalkboard was cleared and no one challenged Fleas and me for the billiards table for quite some time. We sat and conversed, taunting anyone who walked by for a quick game. In short order, a duo of high-heeled honeys came strutting up to our table and asked if they could play us. The two women were clearly intoxicated and did not seem like much of a challenge. Fleas and I quickly agreed to play them so that we might enjoy a little eye candy while we waited for a real team to show up.
The girls were absolutely terrible at playing pool. When they were not talking on their cell phones, they were chatting it up with some limp-dicked bastards at the bar. I had to remind them on several occasions throughout the game that it was their turn to shoot. The girls would giggle, give a weak attempt at trying to strike the cue ball, and then prance away from the table to engage in more social meandering. The game itself was far from entertaining. However, when either of the two girls would bend over to attempt a shot, the revelations of their low-cut tops were well worth the wait in between their delays. After a few minutes of this routine, Fleas and I decided to extend the game just so that we could catch some more glimpses of our opponents’ luscious bosoms. They were apparently not interested in talking to us so we reluctantly assumed the roles of voyeuristic lurkers.
Extending the game only postponed the inevitable. The girls lost without sinking one ball from off the table. Surprisingly, as the eight ball was still making its way down the ball return from Fleas’ final shot, the girls chimed up and offered to play us again. “Sure!” my comrade and I both replied with shit-eating grins. The girls wanted to break on the next round and even offered to throw twenty bucks down on the game. “Sure!” we both replied again with anticipation of more bosom exposures.
I suspected something was awry when one of the girls placed the communal bar cue back on the wall and acquired her own cue from a nearby carrying case. With a raised eyebrow, I glanced at Fleas, and then back down at the cleavage from the other side of the table. My suspicions were confirmed the moment that the first girl made an incredible break, immediately sinking two balls. She continued on her swath of the table with surprising skill and accuracy. The inebriated behaviors of the two females disappeared, their cell phones had been put away, and the lame assed drunkards on the periphery were ignored. Before it was Fleas’ turn to act, the majority of the girls’ balls were resting in the ball return, cleaned off the table in less than three minutes. But the slut shooter finally missed a crucial shot, allowing us an opportunity to retaliate.
“We just got hustled,” I said to Fleas outside of earshot from the hussies.
“No we didn’t,” Fleas replied. “We haven’t lost yet. We can take these bitches.”
“It’s really going to suck ass if we spent all this time dominating the table just to lose to a couple of queef stains.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Fleas whispered back, as he confidently approached the table.
The battle ensued. Fleas was on top of his game and sank several balls right away. He then disappointingly missed his next shot. The second girl followed suit of her partner and blasted back. But she too eventually choked up. I knew that I could not compete with the two female hustlers so I elected to engage in some dirty pool warfare once it was my turn. Rather than attempting to sink any of the balls from off the table, I employed questionable tactics of nudging the cue ball very close to the other balls, thereby making our opponents’ next shot quite difficult.
Despite my poor sportsmanship, the table was soon cleared and all that was left to sink was the final eight ball. It was Fleas’ turn. The black sphere was hanging very close to the far corner pocket. Fleas could make it with his eyes closed. I felt that the game was ours and the hustlers would soon be defeated. I strode up next to Fleas as he was bending over his cue to evaluate the shot. While he took careful aim, I stared down the females in anticipation of their pretty faces turning to agony as they witnessed their inevitable defeat.
Just as Fleas pulled back to make his poke, the girls turned to face each other and began a long, passionate, open-mouth, tongue-on-tongue kiss, embracing immediately behind the corner pocket of the pool table where the eight ball was lingering. I stared in fascination. Fleas looked up from the black target and became entranced over the blissful sight, just as he released his arm. The misplaced cue cracked against the cue ball, spinning it off at an angle far away from the eight and causing a scratch into a different pocket. Giggling, the girls stopped kissing each other and relished in their shady victory with ludicrous high-fives and playground screeches. Fleas remained motionless, slumped over his cue, completely frozen in form. I continued to stare