Author's Note: Though the following is ostensibly based upon true events, the nature of these events necessitates that names be changed and that the entire thing be highly embellished. Indeed, this event may never have even happened at all. It is entirely possible, if not plausible, that the entirety of the proceeding is nothing more than the fever dream of a mentally deranged Georgian madman with nothing else to do. What a reckless, irresponsible dolt that fool must... Oh, wait. That's me. Right.
"That was George" Slim said as he hung up his cell phone, surveying the table from his position at the head. "He says we're all gonna show up at the Buffalo's and get hammered. There's no negotiation on the matter." He said to our assembled party.
There was, of course, Slim; the de facto, de jure leader of our company. We'd known each other since kindergarten, and over the years we'd developed a proficiency for antics of a heinous and outrageous notoriety He sat, as mentioned, at the commanding head of the table, surveying us - his associates - and in his own way demanding the attention of the entirety of the pizza restaurant staff at the parlor wherein we dined.
Next, there was Cajun. Cajun was Slim's stepbrother, a friend of nearly as long as I had been. He sat directly across the table from my position, occasionally gesturing at random people and making fun of them in a fashion that was uniquely his.
Then there was Dodge. Dodge was the newest member of our group, though to describe him as thus is somewhat disingenous, because he's still been a part of our company for as long as anyone can remember. This might not be much of a matter, as we are all fond of drink and grass. Yard clippings, naturally. What are we, criminals? Anyway, Dodge sat directly to my right. He was the designated pizza passer.
Anyway, at long last there was me, your kindly narrator. What's there to say about me? I'm just your average journalist/voice actor/blogger type person who sometimes craps out writing when the time and inspiration are available to me. I was seated to Slim's right - quite literally, his right hand man.
Now, as soon as the edict was handed down I mulled it over in silent contemplation. The conversation became as a background for my inner monologue, my entire train of thought devoted solely to the task at hand. We were going to get wasted. The inescapable reality of that situation was now omnipresent.
"Gentlemen." I said, drawing the attention of my comrades. "If this is a thing worth doing, it's worth doing right. We need to make provisions to outfit ourselves for this expedition. We need smokes, and I need a cigar." The group mulled it over momentarily, breaking when Slim nodded. We left, embarking for the QuickTrip where we obtained smokes and, for myself, a cigar. Because cigars are the only tobacco worthwhile.
We arrived an hour after the initial phone call and entered the bar with gallant stride. The entire establishment was in awe of the tremendous presence that we exuded into drinkery must have been omnipresent, as there was not a soul that could stay themselves as I flicked out my cigar, lit it, and ordered a Budweiser. Their beer selection was awful, but the opening salvo had been fired by the time we sat ourselves at the bar with out contacts.
After several beers and discourse over the relative advantages and disadvantages of capitalism and communism, the idea was floated that our pool game should commence. It was agreed that George and his cohort would play against Slim and our company. The stage was set for a momentous event of incredible portent which had not been seen since the Paleozoic era.
To this day, keeping track of the exact events of the game are actually impossible. As the beer turned to liquor and the liquor turned to more liquor, the entirety of events became alike a montage of sorts. Observing the match was after a point completely out of the question. Indeed, even recollecting it in any meaningful manner is absolutely absurd. It had ceased to be a pool game in every conventional sense of the term.
By a certain point, I found myself completely divorced of the game and talking with Cajun and an aged bar woman. Somehow, we had come across a plate of mozzarella sticks - whether by Providence or by Perdition, I dare not guess. What was clear, however, is that they were gone nearly as soon as they had come. The bar fly left and we ended up returning to our game as if we'd never met her.
Eventually, however, we vacated and somehow I found myself at home. I'm still not clear of the exact sequence of how I got home, but I somewhat remember Dodge driving Slim's Oldsmobile, so I imagine that's how that happened. I wandered inside and began to steadily drain my tap of all the water I could muster. I would need it unless I wanted to hate the world the next day. As my head hit the pillow, I found myself wondering if the game had even ended. I puzzled over this with the girlfriend back in California over Skype, and since she had not been there she was without an answer. Perhaps it didn't matter. Perhaps there was no real winner. That's not what matters, though. Ultimately, the important part of the entire adventure - the whole point of the endeavour, was that I somehow got out of it with a free bar tab for the night.
