Black Balls, among other things.

So right, before I get to the story, an update. Somebody told me to write a love story. I don't know what the fuck that was about, but I started working on it and then became morbidly depressed. So I can say this story won't be particularly obscene or funny, but perhaps a bit charming and something more along the lines of being a soapbox for me to preach whatever retarded concept I have of love or some stupid shit like that. So next story will probably be srs bzns. If you don't like it, then there's the X up to the right. If you see it, click that X and don't irritate or pity or harass me about it. With that being said, another stupid story that should've gotten me banned from NS2 but God question the logic those people possess.

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It was 2am at a dank bar in Oakland. Amidst the dampening rain, an old neon sign flickered and reflected the drops off the ground. Whenever the door swung open, a melodious sax could be heard singing from inside the sleezy parlor. Inside only the seediest men sat alone, letting the sax man sing for them. Smoke filled the decrepit bar as men drowned their misery in liquor; it was not a place to be for the weak. Only men harrowed of emotion and embittered by life walked there. A single rickety pool table was the only source of entertainment, yet no one played. Not with HIM in the corner. Everyone was afraid of HIM. None knew his name, but they still called him something.

Black Balls.

A negro standing 7 feet 3 inches and built like an ox, he was a master of the craft. He always played by himself, because he bet with his life. And he never lost. He worked the 8-ball like a voo-doo doctor, and they didn't even mention his stick of choice he played with, but apparently it was the same stick he used when he clubbed the players who lost against him to death. His seedy eyes darted constantly across the room as he played, awaiting any challengers who stood before him and test his mettle. But no one did. Those dead eyes he aimed at others scared everyone off, even those who just came in to partake in a drink. Eventually though, one man late at night stumbled in. A tall, placid man with an emaciated appearance. Eyes shielded by sunglasses, and pale sweaty skin that clearly did a poor job of masking his health. He had a bottle of Midleton's finest as he grabbed a stick ready to play. The whole bar went dead silent and looked at the man who seemed completely oblivious to what he just invoked.

"Well, what the fuck are you people staring at?"

I was on another one of my late night drunken wanderings unaware that I managed to make it two cities over into a random bar in Oakland. And why is this enormous black guy looking at me like I was going to get raped? No matter, I wanted to play some stick ball. My BAL was .18 and my fever was soaring at 101 so I didn't care if he was monopolizing this table or something. We started playing, and well as the game went on I noticed he was getting progressively angrier. Why? It was a perfectly enjoyable match. I think I was winning though; I'm not too sure since I don't play Stick Ball that often. He got especially upset when I think I set him up to knock the 8-ball in one of the pockets. I started laughing when he eventually flipped the table in anger. "Dude, it's just a game. It's not like your life depended on it." Of course before I said that, the man pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head. His arms went limp to his side and he stood for a few seconds before I gently blew on him and he fell over and hit the ground with a loud enough thud to shake the foundation of the building. There was a long pause as most people kind of just stood around.

"Uh... wow. Is nobody going to get that? The guy... uh, he looks dead."

They started cheering as a few of the drunks grabbed his body, and threw it into a nearby fireplace in the bar. My eyebrow raised as this was a bit disturbing for my tastes. They cheered me on and praised me. I was apparently a hero to them. The man I later became to know as Black Balls effectively held the bar hostage with his intimidating demeanor. As much as I was glad to help, a man still just killed himself and they're burning his corpse in celebration. These people scared the shit out of me, so I left without saying a thing.

I heard that in that particular neighborhood, apparently there's a tale about a man named Stikanbawls who slayed a giant and saved them from poverty. I don't know what the hell that was about.