One Day in Hell: Jonny Gives the Fallen A Hand

     The Fallen was in a hideous mood so we all sat at the other end of the bar, away from the pool table.  The air conditioners whirred furiously, a steady B-flat of grey noise that blanketed our sterile bitching.

     IT had already terminated three minions; bloody shreds being mopped and sponged up by remaining minions, as different in size and shape as they were in deportment and intelligence.  IT pulled the cue stick from the dead grasp of a disembodied hand and screeched for someone to rack them up.

     No one moved, but the balls racked themselves up, out of sheer fear.

     Wherever IT turned ITs gaze all fell prostrate to the floor.  All mumbled prayers to the Heaven that had forsaken them.  IT hated minions.  Minions were lousy pool players.

     ITs gaze found us on the other side of the room.  We were safe as long as we didn’t engage IT in conversation or game, or eye contact, or breathe the same air, or anything.

     We froze like deer in headlights.  Some closed their eyes.  Some looked away quickly. 

     Jonny was drunk on whiskey and cocaine and pushed back his barstool noisily and stood bad.  He adjusted his black leather coat, picked up a leather case, and swaggered to the pool room.  He faced IT like IT was in his way.