The fat man didn’t say a word, only walked around the table to size up another shot. His black buddy sat close to the far wall, leaning back in a chair, front legs off the ground and rocking up and down as if watching a damn reality show in motion. The air was smoky down in the basement pool room.

“Maybe you ought to apologize,” Dusty Nix said.

Their own table hadn’t been touched, the balls racked slick and still in the center of the scarred-up green felt. Dusty took a hit of the cigarette and waited.

“That’ll be the day,” the fat man said.

“You don’t have to mean it or nothin’,” Dusty said. “Just tell my ole daddy you’re sorry.”

“Y’all are the two weirdest mothers I seen outside the goddamn circus,” the fat man said, knocking the holy shit out of the cue ball and sending two direct and hard in the pocket. “Fuckin’ freaks. Both of y’all smell like someone shit their damn drawers.”

Daddy Flem shook his head as if the fat man was a sorrowful sight. Dusty knew his daddy could whip both of those boys on his own, but as his daddy leaned into the table to take a shot, he winced with pain. That’s when Dusty noticed the stitching and bandages had come undone on his daddy’s right side, dark blood staining through his work shirt.

“You okay, Daddy?”

Daddy Flem didn’t answer as he busted those balls with a tall and mighty crack, scattering all of ’em across the table, a couple solids into two separate pockets. He’d been playing soft and easy all night, but those boys and the pain of his unfortunate injury coming undone had pissed him off. Dusty finished his beer, knowing that hell was about to come if they didn’t get out of here and get home. His daddy had a look in his eye like he wanted to tear that fat boy apart like a field-stripped deer.

“Better get you fixed up,” Dusty said.

Daddy Flem didn’t answer, leaning into the table again and knocking in an orange solid. He chalked up his cue and walked around the table, looking for a good shot, eyes switching from the green felt up to the fat man. The fat man must’ve seen it, definitely felt it, standing there with his arms crossed over his big gut, a smile on his face saying, “come on and get you some, old man.”

“Ain’t nothing,” Daddy said.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Just a busted seam.”

Fat Boy looked to the bug-eyed black fella and laughed. “The short ones always give you the most trouble,” he said. “Short ones always got the most to prove. Like a little runt dog nipping at your heels.”