Big Daddy showed Buddy into the den and poured generous shots of The Famous Grouse over rocks for them both.

Helena stormed over to where her Momma sat propped up between two cushions in an armchair.

She glared at Momma with one eyebrow raised quizzically.

Momma gazed back serenely, lost in the Attitude of Gratitude she had achieved earlier in the afternoon when that nice young guru – what was his name? Oh, yes, Ern Est – taught her how to meditate. When she struggled with the relaxation part, Guru Est produced a hand-rolled cigarette filled with ancient healing herbs that, he said, would assist her on her journey to Enlightenment.

“Boy howdy, he was right,” Momma was thinking as her daughter’s negative energy flowed past her like creek water around a rock, “these ancient healing herbs are the BOMB.”

She giggled, and in a soft voice sang a line from her favorite Queen song: “… nothing really matters, at all…”

TO BE CONTINUED…

When Buddy rang the bell at the Big House that evening, he felt stiff and uncomfortable in brand new khaki slacks and genuine Polo shirt. He trusted Ernest so he followed his friend’s instructions to the letter, even carrying a single red rose. “I think she likes pink,” he had protested, but Ernest winked and said “Pink for friendship, red for love. Go for the gold.” Metaphors were lost on Buddy, but he did what Ernest said.

Big Daddy threw open the door. “Come in, come in, my boy!” He ushered him into the Foyer as Helena began her descent down the Grand Staircase. She stopped dead on the second step, as taken aback by Buddy’s new clothes as she was by his appearance in the Big House at dinnertime.

“I wanted to surprise you, my dear,” smirked Big Daddy.

“Hey Hel, I gotcha a flower!” Buddy brandished the rose proudly. Ernest had made him memorize his lines.

Regaining her composure, Helena cooed reflexively “Oh, for me?”

Her placid Southern lady veneer seemed impenetrable, but Big Daddy noted with some satisfaction the big WTF? that he perceived floating over her flaming beehived hair.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Ernest knew that he had to take charge of the situation. He knew his friend was a dim bulb who was unlikely to increase his wattage any time soon. Ernest never let a buddy down, especially not his best friend Buddy.

As he summed things up, Helena wanted Buddy for only two reasons: one, as the only man in the county impervious to her charms, he posed a challenge; and two, Helena’s parents considered him a completely unsuitable suitor.

Those two facts made Buddy irresistible to Big Daddy’s spoiled Baby Girl.

Ernest knew that the second fact was key.

“Facts can be changed,” he assured the older man. “Here’s my idea…”

TO BE CONTINUED…

“Not for sale,” Buddy sighed with relief. Apparently Big Daddy had not come to kill him. He wiped blood off his face with a bloody bandana. “Not for sale.”

Big Daddy was familiar with this bargaining tactic.

“Okay.” He pulled out his checkbook. “But really, how much?”

Buddy was bewildered but Ernest stepped in to help his friend.

“Really, he won’t sell it,” he told Big Daddy earnestly, “but that’s not really what you want, is it? You just need to solve a problem…”

Big Daddy turned a speculative eye on Ernest. He knew Ernest spoke his language, fluent money, and he recognized a devious intelligence not unlike his own.

The two men moved closer to the Caddy to talk while Buddy went back to his butchering.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Big Daddy had a plan.

He drove out to Two Bucks in the Caddy, with his checkbook in the inside pocket of his second-best blue blazer. No point in appearing overdressed.

As soon as the Caddy’s tires scraped the gravel lot, Buddy came out of the boxcar dripping with fresh doe’s blood. Big Daddy gulped, but he was made of sterner stuff than his delicate Baby Girl.

“How much?” he demanded, in lieu of a greeting.

Buddy was nonplussed. “How much what?”

“How much to buy your place?”

Big Daddy believed that money is the answer to any problem.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Helena sat on the pink satin duvet covering her four-poster canopy bed, weeping, melting her Maybelline Black-on-Black Mascara down from seductive Southern belle into horrifying Southern Gothic streaks.

Laura Mercy tried to console her, but consolation was not Laura’s strong point. She was actually trying to sneak a peek inside her galpal’s closet, checking for outfits she might borrow.  

“Well, Hel,” Laura crooned with unfocused concern, “he’s not the only fish in the field.”

“HE’S THE ONE I WANT!” howled Hel, stomping her foot in frustrated fury.

“A lifetime of indulgence and pampering leaves the Southern belle ill-equipped to cope with denial of desire,” Ja’Rasta jotted in her notebook on the dining room table.

TO BE CONTINUED…

                When Ernest finally missed a shot after sinking four striped balls he found out why Dollar Man went barefoot.

The tattooed thug slung his right leg up, placed his filthy foot on the edge of the pool table, held the cue stick with his right hand to guide it between his first two toes, and fired the 2-ball into the corner pocket.

                Ernest also found out that Dollar Man wore nothing under those baggy shorts.

                It was a strategy Ernest had not encountered before, and even his Zen brain could not unsee the appalling sight.

                An hour later the Corolla boomed away carrying Dollar Man and all of Ernest’s cash. He shook his head ruefully as he watched the one working tail light disappear.

                “The One-Armed Bandit,” he sighed in admiration. He considered the lesson well worth the cost.

Ernest was all about strategy.

TO BE CONTINUED….

                That was when The One-Armed Bandit showed up.

                A faded gray Toyota Corolla drove onto the lot, with a backseat full of speakers booming heavy bass. The car was decked out in what Ernest called Redneck Hip-Hop: chain link steering wheel and tag frame, spinner rims worth more than the car itself, a fringe of dusty purple fabric balls hanging from the headliner. The driver stepped out wearing only baggy cutoff jean shorts which coordinated nicely with his ballpoint-pen-blue prison tattoos. A heavy gold-plate chain with a big gold-plate dollar sign dangled among the sparse hairs on his naked, slightly sunken chest. He was barefoot.

                Instead of a left arm he sported an ugly but well-healed scar at the shoulder, tattooed with a skull and spiderwebs.

                “Yo!” he said to Ernest, making some incomprehensible sign with his right hand, “wassup?”

                “Hiya doin,” Ernest gave him his best Georgia-good-ole-boy welcome.

                The newcomer pulled a cue stick out of the Corolla. “I heard there were some hot shooters out here. You one of’em?” He pulled a blue cube out of his pocket and chalked his stick while he held it upright between his knees.

                “My name’s Ernest and yeah, I shoot a little pool,” he said diffidently. His coded warning had no visible effect.

                “You can call me Dollar Man,” the other said while racking the balls. “Dollar a game, just to make it interesting?”

                His own coded warning registered in Ernest’s brain, where a file labeled Arrogant Opponent opened, but elicited no response beyond a yawn.

                “Make it five dollars,” Ernest drawled, making the break shot and sinking two balls, “and I’ll call you The One-Armed Bandit.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

                Next Ernest scattered a few balls on the table and began practicing bank shots, striking each ball with the cue ball so that the target ball hit the opposite rail and ricocheted back into the pocket nearest Ernest.

                He hit shot after shot, pausing to watch each ball either make the pocket or not, shooting without consciously thinking about the shot. Zen billiards. Each shot, successful or not, fed information into his brain which was then processed and filed as muscle memory, ready to be deployed in a game situation.

                A difficult shot executed casually but successfully delivers a jolt of fear to an opponent’s brain. Ernest knew that the game was often won psychologically even while the 8-ball still lay on the table. When that happened, all that was left was the mopping up.

                Ernest was all about strategy.

TO BE CONTINUED…

                When Ernest got back to Two Bucks he found Buddy happily sleeping it off, still on the ground but now leaning against the stump.

                Perra was gone.

                Ernest let Buddy sleep.

                He racked up the balls on the pool table, broke, and played a game of 8-Ball against hisownself, right hand versus left hand. Left hand lost as usual, but not so far behind this time.

The solo game was Ernest’s way of harnessing his competitive energy to practice left-hand shots. As a result he was becoming a formidable both-hand player, an ability that gives an advantage both on the table and in the opponent’s mind: when a pool shooter suddenly and skillfully switches hands, the opponent’s brain reacts by perceiving the switch hitter as a better player overall… and from there the mental slide is all downhill. Once an internal acknowledgement of dominance is made, however briefly, there is a crack in one’s defenses where defeat can sneak in.

                Ernest was all about strategy.

TO BE CONTINUED…