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.

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                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…