#seventhball

seventhball

Multitudes of assorted spheres in all manner of colors ricocheted off the borders of the table and along the felt. The commotion in that moment easily drowned out whatever chatter had populated the room in moments prior, eyes trained upon the six pockets perimetering the table.

      ❝Stripes.❞ Roman declared as the balls rolled to a standstill, one of the aforementioned type pitting themselves right at home in a corner pocket. So it was here that the redhead moved on to line up his second shot, craned over the table only briefly as he grazed one of the others into a considerably more advantageous lineup.

      ❝I trust all has been well with you, Crowbar?❞ Less of an inquiry and more of a test the words presented themselves. And, when Roman straightened, it was upon his billiards cue he leaned, favoring this over the cane poised among those sticks which remained untouched.

      Envelopes one by one passed behind the one beneath them as Roman walked, the glowing end of a cigar hovering some few inches protruding from his lips. The steady stream of smoke he left behind inconvenienced no one, for the likes of the bar into which he had set his path was perfumed at every corner by an equally sickly scent.

So with a sense of utmost ease did he trek, polished soles carrying him to a familiar door beyond which much of the conduct of Roman's little business venture was often decided upon. On some occasions the input he amounted was vast, but on a day like today, peace and quiet he prayed to fall beneath the good graces of, considering the stipulations set for his company.

This was a lofty goal, for it was upon the light creak of a door as it opened that Roman stayed his steps in turn for the outrageous---- thwack of a pool ball off the door's polished surface. A slight indent it left, paint flaking off at the core of the collision as Roman awaited an all-clear that would never come.

So did a pair of fingertips travel to relieve himself of the cigar, if only momentarily. And, so his steps carried the redhead further in to observe the catastrophe unfolding without cause for intervention. In fact, it appeared perhaps safer to wait out the hurricane which had taken this--a sparsely-occupied private billiards room--by storm. If only, he reasoned, to pinpoint the source of the commotion first-hand.

      ❝I so loathe to interrupt, boys...but what is going on here!?❞