Troubletable.

   I knew I was in trouble.  Fuck, I knew I was in trouble.  No matter how I worked it out, in my
head, no matter how it played out (all over the table) I just knew it, had to be real with myself:
I wasn't winning this one.

   With three "balls" plus the Eight.. trouble, tonight.  Fuck.  My rack, my dollars, my pitcher, my
friends... They were all judging me based on this game, at "my" table in "my" bar.  Couldn't lose,
and wondered where the fuck, where the shit this all went wrong.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

   Challenging a professional,
   that's where.

   He did time in Flordia, he did time in the "four corners", and now here he is...   Greg.  Whooping my
ass at "his" game, (the one he plays for a living), and all my pride, -passed, present, and future...

It's all embarrassed,
It's all been puked on, by this decision: To play this game; this particular night.

   I fucked up,

and only a hail-mary, or group push could win this one.  Only a couple different prayers -to every
god I know, in the fourth quarter (now) could I turn this around...