Six days ago I was lying in a methadone clinic in Albuquerque, chain smoking Marlboros and praying for the apocalypse to hurry up and get here already. Then I heard the news come across an old transistor radio: 'Furious George reunites! Pandaemonium in Northeast Portland! Chaos and nudity expected! Tickets going fast, get em while you can!'
I sat straight up in my cot and brushed the cigarette ashes from my bare chest to my lap. Hot damn, I thought to myself, if the Georges can rise from the ashes of forgotten history to reclaim their rightful place in the pool world then by God, I can surely rise from this piss stained room. I threw open the curtains and let the sunlight burst upon my pale skin. My eyes burned, and my mouth screamed for water. For the first time in nearly a year I felt, well, alive.
'Its time to move Pinkerton,' I heard that old familiar voice in my head say. So I did.
I arrived at Binks on Monday afternoon (via hitchhiking, Greyhound, and eventually grand theft auto) and immediately became intoxicated by that old familiar feeling, and of course scotch. Fans arrived early, swelling through the doors, off the patio and into the streets. The energy was electric, just as I had hazily remembered.
Furious George started the fall session amidst turmoil (they lost founding member and FGPP legend Chewy Webb for the session, as well as dozens of his devoted female fans) and with back to back losses, but none of that seemed to matter now. "We keep our eyes on the present moment," Urquhart scowled. "In the end the points will take care of themselves."
And so the night began, full of tension, excitement, and fury.
Fresh off the plane from red China, where she did her part to fight communism with a two piece pool cue and a red dot ball, Mixa stepped up and set the tone for the evening in match one. She stalked the table like a panther, igniting the crowd and making quick work of some middle aged rookie who clearly didn't know what he was getting himself into.
"I thought this league was supposed to be fun, I thought maybe I'd get laid or something," the poor bastard whined afterwards, before hanging his head and slumping into the corner of shame for the remainder of the evening.
The crowd exploded, and chants of 'MIX-A, MIX-A, MIX-A' began to ring in the air, warming the room like an old familiar coat. The Georges blocked out the ruckus, of course, remaining focussed, united, and committed to follow in her lead.
Black Beard went to work next, determined to end his recent slide. "It has been a tough run of late," he told one reporter from ESPN News, "but runs are for my kid's underpants. I'm here to pocket 8 balls tonight."
Facing a dangerously under-ranked 3, Black Beard reverted to his crafty pirate ways, commanding the match from the outset and earning a decisive 3-1 victory.
"ARRRRRRRR!!!", the crowd roared in unison, as he sank the final 8 ball and waved his cue towards the heavens. Veto and The Chief slapped him high fives. Mixa offered up a bare knuckled fist bump. Urquhart patted his buns gently, and for an uncomfortably long period of time.
Up 2-0, and smelling blood in the water, the Georges sent Rob "The Chief" Joseph up for match 3. While new to the FGPP roster, he is no stranger to big time pool action in the Binks arena. Playing with a beautiful new McDermott cue, as well as a headful of steam after dismantling that SOB Burt last week, The Chief ran balls in formidable fashion and quickly locked down a 3-1 victory of his own. More importantly, he sealed the first team victory of the young session.
"Ya knoooow," Urquhart complained afterwards, "I'm happy that Rob won and all, but his innings were too short, he won too easily, and he clearly played with no regard for suppressing his ranking. Plus, I didn't get to yell at him tonight, which really pisses me off."
Nonetheless, the fans erupted outside of Binks and for 17 long minutes traffic ground to a halt on Alberta St. Strangers hugged one another, beautiful women kissed, and rowdy teenagers mooned cars and fired pistols into the night sky. The po-pos sat upon their horses, shrugging their shoulders and grinning helplessly at each other. They knew better than to go for their side arms or tear gas, not on this night. The crowd was far too amped and modern weaponry was unlikely to contain them.
"There is nothing we can do now boys," shouted Chief Wiggums into his walkie talkie, "except let these filthy animals have their fun."
"Its been a long time since we've enjoyed a proper celebration around here," beamed neighborhood native Elroy Harrison, who then fell to his knees and began to weep uncontrollably. "Tears of joy my friends," he sobbed through a wry smile, "tears of joy."
Next up, against the Ranger's vaunted captain and deadpan Ron Jeremy impersonator, stood Veto. "Don't be the only one to lose tonight", Urquhart blathered as he approached the table for the lag.
The pair battled back and forth, with Veto eventually coming out on top of a 5-3 win. He shook Ron Jeremy's hand, admiring his portly figure and greasy black hair.
"I had to step up my game tonight," Veto acknowledged afterwards,"because frankly, I didn't want to get pounded by Ron Jeremy. With this gang of perverts around, that joke would have haunted me for years."
Up 4-0 and with a sweep well in their cross hairs, Urquart called his own number for the final match. At first glance it seemed like a sure bet, a no brainer, a done deal. He faced a toothless 2 who was clearly a broken down old crack whore. What could possibly go wrong?
Unfortunately, the whore had it out for Urquhart from the start, and understandably so. She came out with both pipes blazing, pocketing balls and mumbling some kind of strange street gibberish in his direction. The legendary captain appeared flustered, and she slowly stole game one. He now faced a 1-3 race, and the whore refused to let up on her offensive barrage. Our hero was feeling the heat. Beads of sweat began to form on his bald dome, and his jaw clenched tight with fury.
Urquhart eventually pulled it together and put himself in a position to win game 2, staring down the easiest of 8 ball tap ins... and then the wheels came off. Somehow, some way, the veteran allowed himself to be distracted by a patron, and then decided to humiliated her.
Said one confused witness: "I don't know what happened. A female came into the room and put quarters on the table, and Urquhart didn't seem to like that."
"Don't you know there is a league going on!?" he exploded at the poor girl. He stood up from his stance, scooped her quarters off the felt, and dumped them back into her tiny hands. They shook noticeably and the crowd fell hush as she stood there frozen, unable to breath.
Perhaps his better judgement had eluded him. Or perhaps it was the whisky, yet again. Either way it cost him his focus, the easiest of 8 balls, and the match.
The crack whore kissed a few unsuspecting street walkers before wrapping her legs around the chrome of a motorbike and roaring off into the fall night, hooting and hollering all the way down Alberta Street.
"This time anyway," commented one disappointed fan afterwards, "Urquhart's fury appears to have backfired."
Nonetheless, this old beat writer couldn't be happier. A 4-1 victory and a reunion with my beloved Georges - hell, its more fun than a Wheel of Fortune marathon at a halfway house in New Mexico, I can say that much with certainty. Sure, some might say I'm taking a big gamble by jumping head first off the wagon to cover another smokey, drunken, profanity laced pool session, but I say: why the hell not? Who needs sobriety or an exit strategy when a man has this kind of action to cover? Life is short, the Georges are back, and for the first time in a long while it feels good to be alive and back out on the APA trail.
Of course, that could just be the booze and pills talking...
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