The Georges sent a ferocious cannon blast across the bow of the NOPO Division Monday night, reminding anyone who may have forgotten that summer is here, and the session is theirs for the taking.
"It's ironic," pondered their fiery Captain F. Urquhart before the match, "not only is Memorial Day a time to reflect upon those who have fought before us, and beside us - guys like Creepywhite, Blackbeard Ryder, Weighlum, Audry, Alaska Andy, Jessie, that one guy from Florida, and even my old arch nemesis, that no good son of a bith Rob ... "
Urquhart's sentence trailed off and he choked on whiskey fumes as memories of The Chief flooded back. His bald head turned a disturbing shade of purplish red. Beads of sweat dripped past his brow and into his eyes, which took on the look of a man possessed. His jaw clenched noticeably and and his fists trembled atop the bar. A group of fearful women collected their belongings and dispersed towards the exits, leaving full drinks and lit cigarettes behind.
Damit stepped in and smacked his Captain firmly on his back, temporarily breaking the spell and averting tragedy.
"Relax damit," he scowled.
Urquhart looked dazed and confused, like a mental patient coming out of deep hypnosis. Perhaps he had just recalled some long suppressed memory from his youth. And it was no doubt terrible and furious indeed.
"Where was I?" he asked aloud, before snapping back to life and regaining his train of thought. His pupils returned to normal size. His head once again gleamed that old familiar pale green glow.
"Oh yes, Memorial Day," he continued. "is not only a day to remember history, but also one that represents the beginning of summer. New life. Renewed hope. Cascading waterfalls and bright yellow sunsets. Lush green felt and rolling cue balls as far as the eye can see! And goddamit, I'll say it right now, summer belongs to Furious George!"
With that call to arms he smashed his famous fists into the bar with a trademark blow, threw back a double shot of whiskey, rubbed his pursed lips against a hairy forearm, and turned his attention to the pool room, where the action was about to begin.
"And so the great buffalo hunt begins," he was heard to say.
Chewy Webb was called upon to execute the first buffalo, a young portly member of the herd. He floundered around like a newborn calf, scratching and sweating and mumbling desperate pleas with himself. Chewy had him dead in his sights, toying with him like a spider to a fly. Perhaps just for sport he chose to switch hands and fire his weapon left handed, missing high and wide, allowing his target to lumber safely back to the herd. The poor thing was terrified and relieved all at once. He had escaped a certain death, narrowly, and he knew it.
Urquhart fumed at Chewy's inability to hit the mark, and cursed Vito (aka The Don) for bungling yet another golden time out opportunity. For a moment it felt as if all the air had been sucked right out of the room; and all that remained was body odor and horror. Fans and players alike sat silent in fear. It was an old familiar scene. Mount Urquhart could erupt at any moment, and unthinkable violence would surely ensue.
Eventually, after a few tense moments that felt like a lifetime, the terror lifted, chatter resumed and both sides got back to the business of shooting pool.
When Damnit was called upon to play next, however, uncertainty crept back into the room. Rumor had spread that he spent the whole day watching XFiles and eating THC. He wore a happy far-away look on his face, and mumbled incoherent gibberish about Agent Skully. But fears quickly subsided as balls began disappearing into pockets. Damit was loose and freewheeling, opting time and again for bold trick shots and heart stopping kicks. The crowd loved it and hung on every shot with bated breath. And oh did he look good doing it! His pearly whites flashed for the crowd. His hair flowed easily in the night breeze. His stance was perfect.
By the midpoint of his match the hometown crowd was lined up five rows deep into Alberta Street. They were all stirred up and aroused, cheering on their new favorite George with unbridled enthusiasm.
Damit stalked the table like a panther and basked in the warm glory. Young children perched upon their parents' shoulders. Old men took shaky balance on their canes and stretched desperately to sweat the action. They placed side bets and exchanged C notes after every rack. Women bit their nails and wiggled, and appeared to be undressing Damit with their eyes.
In the end the old sickly buffalo stood little chance. He barked a good game but lacked the necessary skill to defeat Damit. Now he lay bludgeoned on the sidewalk, surrounded by giddy poachers admiring their prize. Another senseless buffalo death at the hands of the white man, I thought to myself secretly. It was an equally thrilling and disturbing scene, as is usually the case with any Furious George show. The energy was frenzied and hypnotic. The momentum felt unstoppable now. Damit perched a foot upon the still back of his fallen prey and smiled, waving easily to the jubilant crowd.
"He looked like Wild Bill Hickock out there tonight," beamed one middle aged female fan, who immediately went flush and began to fan herself with the official FGPP summer session program.
"I talked to myself a lot, all throughout the match," Damit told reporters afterwards, when asked about the mindset required to endure such a grueling battle. "Whenever I felt unsure I just took a deep breath and told myself: Damit, you look real good tonight damit. Shoot some pool."
Tied 1-1 and dead even in points, Special Agent Mixa strode to the table and quickly found herself down 0-1 in a race to 2. But she refused to go down without a fight to anyone wearing a white pony tail. "Apparently I drew the hippie grandpa buffalo tonight," she said after the match. When asked about the pony tail she replied, "When I saw it I felt anger. Raw waves of fury."
It was all the motivation she needed to win the next two games and secure back to back victories for The Georges.
The old hippie buffalo lay lifeless next to his friend. Fans pushed and shoved towards the carcass, and what appeared like a rugby scrum took place until one man emerged sweaty and bleeding, with the pony tail in hand. He waved it high above his head like a prize for the whole town to see.
Up 2-1 and sensing the opportunity to put away the enemy, Urquhart called his own number and wasted little time getting to work. His opponent was old and slow, barely capable of grazing a field anymore, but Urquhart has never been one to show mercy on the weak or the hopeless. He had a zip in his step, and a gleam in his eye. He banked and cut and sliced and D'd his way to victory, sweeping her in impressive fashion.
"He really raised the bar for us tonight," Vito proclaimed afterwards, showing a rare public glimpse of admiration for his leader. "It was a fine display. I knew it would be a tough act to follow."
Indeed it was. Not only did Urquhart pick up 3 points for his team, but he also picked up the heralded Rackless Night patch for his efforts. Ironically, he did not forget to fill out the award form this time, as he had the week previous when Vito broke and ran at the Kenton Club.
Paired against another senior member of the Buffalo herd, Vito took inspiration from Urquhart and set an early tone for his match. He shattered the first rack like glass, sank the 8 on the break, and never looked back in a 5-0 rackless night of his own.
The crowd exploded in euphoria, dancing and singing in the streets. Some had been dropping acid and drinking cheap wine all night. They draped freshly cut buffalo hides across their backs and howled. Others were high on the hopes of a new session and intoxicated by the Binks Mojo, which buzzed and hummed like an electrical current in the air. Andy Hart scaled the wall behind the pool room and lit illegal fireworks from the Binks roof top. Fiery confetti rained down upon the crowd.
"We got a 10-73 down on Alberta boys!" cried Police Chief Wiggums into his walkie talkie, "tell the water trucks they'll be coming in hot!"
But not even police thugs in riot gear or flaming buffalo carcasses could deter the emotional release that raged late into the night. The Georges had proclaimed destiny over the summer session, and delivered on this night. In the end they won 4 of 5 matches, picking up 11 points and thrusting themselves up the leader board. They had taken over sole possession of 4th place, only 5 points off the lead, and positioned themselves for what could be the most exciting month of pool in the history of the NOPO Division. Next up is the Spare Room, and then matches against the 1st, 2nd and 3rd place teams.
Sometime around 3am Urquhart sat before a sea of reporters at his post game interview, his gang close behind him. Anxious beat writers fired questions at the victorious Captain like machine gun bursts. They knew a good story when they saw one, and were desperate for quotes from Urquhart.
He sat calmly at first, sipping whiskey and crunching peanuts, shell and all.
"Captain Urquhart!" one yelled, "Can you describe your feelings right now?"
"No," The Captain shouted back.
"Mr. Urquhart! Over here! Pat Flemming from Accu-Stats. It was a great win for the team but we're all dying to know, did anything really piss you off tonight?"
"Well sure, lots of things," he replied. "I was pissed off at everyone for most of the night. Next question."
"Urquhart!" cried another, "Delroy Henderson from Animal Times Magazine. PETA has already denounced Furious George's actions here tonight. As I'm sure you know they, ah, generally frown upon the senseless slaughter of endangered species. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
"Tell PETA they haven't haven't seen anything yet. If those bastards want a war they've got one!"
"Mr. Urquhart! Brian Hobelman here from billiards underground dot com."
Urquhart squinted and grimaced and eyed this new reporter closely. His gut told him straight away not to trust him. Perhaps a spy for the enemy, he thought, which makes him the enemy himself! He choked down a mouthful of whiskey, eyes turning red, and awaited the loaded question.
"What is your plan for the Spare Room next week? What will it be like in there and how will you prepare?"
Urquhart kicked the chair out from underneath his big ass, and rose. He pointed his famous finger between Hobelman's eyes like a laser beam from across the room. "It doesn't mean a goddam thing!" he fired back. "It'll be war as usual. And I'll see you in court you sonovabitch!"
With that Urquhart made a swift and blusterous exit. A choros of rushed questions and loud cheers followed him through the door and into the night. Mixa and Damit rushed close behind to ensure public safety and guard against arrest. Vito sat still and stared at this Hobelman character with contempt. "The nerve of this guy," he thought to himself.
Chewy leaned in close to the mike and salvaged what little order he could. "What will it be like inside the Spare? I'll tell you. It will be like the cantina at the space port of Mas Eisley, on the planet of Tatooine. There'll be strange creatures playing music, with instruments you've never seen before. Gangs of thieves and villains everywhere. Bands of midget with knives. Bright blue drinks, strange languages, and pulsating rhythms. Filthy odors. Debauchery of every known kind, and then some. It could be a time warp or a gateway to another dimension and we don't even know it. It's foggy in there boys."
With typical weirdness and fury, summer has officially begun in Northeast Portland. Hang on folks, it will surely burn bright and move fast as they all do. Is the NOPO Division ready for the Geroges? Is the world? Is anyone ever ready for the Spare Room? And who is this Brian Hobelman guy anyway? It's all too soon to tell, and some questions are better left unanswered.
As for me, well, all I will say for now is that it's good to be back in action, out on the APA trail and down the road apiece with Furious George again. With a little luck there will be a glorious story to tell. And most of us will survive. If history and time are indeed on our side, then perhaps Urquhart may finally be right about something after all: The Geroges are back, and destined for one hellava summer ride.
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