High Stakes Game
By Dan Stein

          It's funny when you think about it. A lowlife like me savin' the goddam world. Who'd have thunk it, eh? James Priest, Jim to what friends I have left, pool shark, con man, and all round crude bastard savin' the entire planet. Will wonders never cease?

          The night it happened started as most of my Fridays do, around four in the afternoon in Pauline's Pub, shooting against some damn fool G.I. who just turned twenty-one and thinks he’s hot shit at the table. Personally, those are my favorite kind of players, the ones with more balls than ability. The scam's pretty simple: always have a drink, always appear drunker than you really are, and always lose the first two or three games. Works every time, partially because by the time those three games are lost at least a pitcher or two has gone down the mark's throat. A light buzz is usually the best time to propose a money game; nothing big at first, just five or ten bucks. Before they realize it they've lost a good fifty bucks or more to drunk ole Jim. They usually leave then, disgusted with their own stupidity. Shortly after that I'm running the game on someone else. It's a good enough life for a retiree I guess. It pays the bills anyway.

          Anyway, like I was saying, it was around four when the guy I ended up playing for the ultimate bet came in. He was a tall son of a gun, probably six six. Muscular too; definitely not the type you'd want to start a fight with. He was wearing a business suit, which was pretty strange for a place like Pauline's. Don't usually get folks with that much money down at this end of town. He had dark red sunglasses on, which he didn't take off that whole night. His hair was black and neatly trimmed, and his skin was olive toned. Looked like he might have some Arab in him.

          By that time, I'd managed to take about thirty bucks from some kid who’d decided he'd had enough. He left the bar then, which was lucky for him. Soon there'd only be two players left in Pauline's. Just me and the newcomer, playing a game of nine ball with the death of the planet hangin' in the balance.

          I watched the newcomer setup a rack on the table closest to the door. He set it up for nine ball; not my usual game, but I know how to play. He shot a couple of games by himself and I sat at the bar and watched a bit, not bothering to hide my stare. After all, part of the con was that I was supposed to be drunk and drunks aren't exactly known for their subtlety. The newcomer caught me looking at him and nodded, his expression not changing. I raised my glass and nodded back. A few seconds later I made my way to his table and introduced myself.

          "Hey, bro," I said, offering my hand. "My name's Jim. Welcome to Pauline's. Care for a bit of competition?" I made sure to slur a bit. A bit of slurring in the introduction always seems to make folks think they've automatically got an advantage on ya.

          The stranger took my hand and shook it slowly. "My name is...Adam," he said. His hesitation told me he was giving me a false name, not that I really cared. What I did care about was the weirdness of his voice; it didn't seem to have any kind of accent at all. "And yes, I wouldn't mind a friendly game or two." He smiled and his teeth were perfectly white. Unnaturally white, in my humble opinion; the kind of teeth a wolf gets after it chows on human flesh.

          "So, ya new in the area?" I asked as I racked. "Oh yeah, ya stickin' with nine ball or ya wanna play a game of eight?"

          He hesitated, appearing to consider the choice. "I think I'd like a game of eight to start off with. And no, I've actually been in this area for quite some time." Something about the way he said that gave me a chill. It seemed he was implying that he’d been here longer than I could imagine. Now, I've lived in this little town all my life and I ain't never seen this guy before. That was the first time I started to get the hardcore creeps from Adam. I'd get that feeling a lot more before the night was over.

          "You got it, chief," I said, ignoring the feeling. I started to rack and then asked, “You play bar rules or BCA?" For those of you who don't know about pool, BCA is the major pool players association. Their rules are a bit different, but it's the standard on all pro tours. It's also a good way to tell if you're mark is relatively new to the game or has a bit of experience under his belt.

          "BCA," he responded immediately. Alright. That gave me a clue to his ability anyway. I racked accordingly and stepped back, waiting for him to break. He did so with authority, sinking two stripes and one solid. The rest were spread out pretty well. All in all, it was a damn good break.

          "So, Jim," Adam said as he lined up for his next shot. "Do you consider yourself to be a good man?" He shot perfectly, sinking the four ball and leaving himself perfectly lined up on the one ball.

          "What do you mean?" I asked, legitimately confused. That was a weird question to ask somebody you just met. I wondered if maybe he was one of those Jehovah's Witnesses. That thought left my mind pretty quickly; there was something a bit too shifty about this guy for him to be a religious man. Turned out I was half right.

          "Have you done the right thing as best as you understood it to be? Have you helped your fellow man when they were in need?" He shot the one ball while staring at me. It fell neatly in a corner pocket. He moved to the other side of the table swiftly, looking like a man on a mission.

          I was a man on a mission too. My mission was to take this guy's money, so I decided to play along. "I guess so. I mean, maybe I cuss a bit much, and sometimes I might get a bit rowdy when I'm drinkin', but other'n that..." I left the sentence unfinished, hoping it was what he wanted to hear.

          "I thought as much," he nodded to himself and proceeded to run the table, banking the eight ball into a side pocket after another minute had passed.

          He had some skill. I had to give him that. Now I had to play my part, "Jeee-sus, Adam. You just whipped my ass. I didn't even get a chance to shoot."

          He smiled. Again, that creepy sensation ran down my back, goose walking over your grave and all that shit. He didn't even seem to reach into his pocket as he deposited fifty cents into the table. "How about this then? This game, you break."

          I gave him my best drunken, 'I gotcha now' smile. Whatever this guy was, he seemed to be falling for my act at least. The way he shot and had given the fake name, I wondered if he was a shark too. I dismissed that idea pretty quickly. No self-respecting shark would have ran the first game, especially without money matters being addressed at all.

          He racked and I broke. I'm pretty good at getting eight-ball breaks, but I deliberately missed my target and sent one stripe into the corner. At this point it was crucial for me to appear that I had some skill, but it had to appear dulled by drink. Said drink was also the next step for Adam as well. I noticed he hadn't had one since he arrived. That was pretty damn unusual for a Pauline's customer. Of course Adam himself was pretty damn unusual for a Pauline's customer. I would soon find out just how unusual. "Say, bud," I said. "How come you ain't got no drink? If ya want one, I can spot ya." Come on, take the bait, I thought.

          Adam just shook his head and said. "Sorry, I can't drink when I'm on duty." On duty? What the hell did that mean, was this guy some kind of cop? Judging by his clothes I would say more likely a fed. I asked him as much and he smiled that cold smile again and said, "No. No, nothing like that."

          "Well, what do ya do?" I asked.

          "I'm kind of a repo man," he said. That smile was still there, and something told me he was anything but a repo man. I was really starting to get edgy around this guy, but then I noticed something. This game he wasn't playing nearly as good as the last. I guess my fucked up break must have thrown him off. That told me he wasn't as experienced as I'd first guessed. A pool player who's shot for awhile knows how to adapt. Still, I let him beat me. I missed just enough to so that I only had two balls remaining when he sank the eight.

          "Damn, I'm really off tonight. How 'bout one more?" I said. Waiting to gauge his response before I brought up the first bet.

          He played right into it. "I'm not too sure. I've got some business to attend to soon."

          "C'mon, just one game," I said. "Give me a chance to prove how good I am. In fact, I got five bucks that says I can beat ya now that I'm warmed up." I tottered a bit for emphasis.

          "A wager?" his face suddenly grew intensely serious. For a second, I thought I'd fucked up royally. I thought maybe this guy was a cop, and he was going to bust me on my hustle. "Are you challenging me to a wager?"

          I hesitated, not quite sure if I should go on. The well-trained part of my mind that knew the con by heart said, "Yeah." Turns out, that was definitely the wrong thing to have done.

          "Stop," Adam commanded. At first I thought he was talking to me. Matter of fact, it was the rest of the world he was talking to. I turned and saw all the other patrons of Pauline's were frozen. Ashes hung from cigarette tips in midair. The bartender was in mid poor, the beer just hangin' there. Cue balls that had been rolling towards their targets were stuck at the middle of their travels.

          "What the hell?" I managed. I was too stunned to really think about what was going on. Adam didn't give me any time to recover.

          "James Robert Priest, on the edge of death you have issued a challenge with an attached wager. I, Azrael, the Lord's Angel of Death, accept," he said. As I watched great, white wings emerged from his back. He was an honest to God angel. The angel of death. Shit.

          "On the edge of death?" I repeated dumbly. I didn't feel like I was dyin'. What the fuck was going on here?

          "In less than fifteen seconds, an out of control car will burst through the wall behind us. Its engine will rupture and the resulting sparks and shrapnel will ignite the liquor along the bar. Since the car's mass will be blocking the door and this establishment is not furnished with any kind of emergency exit, you and all the other patrons of Pauline's Pub will be burned alive," he stated matter-of-factly.

          "How...how do you know that?" I stuttered, feeling stupid for even asking it.

          "Come now," sarcasm crept into his voice. "Doesn't the title, Angel of Death, give you some kind of clue?"

          "Yeah, um...so you stopped time so we could play for five bucks?" I still wasn't too sure this was really happening. It was too surreal, too strange, too fuckin' impossible to be happening. But it was.

          "No, fool of a man," Azrael said. "I stopped time because it is God's law." He looked at me expectantly, waiting for some kind of understanding on my part. He didn't get it.

          "Uh, what?"

          He sighed loudly. "I am the Angel of Death, but I serve another purpose. I am also the Angel of the Apocalypse. Forget everything you've read about the moon turning red and a plague of locusts punishing the sinners. Quite simply, when it is time, I will wipe out this entire planet. That is the Apocalypse."

          "What does that have to do with me?"

          "The way the Apocalypse is accomplished is by a wager. God made his wager with Satan over Job. So you have made a wager with me. It was decreed by God that if a man near death challenges the Angel of Death to a contest and wins he is kept safe and alive from whatever is going to kill him. On the other hand, if the challenger loses, the world ends."

          "But..." I stuttered again. "I didn't know that! I was just trying to win some money!"

          "I know," the angel smiled again. Now I had a reason for being creeped out. A sudden thought occurred to me.

          "You set me up," I said disbelievingly.

          "Yes. The same way you were trying to set me up."

          "But I only wanted a few bucks, you want to kill the entire world! Why?!"

          "If you must know," Azrael began. "It's actually very simple. I was created in heaven, and then as soon as you people showed up, I was exiled to this stinking planet to do my duty. The only way I get to go home is when every single one of you is dead. Do you have any idea how disgusting this place is compared to heaven? No, you don't." He seemed to get angrier by the word.

          "I didn't know! I can't do this!" I screamed. I sure as hell wasn't going to have the entire world on my conscience. It already had enough shit on it.

          "If you back out, it's a forfeit. You lose your life and I destroy every living human on this wretched world."

          "Man, that's fucked up."

          "Yes it is. The truth is, I was wondering if I'd ever get a chance to enact this little clause. Then this glorious game came along. I knew all I had to do was wait and practice." He was still fuckin' smiling. I started to get angry then. This smarmy bastard was talking about killing everyone over some twisted technicality I had accidentally invoked.

          "Fine," I said, feeling my resolve strengthen a little. If ever there was a time I had to shoot a perfect game, it was now. "Let's do it."

          "Of course," he said. "And as the one being challenged it's only fair that I break." Crap, I thought. If he could run the table like he did last time, I wouldn't even get a chance to fight. I couldn't challenge his claim, though. I didn't know how he'd handle it if I argued with him again. He might decide just to declare the game forfeit and kill us all.

          I racked. "No, no, no," Azrael said. "Not eight-ball. I'll make it sporting. Make it nine-ball." God, I wanted to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face. I re-racked for nine-ball, hoping he wasn't as good at this as he was eight.

          I held my breath as he broke, praying he wouldn't make a ball. He did. The seven went into a side pocket. The rest were scattered far apart, leaving him a lot of room to maneuver. The one ball was wide open and he had a perfect shot at it. "Fuck," I muttered.

          I grew more and more anxious as he shot first the one, then the two, then the three, sinking all of them. The four ball was kissing the rail and the cue ball sat directly down table from it. I allowed myself to hope a bit. It wasn't an easy shot. He fuckin' made it of course. I was really beginning to hate myself by then. Way to go, Jim, I thought. Good job destroying the world, ya fuckin' prick.

          He was left with a bank shot on the five, which sat less than an inch away from the opposite rail. I held my breath as he shot it. The cue ball hit the five, the five hit the rail and bounced back, and...the fuckin' cue ball didn't get out of the way in time! The five double kissed the cue ball and missed its pocket! I had a chance! "Well," Azrael said, sounding disgusted. "Too bad I didn't leave you with a shot." His voice grew mocking.

          Azrael was right. I didn't have a shot, not a good one anyway. The five rested closely behind the eight ball and of course the cue ball was positioned so that the eight was directly in the way. "Fuck," I muttered again. It seemed to be the only word that expressed exactly what I was feeling then. No pressure, I thought darkly. Come on, Jim! Look at the table! There’s gotta be something. There was, but it wasn't pretty.

          The nine ball was sitting near the top corner pocket. The five and the eight were down table, but with their positioning, if I banked it just right, then maybe. Just fuckin' maybe. "Nine in the corner," I indicated the pocket I meant with my cue.

          "Ambitious," he said smugly. About that, at least, he was right. This was no easy shot. And if I missed, everybody suffered.

          I took my time. I lined it up. I went to both ends of the table and double checked my angles. I chalked my hands and the cue at least three times. Goddam, I was nervous. And well, I had every right to be. It's not everyday a man plays a game of stick for the fate of humanity.

          "Get on with it," Azrael sounded annoyed. I nodded slowly and lined up my shot one last time.

          "Come on, Jim," I whispered to myself and shot.

          The cue rolled down the table, banked off the rail, and struck the five. Too hard, I thought. Oh Jesus, too fuckin' hard! The five hit the eight slightly off from where I intended. It's gonna knock the nine into the rail! The eight rolled and as I’d predicted, it knocked the nine into the rail. I'm fucked, I thought. We're all fucked. The nine ricocheted off the rail and again off the opposite rail and then rolled slowly toward the pocket I'd called. Come on! Please, come on! It hit the lip of the rail, barely moving by then and I froze. It wasn't going to go! It wasn't going to go! The nine ball stopped at the edge of the pocket......and fell.

          “Yes!" I shouted. I'd won! Holy shit, I'd done it! I'd stopped Azrael from destroying the world with one fuckin' shot!

          Azrael was fuming. "You stupid, arrogant, foolish...." he was so furious he couldn't even decide on a proper insult. He settled on a scream of rage.

          Then, I was suddenly standing across the parking lot of Pauline's. As I got my bearings, a black Porsche careened through the doors of Pauline's. Its engine exploded and hundreds of smaller explosions followed, the bottles of liquor bursting. Fire erupted and all I could do was watch as the place burnt to the ground, taking many people I'd known and called friends with it. I wanted to try to help them, but there really wasn't anything I could do. Even when the firefighters arrived a few minutes later, they couldn't get to them in time. They all died and I lived.

          I lived because I had made a bet, a foolish bet, and somehow I had won it. James Priest, a lowlife like me, had saved the world. But somehow, standing there watching Pauline's Pub burn to the ground, hearing the screams coming from inside, I didn't feel like much of a hero. Not like much of a hero at all.