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Something Stupid...

.-1-.

As Nick potted another ball, he decided then and there that he was in the mood for doing something stupid.

However, like most things in life, he just didn't know exactly what it was he wanted.

Not that having come to Savannah in the first place wasn't pretty stupid in its self, but...

The aptly named "Pit Stop" was exactly that; a pit. Perhaps even a dive. The place was dully lit, seriously dilapidated and ridiculously humid.

Nick hated humid climates. He hated the way it sapped the strength from him, the way it made his bespoke shirts cling to his flesh with stale sweat, and he seriously hated -nay- loathed the way it always made him feel so claustrophobic in his own skin. It always reminded him way too much of his short, but memorable stint in jail.

God, how he missed the overly climate controlled sterile bars of Vegas! Sure, sometimes it was like walking around some twisted amusement park, filled to the gunnels with fake, plastic people and rapidly decaying geriatrics, but at least it had gambling, good booze and -most importantly of all- working air conditioning.

All in all, the constant humidity did nothing to sweeten his already sour mood.

Yeah, driving way down south to this shit hole had been pretty damn stupid alright.

But then, it wasn't as if Nick had had a choice in the matter. Why else would he be playing pool in some bar by himself, in the armpit of the Bible belt when he could've been sat at a table somewhere on the strip, getting rich if he had? No, being stuck in Savannah was just one of a many places he had ended up after taking a risky gamble, on a lead on the whereabouts of a certain thieving bitch, which -yet again- had turned out to be a complete crock of shit.

Nick gritted his teeth in frustration, and downed the remains of his cheap and nasty bourbon, before turning his attention back to his solitary game. God good, did it taste nasty as hell? Like a bad blend of over the counter bleach, mixed with barley flavoured piss. Still, it had a proof and was likely to either get him drunk or worse, killed. And really, at that precise moment, that was all that mattered to Nick. Anything that could help him forget his troubles and current shitty surroundings, if only for a little while.

But then, he wasn't in the mood for that kind of drunken stupidity.

No, he thought. No, he was after something else. Something alcohol couldn't quite manage...

How long had it been since Vegas, since he had left to hunt her down? Four maybe five months? He couldn't be sure; it wasn't as if he kept a diary. In any case it had been far too long. He sighed, heavy and weary, and leant his weight against his pool cue and contemplated his next move.

What exactly was his next move any way?

...Apart from the want - no- need to do something fantastically stupid, of course.

The trail-surprise surprise- had gone cold yet again, and the lead he had gotten from Miami had been most likely to be a red herring any way. He should've known. The gambler scowled and quickly sank a striped blue into the furthest corner pocket with considerable force.

The bitch was always one step ahead of him. Not so long ago that kind of thinking would've impressed him, but right at that moment it did nothing but strengthen his resolve that when he found her, he was going to plant a bullet right between her lying, cheating eyes.

Whilst Nick was not exactly the most moral of men, that didn't mean to say he didn't have certain scruples. Admittedly not many, but he definitely had them, especially when it came to shooting people. The man generally made it a rule to only resort to firearms if push came to shove and even then, only if he absolutely had to. Whilst bullets were cheap, the dry cleaning bill and the legal shit weren't. However in this instance, he was willing to make an exception.

But then who wouldn't? This was his bitch of an ex-wife he was talking about.

Cunning, conniving, and supremely talented in the art of talking people out of their hard earned cash... Sometimes it scared Nick just how alike they really were.

Veronica had been the best partner he had ever had. How else could she have conned him out of just shy of half a million dollars and then vanish without a trace?

A snarl left his throat, as he eyed up the few locals in the bar.

Just thinking about that bitch made his blood boil. It made his fists clench and itch for something to punch.

However, Nick knew he wasn't going to start any sort of shit. He may have been in the mood for something truly idiotic, but picking a fight with these back water hicks? Now that was a definite kind of special, suicidal based stupid Nick was not interested in. Because whilst beating a couple of hicks senseless with pool cue sounded fun and would surely make him feel slightly better (if only for a little while), dealing with the following repercussions would not. The man had no interest in being dragged through town by his ankles, only to be crucified by Earl Senior the following morning.

However, from the looks of the locals, a brawl wasn't likely to ensue anyway. It seemed like everybody in the joint knew that Nick was a loose cannon waiting, just waiting for an excuse to explode. And they sure as hell weren't willing to give him an excuse to do so. No one had gone near the northerner for the whole three hours he had been there, save the poor waitress.

So, taking his frustration out on the locals was out of the question.

As was conning them out of their money.

Nick scoffed at the notion. Conning these poor bastards out of money? Where was the fun in that? No, Nick preferred his marks with white collars, fat wallets and the personality traits of an 'A' grade prick. Sure, the man would slum it occasionally and wipe some poor bastard clean of his pitiful pay cheque on a game or two of pool when he had to, like he had done at the start of his 'career'. But the fat cats, the pricks... Now they were the ones the conman loved to fuck over. Nick took great joy from taking every last filthy penny these guys could rub together, and couldn't help but feel somewhat virtuous in doing so. Fuck it, they way those guys earned their money, in Nick's mind they deserved to be bent over, and taken full advantage of.

However, he doubted his prime marks would be caught dead in a place like this, perhaps some local drug lord with cash to burn, or a bar owner two sheets to the wind maybe. But Nick couldn't be bothered. He'd wait. Gambling angry was never the best way to go, and Nick only had a finite amount of cash to live on until he could get to Casino boats he'd heard about.

Nick stood back and studied the pool table. There were only a few shots left before the table would be clear.

The whole trip had been a complete waste of time.

And once he was done with this game, what next? He didn't want to get insanely drunk, he didn't want to start a fight and he sure as hell couldn't be fucked into gambling with any of these dumb bastards... so what the hell did he want? Of course, no one was about to answer that for him, which left the conman with very little to do, other than to (moderately) drink away the night and return to his shitty motel room, alone.

As the conman bent down over the table to take his next shoot, the sound of the bar door being opened echoed through. Nick gave a fleeting glance toward the bar, when he spotted out of the corner of his eye a young man with a stupid hick cap enter. He stopped for a moment, and watched as the kid drifted round to a stool across from his pool table and order himself up a beer...

TBC...


R+R: It powers this lean mean, writing machine.