"Seven ball, side pocket."<br/><br/>With smooth measured movement, Ben taps the cueball into the Seven. It sinks into the side pocket with a satisfying thump and rattle, while the cueball bounces on a couple of cushions before resting in perfect position for sinking the Eight.<br/><br/>"Eight ball, corner pocket."<br/><br/>Bars werent the same anymore since the smoking ban throughout the nation. Anymore you had punk college kids turn up at the 'new hangout' and all the regulars feel invaded. These kids had no sense of decency in molding to the atmosphere of a bar, they forced their own wills upon it.<br/><br/>"Ok, who's next?"<br/><br/>"I take you on old man, fifty bucks."<br/><br/>"Ohh, big spender, eh? Rack 'em up kiddo."<br/><br/>The Eightball table was racked up and Ben placed the cueball, preparing to break the group. After half a minute of measuring and test strokes, Ben smashed the cueball with a tight focused swing. The cueball sped into the grouping, scattering balls in every direction. Plunk, plunk, plunk. Balls were sinking into pockets every which way. A few heartstopping moments later, the Eightball rolled slowly to the precipice of a corner pocket before rolling over the edge. The cueball rested back in position where Ben had struck it.<br/><br/>"Eff you man! I aint paying up a bet after that show, you hustler!"<br/><br/>Quicker than the rich kid, Ben grabbed the money off the table, and stared down at him. "You will pay your debt, and you will like it. Word from the wise, never hustle a hustler."<br/><br/>Leaving the bar, Ben looked up at the thundering clouds and grimaced at the coming rainstorm. He had a coat for the rain, but the wind this town was known for was horrendous. "Uh, I hate Chicago..."<br/><br/>Walking down the street, Ben felt the presence of a group of people walking behind him. Walking a block, then choosing left or right at intersections confirmed he was being followed. "Well, might as well take care of it."<br/><br/>Darting into an alley, hid in the small inset of a wall. A minute later, a group of punks, including the rich kid rushed the alley. Four of them had makeshift clubs, or chains, but the rich kid had a butterfly knife. Not wanting to disappoint, Ben thumped the last one to walk past him. They were much too eager for blood and didnt even look to see if he was hiding.<br/><br/>The exhileration of combat lit up within Ben. Sparks ran up and down his spine and nervous system as input and information ran along them. His mind became focused and very aware of his surrounding. His muscles responded to directions and input faster than before and relayed information back.<br/><br/>Lightning cascaded across the clouds creating white-blue flashes before dissapating just as quickly. Clubs and chains came close to striking Ben, but missed by hair's breadth. As he punched and kicked, his assailants convulsed and dropped to the ground. White-blue flashes sparking as flesh met flesh.<br/><br/>In quick succession, Ben was the only one left standing. Those that meant him harm, were groaning on the ground or delerious with pain. Walking out of the alley, the rain had just begun. "I really hate Chicago..."