Earl sat in the back corner of his pool hall watching the drunks and the pool sharks at play. He occasionally tended to a smoldering cigar in the tin ash tray in front of him and more frequently sipped at his glass of Tennessee whiskey. A flickering yellow candle sat on the table in front of him and a flashing red neon sign hung on the wall next to him. Earl’s scarred face flickered red and yellow like a bonfire attendee with his deep sunken eyes glinting with light.

He weighed in like a king at court on the topics presented before him. People wanted help, protection, or money. Many times, they wanted all three. His captains and cousins sat at his side in the booth like royal advisers offering their opinions or wisdom. Earl himself kept his responses short and efficient, a symptom of an decades old bullet crashing into his throat.

A runner arrived late that night, bringing an envelope and a message. The envelope contained a deformed 9mm, the message was revenge, and Earl’s blood was chilled by memory.