Nearly void of its recent distilled contents, the bottle glinted in the array of lights in the bar. The yellow light over the pool table shone through its square sides at the apex of its arc. The blue from the neon Bud Light sign danced along its squared angles as it came forcefully downward. The reds and organges of the ‘Robot Vixen’ pinball machine occupied jagged edges in the space of a half second as the whole thing shattered about the face of Delray Hicks.

All seven people in the bar fell silent as the limp body fell to the unfinished pine floor along with the shards and droplets of Jack Daniels. Holstead Hicks looked dumbly down at the crumpled form of his brother and the remaining bottle neck in his hand.

Delray hadn’t seen it coming. Holstead hadn’t thought he’d get away with it. Forty-seven years of being bested at every turn, his face rubbed in it whenever possible, and on that day of all days he got in a lucky shot.

“Delray!” came a worried cry, followed quickly by a shocked, “Holstead?”