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==CHAPTER ONE==

The Pool Hall Hustle

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It was Saturday morning, and the sun woke Jacob out of another night's erased memories. He moved to get blood flowing, then rolled and fell out of the "bed" he had fashioned out of an old mattress stacked on some old milk crates. The old thing was saggy, and crusted with sweat, cum, and god knows what.

He stumbled to his hooves, scattering beer cans and spilling old cigar butts out of an ashtray as he knocked over the lamp and the case of beer serving as a nightstand. The beer wasn't his, he hated beer. It was for the girls he brought back, or whatever company he was trying to get friendly with.

His half-awake brain directed his attention to the screaming of his bladder and the heavy urgency in his bowel. Trying to reorient himself, he held a hand to his head and kept his eyes screwed shut. His skull was currently breaking apart and screaming at him, and the next step he took didn't help that situation at all.

WHAM! A bookshelf rammed straight into his head, the already unstable world suddenly spinning around him and throwing him onto his ass while his stomach churned wildly.

The pain doubled, White hot fire ripping through his brain and setting every nerve in him to wobbling. Tears formed, but he grit his teeth and growled to force it all back. Another, smaller thud sounded out when he leaned against the wall and let his head throw itself around the condo for a while.

His urge for relief could no longer be denied, however, so as he regained use of his hooves, he grabbed his phone and made his way to the bathroom. Glorious satisfaction flooded through him as he emptied himself, ignoring the worryingly wet sounds the aftermath of his grease and alcohol diet had made the norm, scrolling through tonight's events around town. Once he found one he thought he could stand, it was over to his contacts to see if he had any girls that hadn't told him to lose their number.

And came up empty handed. Well; that was his luck in a nutshell, really. He finished, washed up, and found some clothes to throw on that weren't too dirty. Tomorrow would have to be laundry day, he supposed. As he picked up his wallet, he found he was on the last of his cash too. Great. He grabbed his keys and headed out.

The first place Jacob headed was one of his go-to spots to make some cash. His car shuddered to a stop as he parked in front of a local brewery and pool hall. The place had been open for ages, and Jacob had become a regular the moment he was able to sneak in as a kid. He took a second to look over the car, a present from his father for getting onto the football team; back when the Mazda Miata MX-5 might have been considered sporty. Back then it had been a silver-white ghost on the road, and even better when some of the guys on the team who took auto shop had tuned it up and put some more power under the hood.

But like most things in the draft horse's life, it had been taken for granted. Rode hard and put away wet; so that now it had thinner patches of paint where rust was beginning to show, the engine in dire need of a tune up, and whatever power it had once roared with reduced to a cough and wheeze. He shrugged, then walked into Crux with a strut that oozed exaggerated confidence. The regulars didn't bother looking up, the sound of his horseshoes on the concrete a familiar ring they had learned to ignore.

That brought a brief frown to his face before he quickly pulled it back into a smug grin, heading over to the tables and grabbing a triangle to rack up the balls. Taking his time to chalk the cue, carefully chosen out of the rack as he gave the old sheep behind the bar a nod. Robert had been running this game with Stantz for years now, and anyone with half a brain would be able to see through it, but somehow it still worked. When he started making shots, he made sure to use his offhand stance and to miss some incredibly simple shots.

The sheep started to do his part; handing the bar off to a bigger ram named Lucas and starting to walk the floor. There were other hustlers in the place too, of course, but once they saw him making the rounds they knew Stantz was looking for his target. They immediately took the marks they could and let the owner stalk around.

As Robert walked the tables, Jacob was taking challengers. Each time he started a game, Robert would glance at Jacob, who would signal him whether or not he wanted that 'fish'. If he kept chalking the cue or made a shot, Robert would pass them by and let Jacob "lose" the game.

If he blew on the cue, it was game time. The sheep came to the table while Jacob was playing a kid who was struggling particularly hard, but pulling off decently smooth shots with a fair amount finding the pockets. Not quite a beginner, but a lot of work to do before he could sink shots with consistency. Robert looked. Jacob blew off the cue.

At his signal, Robert began his dance. He praised the kid, a smaller Labrador with long ears and a golden coat. "Wow kid! You're doing great! You must be the best player in this joint." etc, etc. The kid wasn't going for it at first, until all the hustlers started playing even worse to make the claim look real. They all knew the game, every one of them had been in a spot where they came up dry, and eventually came up with a system. Robert helped them out, and they all helped each other out as well. Tit for tat, honor among thieves.

Eventually the boy started believing the hype, and Robert gave him a sly wink. "Tell you what. I think you could make a little scratch here, if you were willing to lay down a bet. Why don't you set up a challenge?" The kid grinned and nodded, and Robert gave Jacob a wink. "Just one sec here, bud, and I'll be right back. Stantz, why don't you go over the house rules for betting?"

As Jacob explained, starting with the $100 minimum pot, Robert swung by the bar to pour two heavy mugs of beer. Coming back and slamming them on the table. "Stantz, you sorry son of a bitch, you've talked his ear off enough. He gets the basics. You ready to try and break that losing streak of yours with this guy?"

Jacob nodded, sliding $50 onto the table, the kid eagerly slapping his own money on the table to match Jacob's bet, starting the pot. And away they went. Jacob kept his awkward stance and made sure to look like he was having trouble with the aim of some of his shots, the beer aiding in giving him a plausible sway as if he were already tipsy. It was the only time he would choke the shit down, to keep up the act. And true to the old expression, he would truly have to piss like a racehorse later due to it.

The end result was a believably amateur game, the lab having run the lead, Jacob occasionally making "fluke" shots and ultimately losing by 3 balls. Barely scratching the scoreboard, honestly, but keeping the interest of the crowd that had started to form around them. While the Lab celebrated, slaps on the shoulders from nearby patrons, Jacob made a show of slowly pulling out his cash. "Well; that was a good warm up, but what do you say we try again?" His voice holding all the cockiness he had carried in high school when he was challenging freshmen to stupid dares.

And just like them; the stupid pup jumped at the chance, putting down more cash. He doubled his original bet, and Jacob matched. This time, Jacob played a little better, but kept the offhand so he could keep his secret. Another loss, but the look of greed in the boy's eyes rang out in harmony with Stantz's own soul and he grinned.

The worm was on the hook, this guy thought that Jacob was *his* sucker, and he was the shark. And that's how it went for a few games; Jacob never letting the kid win by too much or himself lose by too little. Kept the kid's interest until the bet was running high. Jacob had put down all his cash, so he sprang the trap and switched to his natural stance.

The sudden, sharp crack of the break was music to his ears as he began playing more seriously. Clack clack went the balls as they played, but as time went on Jacob felt that something was off. The kid was keeping up to easily, and making shots he never would have made in a million years not 2 minutes ago. No; it was impossible! The Labrador *had* been playing him all along!

The eight ball sank into the right side pocket, just as the kid had called, and Jacob's blood boiled. This wasn't happening. This was acceptable. No one beat Jacob at his own hustle! No one got one over on him! NO ONE. PLAYED. JACOB! FUCKING! STANTZ!

As the punk turned to walk away, Jacob's hand slapped down on his shoulder and hauled him around. 'If his thoughts match the look on his face-' The Labrador thought, 'This guy is about to slam his fist into my face and send me flying over the bar.' But just as quickly as the horse had spun him around, his face suddenly turned into one of almost pure innocence and friendly warmth. "You really pulled one over on me there, bud! But I'm not quite tapped yet, what do you say to one more game?"

The canine snorted and looked his sucker over, knowing he had seen the last of that asshole's cash on the table when he wiped him out, and was about to reject him flat when the other continued. "I know, you don't want to waste time on a scrub, but, I always keep a little something on me for good luck. Something my dad gave me way back when." Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out a slim bar of gold. He put it on the table, letting everyone see the stamp on it declaring '5 OZ. FINE GOLD 999.9'

While some of the older bar goers gasped, including Robert and Lucas, the others tilted their heads. The Lab snorted and asked "What's that even worth? That tiny little thing?" but he couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice, and Stantz caught it immediately as he answered smoothly: 'Five ounces of 999.9 pure gold goes for $7,107 right now. That's more than anyone else in here is going to drop, and it's all yours for one more game, if you beat me again."

The other shoe dropped, and the Lab put all the money he had won, and all the rest he had on him, down on the edge of the table. Jacob put the bar on the pile and racked up the balls once more. He let his opponent break, and then focused. No shot went missed, no ball escaped his notice, and soon Jacob was right where he wanted to be all along. Aiming right down the barrel at the 8 ball, lining up the shot that would send it into the corner pocket.

He looked up and saw the anger on the dog's face, and he almost laughed. "By the way, bro. I never got your name." he said smugly, making sure his shot was perfect. The canine's teeth showed for a moment before he growled out: "Mickey." Jacob snorted out the laugh this time. "Well Mickey, I think your night is about to get a whole lot worse." The cue sprang forward, and the clatter of the final shot caused everyone to explode into a roar as the 8 ball sealed the deal. Jacob had just made out with over $10,107 in total, counting the gold. So; that left $3,000 in winnings.

He grabbed the cash and shoved it in his pocket, feeling more like his old self than he had in ages. While Mickey was being held back by the regulars, screaming and cursing about Jacob being a cheat and other such things, Robert took his usual 10% cut and watched the horse saunter off full of piss and vinegar.

Outside, Jacob checked his watch and saw it was only 4 PM. Plenty of time until Haven opened, so he could get some more done. Looking down at his stained sweatpants and the hole-ridden shirt he had thrown on, he decided the first thing he needed to do was buy some new clothes before he headed over tonight.