My attention is drawn there, to a crudely painted box wedged between the bluebird and the silk rose. The message was typed on an ancient machine with a bad ribbon. The words so faint the letters look like dried blood. But, I can't.
Death plays pool with skulls.
From where I sit, the room reflects in the tiny mirror behind the pool table. The other people in the room shift and stir in their chairs. The movement blurs the image except for the area straight ahead of me. Snaps on my denim jacket flash lightning. He, the victor, stands straight with his cue at rest like a rifle at his side.