Washed out brokers pilfered gold chains from around the necks of some pool table’s gambier obsessed denizens by the lampless shade a few crumbs ago. Twiddling their escape thimbles, they hillocked a silvery verge. 

Another event reoccurred in the interim. A moment ago, above the cones of street lights would have likely locked them still. An unholy ramprounder of halo shined where it was least needed.

Something more could have also followed, say, maybe after a malady, the medicine

men

traipsed about, playing near and fair with hip-swaying fancy freaks that scandalized the pool hall. Cigars plummeted from fat lips onto fat thighs and burned star shaped holes. By ding of the feet, the ache was a little less sore.