When you beat enough players down, some take it personally, especially those with more pride than skill. Keep tabs on them because they may look for a rematch away from the poker table. Of course, when that happens, don't hesitate to beat them down again.

The weekend melted down in the usual way of New York winters, with locals gathering warmth indoors while idling about. At the end, Sunday came, and so did Joey's work at Angelo's

Upon return, there was the usual crew. The game stayed nearly full the entire night so Joey never even got to play. Late in the evening, he was dealing when the door buzzed. An acquaintance arrived, this time without a date.

"Marco, you came pretty late." Angelo addressed.

"I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by." He flashed a winning smile, then suddenly took out his phone and made a call. "...Something came up. I'll see you later."

As quickly as he arrived, he had gone.

Joey caught the scene despite dealing. He hadn't failed to spot Marco's hard gaze in his direction, nor the malicious spark that flared in his eye.

Joey finished working, poured himself a soda, and made a phone call.

...

Getting late, the game was on its last legs. The players went home, followed by the staff. Joey traveled on his normal route, around Angelo's building and through the wide adjacent alley, when he heard a whistle.

Some distance behind him, a man emerged obscured by shadow.

"...Who's that?" Joey asked.

Snort. "Who do you think, punk?"

"From your entrance...a gapist."

The shadowy figure hesitated. "What's a gapist?"

"Gay rapist."

The hidden man scowled and stepped forward. It was Marco, and he had company. Two others emerged alongside him.

"So I was right."

"Shut up!" Cords bulged in Marco's neck. "You probably thought you were pretty cool the other night, huh?"

"Correct."

This script wasn't going according to Marco's plan. This was supposed to be the part where Joey begged him for mercy. Instead, it felt like the studio took his script, hired a clown to make a rewrite, and made him the comic relief.

"Enough bullshit. Fuck him up." Marco's crew stalked towards Joey when they heard footsteps coming from Joey's direction of the alley.

Three hulking men appeared. Their leader glared at Joey, even more fiercely than Marco had prior.

"Who are you?" Marco tested.

"It seems the extras are all here," Joey remarked.

The leader of the new group looked at Joey. "You remember our deal, right?"

"Of course, we can get it notarized if you like."

The large men moved to stand beside Joey. It was Craig and his football friends from the poker game. Joey called in a favor when he guessed Marco's plot.

Marco's brows furrowed, but he wasn't ready to back down. 'They look like a bunch of kids, how tough could they be.'

The two groups locked eyes. They sized each other up, searched for weaknesses. In this empty midnight alley, there was music in their tense, heavy breathing. Exhales harsh like engine exhaust in the biting winter air. Threat unknown. Each preparing for the impending brutal brawl.

At this moment, Joey took a step forward, lifted his chin, extended his arms out in front of him, and said, "Spew forth, my minions."

...

The silence was deafening. Seconds passed like hours. Craig wanted to cry, but ultimately gritted his teeth, roared, and led his side to attack.

Six men launched a savage battle in the concrete jungle. Adrenaline flared. Shouts echoed. Fists flew. Chaos.

"Pikachu, use slam!" Joey pointed and commanded Craig.

Craig's punch abruptly veered off target and he took a blow. This was the worst moment of his life.

"Bulbasaur, tackle!"

"Jigglypuff, sweet kiss!" Joey assisted Craig's friends.

'Why am I Jigglypuff?!?' One of them took friendly fire to his self esteem.

Marco's group was furious, feeling like Joey was treating them like fools. Their eyes grew red and they fought harder.

Unfortunately for them, Craig's group was even more enraged. Joey's 'coaching' hurt more than any fists or kicks ever could. They knew the only way out of this hell was to defeat Marco as fast as possible. They roared and went berserk.

'...They're evolving mid-fight.' Joey experienced the pride of a Pokemon trainer.

Morale bars were dropping near the suicide line when the fight finally concluded.

Marco's crew squirmed on the ground while Craig's group gasped, leaning against a brick wall. Although Marco's group was older, like him, his friends were just playboys. Craig and his friends were athletes and triumphed through sheer physicality.

"You did it, I proud of you Daniel-san." Joey was satisfied with this victory.

More than ever, Craig just wanted to go home and go to bed. "We're even now right? You'll stay out of my game?"

"Yea, we're square. It was short...but we'll always have the memories."

Everyone dispersed with various stages of physical and emotional trauma.

Joey resumed his walk home with a gloomy expression.

'They say most restaurants don't last a year, but my business venture didn't even last a weekend.' Joey shook his head. He was distressed because he would have to find new cannon fodder.

'Come to think of it, I've really changed in many ways recently ...Is this what's meant when they say people are influenced by those around them?'

Joey recalled a memory. It was a pleasant day, a day that man actually did something seemingly good for once.

***

'Reach the sky Joey boy!'

Joey's palm reached out to grab the clouds high above. They seemed to be coming closer and closer, nearly within his hand. The air was fresh and smooth. His ears were filled with the sound of metal squeaking, forming an unexpectedly lovely tune. The speed gave him a funny feeling in his stomach, but one he liked. And then came the drop.

He never feared the drop, because he knew there was someone there who promised he would always stop his fall.

'Up again!' The man pushed him back as high as he could go. Joey laughed louder.

He was surprised when he was offered to go to the swings today. He always asked every day and the answer was always no, so he was very happy.

'Did you have fun? Good...Oh, here comes the mark.'

The man took out and lit a cigarette as he looked over at a male stranger walking on the outside of the park's chainlink fence. At that moment, a van pulled up screeching to that man's side. Before he could respond, three men dove out of the van and dragged him in screaming.

It was the middle of the day. It was the middle of New York.

It became quiet again. The only sound left was the man puffing his cigarette, occasionally exhaling, the air now smoky, forming new clouds nearby, hiding those above.

'Remember this Joey boy, the best knife to use is a borrowed one. Never get your hands dirty if you can make someone else do it for you.'

...

In the New York streets, it wasn't strange to occasionally catch a scent of cigarette smoke. That's what Joey thought. He watched the grimy gray snow cracking under his boots as his legs pushed forward, holding down that thing trying to break out of the cage he built over his heart.

'I'm becoming more like him every day...'