Billy, Scuzzy, and God

It’s the Nashville Country Corner, all the low are getting high.
And Billy tells his tale again to anyone who’ll buy.
With waving arms and rolling eyes, he screams to the drunken throng,
“I’ve whipped the Devil and lived through Hell, now who’s gonna sing my
song?”

Then from the shadows comes an oily voice, “Hey, kid, I like your moves.”
And out of the back slides a little wizened cat with brown-and-white perforated wing-tip shoes.
“Sleezo’s the name,” the little man says, “but I’m Scuzzy to my friends.
And I think I got a little business proposition you just might be interested in.”

“Scuzzy Sleezo hisself,” Billy Markham says. “Man, you’re a legend in these woods.
You never cut the Devil down, but you done damn near as good.
Why, since I been old enough to jack, I been hearin’ your greasy name.
It’s an honor to meet an all-star Scuzz. Just where you settin’ up your game?”

“No more games for me,” says Scuzzy. “I’m too old and too slow for the pace,
So I’m the world’s greatest hustler’s agent now and, Billy, I been studyin’ your case.
I seen your first match with the Devil,” says Scuzz, “it was a Volkswagen/Mack truck collision,
And your second shot, well, you showed me a lot, but you got burned by a hometown decision.

And I says to myself, ‘He can go all the way, with the proper guidance, of course.
He’s got the heart, and with a few more smarts, he’d be an irresistible force.’
Yeah, I can teach you the tricks and show you the shticks, just like a hustler’s training camp.
And I’ll bring you on slow — then a prelim or so — then — Powee! — a shot at the Champ.”

“The Champ?” says Billy Markham. “Now, who in God’s name is that?”
“Why, God Himself,” says Scuzzy Sleezo. “You know anybody more champ than that?”
“Hey, a match with God?” Billy Markham gasps. “And what would be the purse?”
“Why, a place in heaven, of course,” says Scuzz, “’stead of livin’ this Nashville curse.

But I’ll drive you like a wagon, son, and I’ll sweat you like a Turk,
All for fifty percent of the take — now, shake, and let’s get to work.”
Now the scene shifts to the funky pool hall known as the Crystal Cue
And the time is three months later, and the smoke is thick and blue,

And the emerald cloth is stained with tears and blood and ketchup spots,
As a fat old man with a dirty white beard stands practicin’ three- cushion shots.
“Hey, what are we doin’ here?” says Billy to Scuzz. “I been taught and I been trained,
And I don’t need no more prelims, I am primed for the Big, Big Game.”

“Well, son,” says the old man, sinkin’ the four, “why don’t you pick yourself out a cue, and. . . .”
“Hey, Santa Claus,” Billy Markham snaps back, “wasn’t nobody talkin’ to you.”
“Um. . .if you look close,” whispers Scuzzy to Bill, “you’ll see his cue is a lightnin’ rod,
And he ain’t no Santa, and he ain’t Fat Daddy. . .you just showed your ass to God.”

“Well, hey, excuse me, Lord,” says Bill, “I didn’t mean to be uncool,
But it sure can shake a fellah’s faith to find God hustling pool.”
“Well, where you expect to find me,” says God, “on a throne with cherubs round?
Well, I do that five days and nights a week, and on the sixth night. ..I get down.”

“And on the seventh night I suppose you rest?” says Billy Markham with a grin.
“Never you mind about the seventh night,” says God. “Besides, that lady’s just a friend.
Anyway, you didn’t come here just to drag my image down.”
“You’re right ’bout that, Lord,” Billy says. “I come to take your crown.”

“Beg pardon, Lord,” says Scuzzy Sleezo, “I don’t mean no disrespect,
But when you’re dealing with my boy, don’t speak to him direct.
I’m his agent and consultant, Scuzzy Sleezo is the name,
Premier Promotional Artist’s Representative of the whole street-hustlin’ game.

Cardsharps, loan sharks, pimps, punks and car parks, I’ve handled the best of the lot,
And my new boy here, he just whipped the Devil — now we’re lookin’ for a title shot.”
“Beat the Devil, you say?” laughs God. “Well, I take my hat off to him.
Let him hang up his mouth and pick out a cue and he’ll get the shot that’s due him.

Any game he names — any table he’s able — any price he can afford.”
“Straight pool for Heaven,” says Billy Markham. “Straight pool it is,” says the Lord.
Crack! Billy Markham wins the break and busts ‘em cool and clean.
The five ball falls, he sinks the seven, and then drops the 13.

He makes the nine, comes off the cushion and puts the six away,
Bags the three and the eight on a triple combination and wins the first game on a smooth massé.
He takes the next game, the next and the next, and when he does finally miss,
He dusts the blue off his hands, and his game score stands at 1376.

“Well, my turn at last,” says the Lord, chalkin’ up. “Son, you sure shoot a wicked stick.
I’ll need some luck to beat a run like that; that is, without resorting to miracles or tricks.”
“Hey, trick and be damned,” Billy Markham laughs. “Tonight I’m as hot as flame.
So I laugh at your tricks — and I sneer at your stick — and I take your name in vain.”

“Oooh”, goes the crowd that’s been gathering around. “Oooh”, goes the rack boy in wonder.
“Oooh”, says Scuzzy Sleezo, “I think you just made a slight tactical blunder.”
“Oooh”, says God, “you shouldn’t have said that, son, you shouldn’t have said that at all!”
And his cue cracks out like a thunderbolt spittin’ a flamin’ ball.

It sinks everything on the table, then it zooms up off the green,
Through the dirty window with a crash of glass and into the wind like a woman’s scream,
Out of the pool hall, up through the skies, the cue ball gleams and swirls,
Bustin’ in and out of every pool game in the world.

It strikes on every table, it crashes every rack,
And every pool ball in creation comes rebounding back!
Back through the window they tumble and crash, down through the ceiling they spin.
A million balls rain down on the table and every one goes in.

“Now, there”, says Scuzzy Sleezo, “is a shot you don’t see every day.
Lord, you should have an agent to handle your press and build up the class of your play.
My partnership with this sucker here has come to a termination.
But God and Scuzzy Sleezo? Hey, that would be a combination.”

Meanwhile, the cue ball flyin’ back last, like a sputterin’ fizzlin’ rocket,
Goes weaving dizzily down the cushion and — plunk! — falls right in the pocket.
“Scratch!” says Billy Markham. “And you said you could shoot!”
“Scratch!” murmurs the crowd of hangers and hustlers. “At last we have seen it all.
“Scratch!” mutters the Lord. “I guess I put a little too much English on the ball,

Just another imperfection, I never get it quite on the button.
Tell you what, son, I’ll spot you three million balls and play you one more double or nothin’.”
“Double what?” says Billy Markham. “I already whipped you like a child,
And I won my seat in Heaven, now I’m gonna set in it awhile.”

“Hit-and-run — chickenshit,” sneers God. “You said you was the best.
Turns out you’re just a get-lucky-play-it-safe pussy like all the rest.”
“Whoa-whoa”, says Billy. “There’s somethin’ in that voice I know quite well.”
And he reaches out and yanks off God’s white beard — and there stands the Devil himself!

“You said you was God”, Billy Markham cries. “You conned me and hustled me, too!”
“I am God — sometimes — and sometimes I’m the Devil, good and bad, just like you.
I’m everything and everyone in perfect combination,
And everybody but you kows that there ain’t no separation.

But go ahead,” sighs God, scribbling something down. “Give this note to the angel on the wall,
And you sit up there ‘n’ plunk your harp. Hey, anybody want to shoot some eight ball?”
And cold and white and tremblin’, Billy walks out into the night,
Where a golden staircase stretches all the way to paradise.

And he grips the glitterin’ balustrade and begins his grand ascent.
“Just a minute, good buddy”, yells Scuzzy Sleezo. “How about my fifty percent?
I helped you win the champeenship — and you wouldn’t do ol’ Scuzzy wrong,
And since the purse is a seat in Heaven, you just gotta take me along.”

“Just one minute”, says Billy Markham. “There’s something weird going on in this game.
All the voices that I’m hearin’ start to soundin’ just the same.”
And he rips off Scuzzy Sleezo’s face and the Devil’s standing there.
“Good God,” yells Billy Markham, “are you — are you everywhere?”

“Yes, I am,” the Devil says. “And don’t look so damn surprised.
I thought you could smuggle me into Heaven wearing my Sleezy disguise.
‘Course, I could’ve walked in as Jehovah, but it just wouldn’t have been the same,
But you and your corny Dick Tracy bit — you had to go ruin my fantasy game.

Go on, climb up your golden stairs, enjoy your paradise,
But don’t rip off your own face, Bill — or you might get a shockin’ surprise.”
Then up, up the golden stairway Billy Markham dizzily winds his way,
And high, high above him, he can hear his own songs bein’ played,

And down, down below
He hears Scuzzy Sleezo curse his name,
To the click-click-click of the pool balls
As God hustles another game.