Hustled
Slow, shuffling feet move along the cracked and damp concrete of the worn sidewalk. Neither wizened woman speaks as they approach the most inhospitable of places to anyone of sane mind. Flashing neon signs blink various brands of beer and the deafening sound of buzz saws fills the air, guitar players ripping through their retinue with ease.
Eyes widen as the women enter the bar, making their way towards the largest of the crowds gathered within. None accost the pair nor stand in their way as they pass. Cigarette smoke and cheap liquor fills their noses as they plummet into the depths of a haven for lost souls. Yet neither cares while they stand at the end of the green felt.
The eight ball falls in the chosen pocket signaling the end of the current game. A stick of wrapped tobacco hangs loosely from the mouth of the pool shark. Scoffing, the blue tip of the cue raps against a worn and blood-splattered sign giving the rates and rules of playing billiards in such a place.
The pair nods before pulling out old wrinkled paper in the amount needed to participate. Laughs and jests from the patrons fill the cloudy air of the room. Adjusting the leopard-print fedora upon his head, the hustler nods.
Two hours pass in the blink of an eye as game after game falls to the two pilgrims in an unholy land. The women adjust their habits and tighten their cloaks about their bodies as they leave the bar. Complete awe and shock fill the patrons from the display of pool prowess they witnessed. And the nuns humbly accepted the money bet against them time and again. Their coffers overflow with the funds needed to pay rent for the sister-house they claim as home.