Framed (95 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by NerfHerder <NerfHerder.at.comic.com> (View user info) at 2006-10-24 10:34:46 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
"You boys fancy a frame or two?"
The line didn't vary much from week to week. Sometimes it was "...a frame or ten," and others it was "You guys..." But what followed the line was always the same.
One lane.
10 frames.
Two teams of four bowlers each.
It had become something of a tradition at Rollerbowl in the small town of New Harborbrook, Virginia. Leagues were every Wednesday and our little wager took place on Thursday, $100 a game.
It may sound like a lot for just one game played by me and my minimum-wage bums, but things tend to even out when you play a team of comparable skill, albeit incomparable wealth and power, week after week. Overall, my team was up by only $200 all-time.
"Get your scrawny ass balls over here," I commanded Dalton and his crew. "Kitchen almost had our cheese fries ready before you got here. What was it this time, a yak loose from the zoo?"
My teammates laughed along with me.
"Maybe it was one of them..." I looked back at my teammate Zeke, with his ball in one hand and the other twirling his ever-burgeoning mustache. "What did you call them orphaned babies, Zeke?"
"Now now," Zeke said staring over at the opposing team, straw in his moth, still framed in the doorway of the bowling alley. "Not in front of the ladies."
Dalton hopped down the steps towards the lanes, followed by his team. They each unzipped their bags, removed their balls, each finely polished, and placed them on the carousel as if the balls were their own offspring.
They each then returned to their seats and strapped on their shoes, ready and thus mirroring my team's appearance. Unlike the usual back-and-forth banter, Dalton's team was eerily quiet. And my team certainly wasn't one to let such a stillness go unpunished.
"Usually more raucous than a sewing circle, ain't ya?" asked Joe Jr., a farmer with a gut almost as big as his mouth. "How's come nothing been clucking out of your mouth since last week? Tired a' gettin' beat?"
"Just the opposite," Dalton said, finally, "we're mourning for your impending loss tonight."
"There they go," said Joe Sr., clapping his posterity on the back. "before you know it, maybe they'll figure out how to throw a ball or two down the lane."
The first four frames progressed as normal. Strikes, mostly, with most leftovers cleaned up promptly. Any failure to capture the spare was often devastating for the side, but not insurmountably so.
After four frames the teams were close as always, with my team having a slight advantage in the averages, 85 to 79.
In the fifth frame, Dalton removed his ball from the carousel and positioned himself. He hesitated for a moment to look back at the seven others, who were looking right back at him. He opened his mouth as if to speak but then flipped his left hand towards us and muttered something under his breath.
"What the hell was that Dalton? Praying to God won't help you now," I said.
"Ah, it was nothing," he said, and started to regain his composure to start his frame. Before he started his windup, I stood up behind the electronic scoring table.
"Hold up," I said. Addressing the rest of the men, I said, "It looks like Dalton's got something on his mind, don't it? And we wouldn't want to let such a momentous occasion go unheralded, would we?"
Each of the others shook their head begrudgingly or mockingly, with frowns and foreheads furrowed.
"Well if it's gonna be like that," Dalton said, "That's how it's gonna be."
The rest of the group shook their heads at the lame rejoinder.
Dalton walked back towards the rest of the competitors, set down his ball and plopped in an empty seat next to me. He had the same crazy look he always had. Dalton's gloved right hand combed the right side of Dalton's mane as he addressed me and my team.
"Ever get one of those feelings?"
"Dalton," Joe Jr. said, "you haven't gone gay on us now, have you?"
"Not one of those feelings, dumbass," Dalton retorted. "I mean one of those feelings where you know you're going to hit strike after strike after strike. As if God himself is rooting for you and will not allow you to miss."
My team, dumbfounded, obviously had no idea what Dalton was talking about. We were all amateur bowlers at best, each game being just that - a game.
"Gentlemen," Dalton said with that crazy gleam in his eye. "I'd like to propose a bet."
I inched forward on my hard plastic seat and goaded Dalton to tell me more.
"We'll keep on bowling," he said, "just like we always do. But as a side bet, I'll bet anyone that I won't make anything less than a strike for the rest of the game."
Now, Dalton had been doing better than average today. He had two strikes and two spares thus far, including a nasty 7-10 in the second frame.
"How much?" I snarled, hoping to drive Dalton to make a larger bet than he wanted on account of his ego. There was no way this scrawny kid from Scranton was going to bowl a 260. The best he had ever shot was a 210 and that was an amazing combination of Mountain Dew, chili and a hamburger with expired meat from the kitchen.
Dalton scratched the inside of his ear with his left hand and rubbed the success on his fingers for a few seconds before he spoke.
"I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of a grand," he said calmly, standing and taking his place in front of the foul line.
The rest of the group was deathly silent, but I knew how Dalton worked.
"How about four grand," I quipped, eyes locked with Dalton in ambiguity over whether the whole thing was a joke or not. "Each." I broke the stare down and looked at the rest of my team for assurance of their intent. Each of them reluctantly nodded their head once.
Without saying a word, Dalton turned to the lane, took four steps and bowled a perfect strike. With the same disposition he took to the lane, Dalton smugly sat down beside me and looked straight ahead, waiting for his next opportunity.
So the cocky bastard got one? He still had eight to go.
Down went the pins. Frame after frame, Dalton continued his calm demeanor as he stood, thrice penetrated his partner with his fingers and used her to knock down 10 puny pins so far away.
Two...three frames in a row. When Dalton got the Turkey we started to worry.
"Say Dalton," Zeke said without any of his regular gusto and in the shakiest voice I've ever heard from the towering giant, "you know we were just joking about that bet, right?"
Dalton sharply turned in his chair to face Zeke.
"Betting is all we do here, friends." The last word chilled each and every one of us. $100 was a lot of money for a game, but none of us had the scratch to pull together even close to $4,000. Hell, I barely had $5 in my pocket. And that had to last me another week and a half.
Without the dispute solved, Dalton kept bowling strikes. Each of my teammates praying that he would miss just one pin. All we required was slightly less than perfection and Dalton defied us at every swing.
As the tenth frame rolled around, Dalton finally addressed us.
"So will it be cash or check, gentlemen?"
One strike.
"Dalton," I said. "You know none of us have that kind of money. You can have your regular team winnings for the game, of course, but couldn't we just forget the side bet?"
The ball returned to the carousel.
"No dice," Dalton said, swinging his arm in a perfect arc, bringing the ball down parallel to the slick wood of the alley and watching it glide in between the one and three pin for yet another perfect roll.
"We made a gentleman's agreement," Dalton said as he waited the return of the final ball. "I expect you each to pay up." His gaze surveyed each of us, shaking, as we had been since around the seventh frame. Our games had suffered. I was only bowling a 160, much lower than my 190 average. Zeke had only snagged 7 pins in the last four frames combined. "Or else."
As the familiar pre-plop of the ball return echoed our dooms, I closed my eyes and clasped my hands together, unable to watch the final blow.
Squeak.
I heard Dalton's soles against the bowling alley's scarred floor, readying himself for the conclusion of the game.
Then, with four rapid squeaks and a clunk, the action was completed. Now only one sound remained, one sound to seal the fates of our person and our wallets. Would we be...
Crash.
The unmistakable sound of ten helpless pins, standing prostrate for so long, smashed, plastered, demolished and hurled around by their overweight and propellant aggressor. The sound of a strike had never before resonated inside me so deeply.
As I dared open my eyes, I saw the mechanical pin collector shoving ten pins back to the rear of the alley, to mingle in interconnecting tubes and mechanisms I knew close to nothing about. And on the giant computer screen above us, flashing in bright neon green letters was Dalton's name above a much larger "X," signifying what we all had feared.
As the X stopped flashing, Dalton's final score was displayed at the end of his row. 260. It was the best any of us had ever bowled in our lives.
Under that sign proclaiming his next-to-godlike status, Dalton wore the smuggest smile I have ever seen with his arms crossed. The smile beamed out from our lane to all others in the alley. The constant rattle of balls hitting the floor and pins clattering ceased, if only for a moment.
"Look, Dalton, we're going to have to work something out here, obviously. We're just as poor as you are," I said, motioning to my companions. Joe Jr. just got back to work after his back injury, Joe Sr. is broke after supporting his son for so long, Zeke is still on Welfare and I'm up to my neck in child payments. Isn't the satisfaction of bowling that game and becoming a legend enough for you?"
Dalton scoffed at the idea, uncrossing his arms and sat down next to me.
"Legends die when the men who know of their greatness die. You're going to get that money to me one way or another," he said. "Or else."
What had started out as another friendly, weekly game had turned into a threatening debacle.
Dalton made a notion to the rest of his team, still dumbfounded at the good fortune that they were not on the losing and debt-ridden side that day.
"What the hell are we going to do," asked Joe Jr. once the other team had left the alley.
"We've got to talk Dalton out of it," I said. "But I sure as hell don't know how. If I were him, I'd sure as hell want the $16,000."
--
Days went by. I meant to call Dalton, but it's very hard to motivate one's self into calling a man who has you in the palm of his hand. Attempting to scurry out from under that hand is hard enough when the hand doesn't know what you're doing but when you ask the hand to move it's damn near impossible.
So it turned out that I had not called Dalton by Thursday, when we have our weekly game.
At our specified time, 7:30, neither Dalton nor his team showed up. So my team split into two groups of two and we played anyway.
The next day, I decided to call Dalton.
"Hey man," I said into the receiver, "how's it going?"
"Not too well," Dalton said. "I've been waiting for my money but not a one of you has paid. When am I getting my money?"
"Yeah...that's what I was calling about. Listen, I'll get right to the point. I don't think we should be paying you that money, Dalton."
"Oh, you don't? And why not?"
"Because we don't really have that kind of money," I said shaking, my confidence escaping with every sound I uttered.
"If you didn't have the money, why did you make the bet?"
"Well...uh...I don't know. Can't you j..."
"Maybe because you were so sure you were going to win," Dalton cut me off. "Maybe because you didn't think your old pal Dalton would actually do it and then you'd be rolling in the dough. Does that sound about right, friend?"
It did.
"No, Dalton, that's not how it is. Look, I was just trying to bluff you into..."
"Into backing out of the bet, I know. I know how you work, Chris. Fact is, the bet was made and you need to pay up by the end of the month. Tell the rest of your lowlife dicks that you call a team, too. Tell 'em to get me my money or I'll be sending my boys after you."
Click.
--
The next Thursday, none of us expected Dalton or his team to show up, but all four of my team did, if nothing else than for the routine. But for the first time in six years, none of us even pretended like we were going to bowl. We were too worked up about what to do with Dalton.
Our options became increasingly limited when we realized we wouldn't be able to raise the funds by the end of the month, a scant five days away. We decided to pool what money we had and send it to Dalton in hopes that it would be enough. And even though the $1200 we sent him was nowhere near the amount he was hoping for, at least it would be something.
Dalton responded by using the $1200 to hire two hitmen to beat Joe Sr. to within an inch of his life at his home. Next to his unconscious body lay a note that read:
"You have one more week. I expect the full amount by then or my boys will have to put in quite a few volunteer hours. Your friend, Dalton."
--
Instead of bowling the second day after the beating, the team decided to go visit Joe Sr. in the hospital and figure out a plan.
Joes Jr. and Sr. were mostly occupied with each other, so that left me and Zeke to work out the details.
"Well we know we won't have the money," I said. "But Dalton will know that as well. He's just giving us another week to make us sweat."
"So what are our other options," Zeke asked, knowing full well what the answer was.
"We've got to kill him," I said.
--
"Hey Dalton," I cheerily said into the telephone.
"You got my money," Dalton asked right off the back.
"I sure do," I lied, "had to take out a loan from Fulton Savings and Loan but you'll get your damn money. Listen, though, this stuff can be put behind us. Why don't you come back to the lanes on Thursday? It'd be a shame to let all this money stuff get in between us and the game, y'know?"
It was a long shot. There was no reason for Dalton to come back. The $16,000 had soured things in between my team and his, barring any future good-natured competition. The only thing that would bring him back was more money.
"That loan that I got," I said, "it was for $20,000." I awaited Dalton's response but heard not a peep.
"How about we make this week's game a little more interesting. $4,000 for the winner. Just you and me. Let me recoup some of my losses fair and square."
"Ah. So you're up for a frame or ten, eh?" He started to laugh. "Now we're talking," Dalton said. "I'll see you on Thursday, Chris."
--
As Dalton's 1967 Chevy Nova Super Sport rolled into the parking lot, we were ready for him. It was stupid of him to come and even more stupid to come alone.
With Joe Sr. still in the hospital, it was only myself, Joe Jr. and Zeke walking up to Dalton, with shoes, balls and a pistol in Zeke's bag.
"Good day for a game, isn't it?" I asked as we grabbed Dalton by the arms and dragged him behind the bowling alley.
He struggled and screamed the entire way to the back, but with a run-down swimming pool on one side and a vacant lot on the other, Dalton didn't stand much of a chance. We dragged him behind the alley and Zeke unceremoniously paid off our debt to Dalton with the squeeze of a trigger.
"Oh my God," Joe Jr. gasped, over and over again. "Oh my God, what the hell are we doing? Oh Jesus....we just killed a man. How? What are we going to do?"
Joe Jr., not present for much of our hospital discussion, was not in for the resolution phase.
"Joe," I said, "we're going to do what we always do on Thursdays. We're going to bowl."
He looked relieved, if only for a second as I continued.
"But the one with the lowest score today is going to be responsible for it all. He'll dispose of the body, the gun, everything. And if need be, he'll be the fall man. It's only fair, Joe. We shouldn't all have to go to jail."
Joe gulped. I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, as if it were attempting to escape Joe's body, wanting nothing to do with our plot.
The first few frames of the game were intense, with nobody feeling particularly inclined to dispose of a dead body. Joe Jr. jumped out to a surprising early lead that he would not relinquish. That left just me and Zeke, battling for the corpse that we had put in a plastic bag next to the dumpster for the duration of the game. Nobody ever went back there, save for the end of the night when the alley's kitchen threw away the day's unwanted scraps. And the smell wouldn't be a problem for the length of our game.
The sweat dripping off my palms in the fifth frame caused me to heave a gutter ball to the right side but I luckily saved the inning with a spare on my next throw. Zeke was continuously messing up his footing but still managed a three pin lead on me going into the tenth and final frame. Joe Jr., of course, was still solidly in first.
As I dried my hands on the drier at the carousel, I could feel the heat of Zeke's nerves boring into my back. As soon as I removed my hand from the hot stream of air, new droplets of sweat formed before I could even stick my fingers in their proper holes. I took my place in front of the foul line, swung my arm back and forth and relinquished the ball to the lane.
Strike.
Good. At least I could put some pressure on Zeke. The boy usually cracks like a farm-fresh egg in these kinds of situations, but then again, his freedom isn't usually on the line.
I stepped up to bowl my second ball, swung back and forth, feeling my thumb stick a little in my ball. My attempt to free myself spurred the ball to the left, causing me to knock over only six of the pins. I cleaned up the next four on my last bowl, earning myself a 183. I wondered if and doubted it would hold up.
After my final score came up on the board, I sat down across from Zeke, staring him down, using the only weapons I had left. The bowling ball was no longer an option for me - I had to use fear and intimidation.
"You know, Zeke," I said, "you'll probably get life for this."
Zeke broke my gaze and grabbed his ball. With no hesitation he flung the ball towards the pins, somehow earning a strike. The giant neon X on the monitor overhead confirmed it. Zeke dare not come back to where I was sitting, so I knew I would have to get to him before his ball returned.
"Do you know what they're going to do to you in prison?" I asked. "I sure as hell don't because I've never gone and don't plan on going. But make sure you tell me what they do. If you make it a week or so, maybe I'll come visit."
Zeke's ball returned and with the same nonchalant throw, Zeke hurled his ball down the lane, knocking over only two pins.
Zeke needed to hit five of the pins to tie. Six to win.
"Zeeeeeeke," I chanted his name in my most masculine voice. "You gonna' be my prison bitch, y'hear? Ohhhh I can feel that tasty ass right now on my big fat cock."
I proceeded to hump the air, closing my eyes and humping air.
Before I could open my eyes, I heard a crash. The other eight pins standing between Zeke and freedom had been knocked down, and Zeke stood next to me with not the smile that I expected but a frown for the loss of a friend. As Zeke hugged me, Joe Jr. joined in.
Dalton now belonged to me.
--
I half expected to see police lights by the time we left the alley, but Dalton was still hanging out by the dumpsters right where we left him. I pulled my 1973 Ford F-100 behind the alley, loaded Dalton into the back, covered him with a tarp and shut the gate.
I drove west until sunrise. It was the longest drive of my life. I had driven around with illegal items before, but never something that could condemn the rest of my life. The only thing I could think of on my way there was getting there. Once I got to a suitable location, all I could think was to bury the body as fast as possible.
And now that the body is 4 feet below the soil, I've been working on what I'll say to the cops when they find the body and link me to it.
I've been thinking that nothing could be more appropriate than "I was framed, officer."
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