Leroy’s Night (written in the style of Fyodor Dostoevesky)

Michael Mexigov entered the tavern with the intention of playing billiards and perhaps washing down some fish stew with a glass or two of vodka. To his surprise, his friend Dave Fromthe”D”nikov was already there, partaking in a game with the his esteemed billiard master Rever Yousumnavich. Michael hailed the serving woman and broke some roubles for change. He placed some kopecs on the table to challenge for the winner of the game.

“An ill wind seems to have blown in a poor sort of specimen” Rever said, with a supercillious smile. “I shall use this one for target practice.”

“As you like,” Mexigov replied. “Only this target may shoot back.”

Mexigov had rarely beaten this opponent, but he played with an absence of fear. The game was last pocket and he ran all the way down to the 8-ball and then banked it cross corner with a flourish. Without a word he grabbed the kopecs for the next game leaving Rever in stunned disbelief. “The world has been upended, we should have never freed the serfs. Perish Russia!” Rever cried at last.

Dave Fromthe”D”nikov was up next. He was a bombastic sort of person and he worked selling carriages of some sort, or rather arranging the financing the sales thereof. This was a source of some amusement because, in a previous time he had once worked for a moneylender and had been in the business of reposessing carriages for nonpayment. “In any case my bread shall be buttered” he would tell anyone who happened to remark on the oddity.

Dave was engaged in an ongoing wager with the Mexigov, the particulars which were the race to 100 wins in billiards and the stakes which were a bucket of Popov’s chicken.

Dave was ahead in the series but the stress gripped his heart like an icy hand. He played fairly well but every shot at crunch time was a demon he could not defeat. Mexigov took the first three games in a row and behaved remarkably good natured while Dave jumped up and down and screamed like a little baby.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dave finally yelled, in evident frustration. Mexigov looked perplexed for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement. “Yes,” he remarked. “Waaaah indeed.”

They played one more game and Mexigov was poised to win again but soon his head began to swirl and his normally steady hands began to falter. It was the beginning of an attack of brain fever which would ultimately end him up wandering the streets in delerium and would culminate in the murder and robbery of one of our town’s most esteemed aristrocrats. But I’m getting ahead of my story.

To be continued. . . . .
(ouch. . . brain fever)

8 Responses to “Leroy’s Night (written in the style of Fyodor Dostoevesky)”

  1. Nice Rack says:

    Why are you repeating old posts? Got nothing to say anymore Meximan?

  2. Phelps says:

    Mexi’s in San Angelo.

  3. Nice Rack says:

    That’s right, I totally forgot. What’s up with the old posts, are you doing them?

  4. Phelps says:

    That’s an interesting theory. Perhaps that could explain the “posted by” line. I would like to issue you a grant from my foundation for the exploration of internet mysteries to enable you to study this quandry in detail. Please email me a study proposal and a picture of your boobies and we’ll get you a check.

  5. R says:


  6. Citizen Quasar says:

    Я Не ПаНїматы Pюсki

  7. Nice Rack says:

    If money is involved, I will send you a picture of my boobies. I’m pretty good at bullshit too, so I bet I could come up with a pretty impressive proposal.

  8. Phelps says:

    Ohh, it turns out that a member of our board of directors gave all our money to Air America. You’ll have to go beat it out a Janeane Garafalo. Of course, I could pay you something out of my pocket.