I cannot put into words the horrid scene I witnessed on December 31st, 1988.
I am Judd Tremble, twenty years of age, and I reside at the snooker club here in the heart of London. Like many young fellows, I practice the sport of snooker. I arrive at 7 AM sharp. Our first lesson is to spin around our necks in circles. We proceed with push-ups and sit-ups before we reach the snooker table and practice all the way to 12 PM. At that time, it is lunchtime. Once we've concluded our feast, we drink some tea and resume, this time with singles matches.
This lasts until 4 PM, and we usually go home. This is the schedule from Monday through Friday. On Sundays, the club is closed, but on Saturdays it is open at no expense for non-members while we, the gentlemen of the club, proceed to the local tavern.
This is where the two biggest players are, and they usually take center stage with their commanding presence. First is Mr. O'Connor, a tall man of middle age with a mustache and eyes like those of a fierce wolf. Next to him is Sir Barry, a bald man with a glare that can alone crush rocks. He is in his late 40s and was knighted by the queen.
Our days here are not extraordinary; we talk about snooker and other sports, sometimes politics even, but there is something that concerns me. Near closing time, both Mr. O'Connor and Sir Barry become quiet; they let the others speak. The other masters and apprentices do not find this strange at all, judging by their faces. I have not told anyone of my concern as of yet.
Now, of course, this in itself is not suspicious; however, every saturday at exactly 15 minutes before closing, which is at midnight, Mr. O'Connor and Sir Barry say their goodbyes and leave together, masked by the darkness of night.
I have been a member of this club since I was fourteen, and I have been visiting the tavern for two whole years, and every time I see the two of them going out exactly 15 minutes before closing and disappearing into the darkness.
What are they doing?
Do they have some appointment?
Simply walking home?
For some reason, I was devoured by curiosity, and I must know the truth. Next Saturday, on December 31st, I was there, and it was once again all normal speech with talk of snooker, football, and politics.
At 15 minutes before closing, both Mr. O'Connor and Sir Barry excused themselves and were off. I was of little importance, and taking into account everyone awaiting New Year's Eve, it was easy to pass unnoticed. So I went out as soon as they exited through the door.
I kept a distance to not arouse suspicion. The two men talked about something, but I could not recall full sentences. Five minutes later, they both entered the Crucible Theatre, the place where the World Snooker Championships are held. The men entered inside with the help of a janitor.
I quickly went to the door and saw the janitor walking to the bathroom. I saw the two gentlemen walking ahead. I tiptoed my way to them, careful not to cause a sound or disturbance to the janitor.
I realized where the men were going and I went in the other direction.
As I reached my destination, I was up to the seats where the heart of the snooker world is located. Below me was the grand snooker table reserved for the World Championship finals. I crouched down and hid against one of the chairs, just ever so slightly poking my head to see them. I could hear them well now.
Sir Barry was close to the snooker table, his hand going through the cloth. Were they going to play a game? Or did they just come here for the amazing atmosphere this place provides? Sir Barry, stroking the cloth, said, "It requires change."
Oh, so they were going to change the cloth. This was usually reserved for apprentices, but this table is of great importance, so it does make sense; tablecloths are changed months before a match is played.
"No need for that," said Mr. O'Connor. "It is too early."
"Nonsense," said Sir Barry. "We shall change the cloth right away."
"Oh, I 'll change it all right," Mr. O'Connor grumbled under his breath.
He went behind Sir Barry's back, grabbed a snooker cue, took the blue chalk , and chalked the blue tip of the cue. He gripped the cue in his hands as if he were going to break it. Even from a distance, I could tell his eyes were filled with pure fury and malice.
He held the cue and slowly walked towards Sir Barry, gripping it as if he were going to swing it. Dear Lord, I know what he is going to do - oh no , God! He is going to murder Sir Barry!
This fiend, this man I admired, is going to kill an innocent for nothing, and with a snooker cue! What insanity! O'Connor is sick! Of all the things. But this was not the worst part, for I saw the gold color at the bottom of the cue.
It was Sir Barry's own cue!
What monster could think such a thing? What madman!
"Enough nonsense. You ready?" said O'Connor.
I almost stood up ; I was about to scream to warn Sir Barry. I didn't yell as something even more horrifying was witnessed by my own eyes.
Sir Barry pulled his pants down and placed his stomach on the snooker table. Mr. O'Connor shoved the cue hard into his anus. Sir Barry let out a loud moan , screaming, "HARDER! HARDER, MAN!" O'Connor shoved the cue as far inside as he could; then pulled it down only to shove it hard and far again. He went faster and faster, thrusting Sir Barry, who was moaning loudly.
I couldn't comprehend this image in front of me. I crawled back out , and when the moans were faint, I sprinted outside.
For the next few days , I did not visit the club ; I said I was brought down by the common cold. Four days later, I came back. It was all normal. I anxiously awaited Saturday.
Sir Barry and Mr. O'Connor were there as always, but their faces showed nothing unusual; it was as if nothing had happened. One unusual thing was that they hardly spoke to each other or anyone. I was sitting in a row next to them , and the entire time I hoped that I would eavesdrop on a conversation, but nothing occurred. Finally, after several hours, they spoke to each other.
"Nice weather, would you say, O'Connor ?"
"Very much so, sir."