8-Ball

Standing in line, Michael could feel the customers behind him becoming increasingly irate. Their tuts and audible eyerolls were not unnoticed by him, though they did nothing to speed up his decision-making process. The barista looked at him with pitying eyes framed with dark circles and a minimum-wage salary as he frantically scanned the menu behind her.

Caffe Latte

Very doubtful.

Cappuccino

Don’t count on it.

Flat white

My reply is no.

Hot chocolate

It is decidedly so.

“One hot chocolate, please.” Michael said with confidence, much to the other customers’ relief.

“In July?” the barista asked with raised eyebrows and a tilted head. He was used to that. But on the off chance it would only result in further indecisiveness, she brushed it off and began tapping his order into the screen. “Which size would you like?”

“Uh…” Michael stammered.

“You know what?” She interrupted. “Let’s just go with a grande.” She could feel her manager’s eyes on her back from across the shop. Even on the hottest day of the year, people still wanted their morning coffee and the line was growing fast. “That’ll be £4.80, thank you.”

“Okay, thank you…” he replied, fumbling around in his pocket for change.

“Do you always let that thing make decisions for you?” the barista asked, curiosity momentarily overriding her boss’ judgmental gaze.

“Yeah,” he shrugged, this time fumbling around in his bag and slamming his Magic 8 Ball down on the counter. “It’s just easier that way.”

“But what…” her voice trailed off as Michael triumphantly produced £4.80 exactly, at long last. She shook her head absentmindedly, took his change and wished him a nice day, smiling politely at the customers that followed and ignoring their comments about the ‘weirdo with the 8-ball’.

The truth was, Michael didn’t know why he let the 8-ball make decisions for him. He knew it was an arbitrary decision-making tactic that often led him to make senseless and sometimes even dangerous choices, but he trusted the 8-ball’s judgement religiously, even though he knew it was founded in chance. It had first started when he was twelve years old. His father knew that moving schools had been hard for him, and when the bullying started, Michael’s father handed him a Magic 8-ball and told him that it held “all the answers in the universe”. Although only a young boy, Michael had known that this wasn’t true, but at an age where he already felt like his decisions had minimal impact, yielding that control to a supposedly omniscient force seemed like it couldn’t hurt.

Years later, Michael’s father wasn’t exactly classing himself as Parent of the Year for that suggestion. In fact, Michael was quite certain that his attachment to 8-Ball was the penultimate factor in his parents’ divorce. This wasn’t an incorrect assumption to make, as fifteen-year-old Michael’s suggestion that his mother “ask again later” as to how he felt about his parents getting a divorce had certainly aggravated things. Indeed, 8-Ball had been a catalyst to many upsetting and stressful experiences in Michael’s life.

Perhaps if 8-Ball hadn’t suggested that a future for him and his high-school girlfriend of three years was very doubtful, he would’ve had a date to prom. Maybe if 8-Ball hadn’t told him that signs point to yes when Bailey dared him to run around the local rugby pitch stark-naked, he wouldn’t have a criminal record for indecent exposure. And if 8-Ball hadn’t asserted that without a doubt the doctors should turn off his mother’s life support – Michael’s father wouldn’t have had to intervene. Despite no longer being married to Michael’s mother, he managed to convince doctors that he had more authority over the decision than a Magic 8-Ball. To this day, Michael’s mother had no idea about the whole thing, and Michael insisted that he must have read the answer incorrectly. After all, 8-Ball couldn’t be wrong.

Romantic relationships were – to Michael – a minefield. Of course, 8-Ball hadn’t seen a future for him and Maddie, which he took as a good sign because Maddie always made him cry and gave him a bad stick-and-poke tattoo of a fried egg that looked more like a third nipple because fried eggs were “their thing”. With his fiancé David, things had been different. David was a very decisive person; so for much of their relationship, 8-Ball stayed hidden away in the kitchen cupboard. David decided where they would go out to eat, what colour to paint the bedroom, even which bank Michael should be with. David just saw 8-Ball as a cute little quirk for an anxious, indecisive guy in his twenties who didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life yet. But when it came to the big day, Michael just couldn’t bear to leave 8-Ball at home when making one of the biggest decisions of his life.

“Do you, Michael Di Maggio take David Adebayo to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

“I – could you just give me a second?”

Better not tell you now.

Reply hazy, try again.

Cannot predict now –

David left him at the alter before 8-Ball could even answer the question. But as Michael followed his now ex-fiancé frantically out of the church, he handed 8-Ball to his weary father.

You may rely on it.

Fast-forward six months, and they were now standing chest-to-chest in a bank in Wolverhampton. David’s first thought was that he looked the same. Michael’s first thought was that David was still wearing the tie Michael had lent him for a job interview.

 “Oh, Michael, you’re –”

“Here, yeah.” He replied, stepping back and smoothing down his shirt, “I, uh – I forgot that your family –”

“Lives in Wolverhampton.”

“Yeah.”

“Michael,” David sighed, checking his watch. “What are you doing here?”

Michael shrugged his shoulders nervously. “I tried to get money out this morning, and –”

“I meant in Wolverhampton.”  

“Oh,” he laughed uneasily, the sound catching in his throat. He patted his bag gently in reply. “8-Ball.”

David rolled his eyes, though he seemed more upset than angry.

“I’ll see you around, Michael.” He whispered, patting his ex-fiancé on the shoulder and heading towards the door.

Michael sighed, turning on his heel and finishing the remainder of his hot chocolate before wiping the accompanying sweat from his brow. As he was about to throw the cup away before joining the queue, his face folded in thought – recycling or general waste? He really wasn’t sure what the cup was made of, and –

At that moment, there was a crashing sound, a grunt and a thud that came from the direction of the door. Everyone’s heads turned towards the door, and Michael knew instantly from their shocked faces that he should be looking too.

“Everyone get on the ground!”

David was strewn across the marble floor just metres away from where Michael was stood. His limbs lay limp and a wound was slowly forming on the back of his head. As Michael lowered himself to the ground, he quietly counted the rise and fall of David’s chest.

Above where his ex-fiancé lay, stood three armed men in trench coats and unsettling rubber masks of Prince, Elvis Presley and Freddie Mercury.

The other customers lowered themselves to the ground while Elvis and Prince pointed their guns aimlessly in intimidation. Freddie Mercury made his way to the nearest and most terrified bank teller, tapping his gun on the glass barrier.

“Fill this bag.” He ordered, tossing an empty sports bag over the barrier, which the teller nervously tried to catch and failed.

“Freddie, you’re forgetting your manners!” Another yelled from across the room.

“You’re right, Prince.” Freddie shook his head theatrically. “Always forgetting my manners – fill the bag, or I’ll shoot you and everyone else here.”

The teller nodded frantically, fumbling to pick up the bag as Freddie began to hum the chorus of I Want It All. Michael heard the drawer open, followed by the frantic stuffing of the bag and found his eyes drawn to Elvis’ shoes – blue suede.

There was a commotion behind the desk. The teller had dropped the bag, spilling money all over the floor. She was sobbing loudly, trying desperately to sweep the money back into the bag. Hastily, Freddie clambered up onto the desk and swung his gun over the glass barrier, pointing it directly at the teller.

“If you don’t get the money into that bag in the next ten seconds, I will shoot you.”

More crying.

“Ten.”

Michael looked over at David.

“Nine.”

He was still breathing.

“Eight.”

His hands were starting to move.

“Seven.”

More crying from the bank teller.

“Six.”

Elvis tapped his gun impatiently.

“Five.”

The teller was hysterical.

“Four.”

Prince shifted nervously.

“Three.”

Freddie banged his gun against the glass.

“Two!”

Someone screamed.

“One.”

“No!” Michael cried out. He forced himself up off the floor, his bag falling to the ground and 8-Ball slowly rolling out like a bowling ball heading straight for the gutter. It stopped at Elvis’ feet.

“What the fuck is this?” Freddie laughed, jumping down from the desk. He picked up 8-Ball with a gloved hand and tossed it in the air, causing Michael to flinch.

“It’s a Magic 8-Ball.” Michael replied quietly. He heard David beginning to stir behind him. “It…answers questions for you, helps you make decisions.”

“Looks like a piece of crap to me,” Freddie replied, casually tossing 8-Ball in Michael’s general direction, laughing as he stumbled forward and awkwardly clutched 8-Ball to his chest. Prince tapped his watch impatiently, causing Freddie to turn back to the teller. “We all done here?”

Wiping away her tears, the teller stood up, hands clutching a full bag.

“Zip it up for me, if you would be so kind.” Freddie whispered, receiving another warning look from Prince. “Quickly, if you would – we’re rather pressed for time.”

The teller zipped up the bag with shaking hands before gently passing it over the glass window. Freddie took it quickly, slinging it over his shoulder while the other two were already heading towards the door.

“You should smile more often, sweetheart.” Freddie shouted as he retreated. “You’d look a whole lot prettier.”

Suddenly, there was a huge, thundering crash. Everyone turned to look at the doors, which were now blocked by shutters. Gradually, the room became increasingly darker as the shutters fell on each window.

“Stupid bitch!” Freddie screamed, banging his fist against the shutter. Prince and Elvis flinched, looking to each other in a moment of desperation not unlike two schoolboys called to the headteacher’s office.

Michael turned to look at the bank teller. She grinned triumphantly before retreating into a back room and locking the door. While the gunmen were distracted, Michael took the opportunity to go and check on David.

 “I’m…fine.” He whispered, accepting Michael’s assistance in sitting up, nursing the back of his head.

Freddie seemed to have gathered some of his composure, and theatrically stroked his rubber moustache as if in thought. “Alright!” he cried, the sound of his voice causing the others to flinch. “Since all of you are now effectively hostages, I propose we play a little game! What do you think?”

He turned to his henchmen for approval, though it was clear their response was not necessary. Elvis nodded excitedly, Prince merely shrugged.

“Hey you,” Freddie boomed, pointing to Michael with the butt of his gun. “Get over here.”

David shook his head, “Don’t.”

“8-Ball told me not to move to Wolverhampton.” Michael whispered.

“What?”

David reached out for Michael’s hand, but he was shrugged off. Clinging to 8-Ball, Michael shuffled towards the gunmen, stopping just short of Freddie’s gun.

 “What’s your name?” Freddie barked.

“Michael.” He whispered.

“Alright, Michael. Welcome to the show, though you’re going to have to speak up for our audience!” Freddie replied, flinging his arms out dramatically, allowing his gun to fall momentarily to his side. If this were a film, Michael would pull it from him and force him to the ground. But this was not a film, there were two other musical icons pointing weapons at him and Freddie’s gun was firmly strapped to his chest. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen – Elvis is going to pick four contestants for us…Elvis, go and do that now. And one by one, I’m going to ask you if I should shoot that person in the back of the head – got it? You’re going to shake your magic ball for us, and if the ball says shoot – we shoot. If it says no – well, I guess that person has a great story to tell when they get home.”

“Wh – what if it says it’s not sure?” Michael stammered, looking around nervously. There were so many terrified people in the room, did any of them deserve to die?

“Then I guess we go again.” Freddie shrugged casually, placing his hands back on his gun and pointing it momentarily at Michael. “And no cheating – Prince will be checking. Elvis, you got them?”

Elvis nodded, leading a long line of people over to the front of the bank in what could only be described as a melancholy conga.

“Alright, first up we’ve got – what’s your name?” Freddie asked, in the cheerful tone one might address children or gameshow contestants. Except these contestants were on their knees in an inner-city bank with a gun pointed at the back of their heads.

“P-Peter.” An old man whimpered, his pale lips trembling and tears flowing behind his circular glasses. Michael wondered if he was a grandfather, or a veteran.

“Okay, Michael – should I shoot P-Peter in the back of the head?” Freddie asked, looking to Michael, gun raised.

Fortunately, Michael’s hands were already shaking.

Very doubtful.

“V-very doubtful.” He replied.

“Lucky day for you, P-Peter!” Freddie cried, clapping his free hand against his gun. He gestured to Elvis, who hoisted Peter up from under his armpits and placed him to one side. “Who’s next?”

“Margery.”

Her gaze was fixed to the back of the bank. Not a single tear fell, her shoulders were squared back and defiant. She would give them nothing. Michael watched her in awe. On her knees, gun to her head, she was dignified.

He wondered if she was a mother, or an advocate for child poverty.

“Michael – should I shoot Margery in the head?”

Signs point to yes.

“Don’t wimp out on me Michael, what does the ball say?” Freddie shouted, shifting on the balls of his feet. He was getting off on this, enjoying it. It was all part of the fun.

“S-Signs point to yes.” He whispered.

“Sorry, Margery.” Freddie shrugged, taking a step back to take his aim before shooting her cleanly in the back of the head. Someone at the back of the bank screamed, some hid their faces, others watched in terrified silence as Margery’s lifeless body crumpled onto the marble. But Freddie didn’t give them time to react, he was having too much fun. “Next up we have…”

Eager to move on, he nudged his next ‘contestant’ with his gun, but nobody could take their eyes off the pool of blood forming around Margery’s body, her mousy brown hair tinged with red.

“Your name?” Freddie pressed, delivering a swift kick in the back.

“Ahmad.” The man replied, his eyes fixed on Margery, though his face portrayed no emotion. He was handsome, and young. He had a future.

Michael wondered if he was somebody’s brother.

“Am I to shoot Ahmad, Michael?”

Concentrate and ask again.

Michael gave a nervous glance to Ahmad, then to Freddie before shaking 8-Ball again.

My sources say no.

“No.” Michael replied, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Nice one, Ahmed!” Freddie cried, gesturing for Elvis to take him away too. As he passed Michael, Ahmad gave him a thankful look. “Last up we’ve got…”

“David.” Michael whispered.

As David looked at him pleadingly from across the room, Michael’s legs no longer wanted to support him. His eyes no longer wanted to see. He lost his balance, his vision blurred – but he had to keep it together. There were at least two guns pointed at him at any given moment. He had to keep it together.

“So you two know each other?” Freddie scoffed, gesturing to them both before clapping his hands together like an excited child. Michael nodded, gritting his teeth through tears of desperation. “Oh, Michael! This is about to get very interesting for you! You know, I really would hate to see this go badly for you…Michael, should I shoot David in the head?”

Taking a deep breath and praying to every god that he didn’t believe in, he shook.

Reply hazy, try again.

“I need an answer, Michael.”

Again.

 Better not tell you now.

“Michael!”

He looked over at David – he was sobbing.

Again.

Ask again later.

“Michael, we need an answer or I’ll shoot him anyway!”

As I see it, yes.

Numb, he looked up at David. How he wished he could say everything there was to say with a single look. Then he looked at the gun. And Freddie. And the red glowing dot in the middle of Freddie’s chest – on all of their chests.

“What say you, Michael?”

“Look up.” Michael whispered, letting 8-Ball clatter to the ground.

“Wh –” Freddie asked, tearing off his mask in frustration.

Michael turned with them to the one source of natural light that nobody had noticed – the skylight – and towards the three snipers that were now staring at them from the open window above.

“Gentlemen, drop your weapons.”