It started as a bet. Didn’t it always?

Morris needed twelve thousand dollars to pay back some Guido debt collectors. His house was on its second mortgage, his jalopy wasn’t worth a dime, and his family needed to stay uninvolved. So he called me.

Since Morris was a friend, I told him to meet me at Playhouse Lanes in Atlantic City. Closed down for two years, it had little to offer besides rats. Morris stepped over something dead and furry and asked, “What is this place?”

I placed an arm around him and led him inside. “In the nineties, they came out with Shockers.”

His face showed no recognition, so I elaborated. “Boardwalk arcades had these garish electric chairs called Shockers. If a goombah wanted to impress his ladyfriend, he dropped a token into the slot and started a low current buzz. As long as he squeezed two metal handles, the voltage intensified. Five seconds and his hair frizzed, ten and his muscles throbbed. After fifteen seconds, so long as he didn’t wear a pacemaker, he’d survived the Shocker!”

“You’re saying I can make twelve grand with an electric chair?”

“No, Morris. Nobody holds on the entire time. I tried to once and the damn machine nearly burned my palms. It’s not about the Shocker. It’s about taking money from dumbasses who don’t know any better than hurting themselves.”

I killed my flashlight and flipped on a black light. Fluorescent yellow lightning bolts and orange spirals advertised “Every Saturday - Midnight Madness!”

“I saw one **** do the Shocker with a light bulb in his mouth. It didn’t glow, but when his teeth clinched on the cap, the bulb popped. He’s lucky he was wearing shades, but his lips and chin were a mess.”

I led Morris through a door into another dark room where glow sticks produced an eerie green around the base of a basin.

“But it didn’t stop there. Dagos held a wet sponge in each hand. Or formed a chain to see how many people could feel the jolt. They even talked about one chick sitting on one prod while blowing the other. Idiots on parade. That’s when I came up with my idea. One online order, a little preparation, and voila!”

Clicking on the overhead light revealed “Dunk-a-Punk,” a bench suspended over a transparent tub filled with dirty water. I handed him a business card and explained, “These brought me the kind of clientele familiar with dark back rooms.”

Want a real challenge?

Pier 3

PLAYHOUSE LANES

Morris knocked on the plexiglass. I continued, “Guidos were inevitably disappointed when they saw the dunking booth. I’d wait for a dozen or so to collect – they usually travelled in packs – and I’d flip my sign over.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

I stood atop the platform next to the tank, channeling my best carnival barker. “Wondering what this contraption is, gents and Jennies? Simply put, it’s the game of the future! Dunk-a-Punk! I need two big boys as volunteers. Ladies, you might want to step back. This could get messy.”

Now all I needed were two idiots. Every crowd had one idiot. If he had a friend, I was set. I got their names and explained the rules.”

I brandished my silver tongue. “It’s an easy game, really. Angelo, you sit on that bench and tell your friends here about Vinnie. Get personal. Tell them how he experimented with homos! Tell them he fingered his sister! Tell them everything!”

Vinnie yelled, “****!” but the crowd laughed. As did Angelo. How good it felt egging them on. I was the egg man. Koo koo kachoo.

Angelo removed his sandals and inched his way onto the plank as I emceed. “Think Angelo has a fun job, Vinnie? Your job is to hurl balls at Angelo until he falls into the water. That’ll shut him up!”

I removed a curtain draped over a card table and revealed three bowling balls – an eight, twelve, and sixteen pounder. “Shot put, pitch, do whatever you have to do, but knock his block off!”

As Vinnie lifted the lightest ball, I whistled. “But wait! There’s a catch! At least, there can be. If Angelo catches a ball, you switch spots. Or, if your three shots don’t dunk him, you switch spots and start round two! Ready?”

The lemmings nodded. I raised my arms and built to a crescendo, “Now I ask you, who’s got balls?”

Guidos weren’t athletic people. Workouts bulked them up into angry gorillas, but catching a heavy projectile wasn’t easy. On the flipside, they were stubborn as hell – probably the steroids.

Angelo neither fell in nor caught a ball. After they exchanged spots, Vinnie got lucky and snatched the first toss. They prepared to change again, but I halted them. “It’s obvious that you gentlemen could do this for hours. So let’s make it interesting. Ten bucks apiece to play. Each time you switch spots, ten more. Winner takes all, minus a cut for the house.”

The first duel earned eighty bucks, a resounding bonk on the head, and a huge ovation. I took my twenty. And the line formed.

Maybe it was the Texas Hold-em craze that inspired them, but this was way more fun than poker Besides, what was more rewarding – holding pocket aces or clocking some jackass with a bowling ball?

Practice introduced techniques. Nicholas learned goalie throws flew fastest. Anthony knelt on the bench for better mobility. Jumbo Frank learned how to catch shots off his ample gut. Most importantly, they all kept bringing their fat wallets.

Side bets surfaced. When they wanted higher stakes, I added risk. If the line crossed two-fifty, I hooked a car battery to bolts holding the tub together. If players fell, they felt it. For each five-hundred, I added a snake to the pool. Once they started doubling the bets, pots escalated quickly.

Backing out at any time counted as a loss; though the rules permitted it, Italian pride did not.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I told Morris, “Less athletic guys than you take home twenty.”

He caressed the front of the tub. “Anybody died doing this?”

“You want to be safe, win.”

Morris plugged three fingers into a monogrammed ball. “Why don’t you expand?”

“One booth only. With all the money changing hands, nobody wants to miss a slam dunk.”

Morris released the sphere and asked, “Tomorrow night?”

“Every Saturday. Midnight madness.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

Morris watched four duels, one pot accumulating six-thousand dollars. When his turn finally came, he was ready. I didn’t feel it was my duty to reveal how Morris starred as a soccer goalie in college. Quick hands. Powerful throws.

He dunked a run of Izods and sleeveless tees, but the stubborn **** returned for more. High voltage, snakes? Let the Guidos worry about those. Morris cruised until Jimmy Minelli arrived.

Barely five-seven, Jimmy was the smallest of his crew. He located Morris downing a beer, and slapped away the bottle with a stack of bills. As Morris was nearly at ten grand, Jimmy would be his last victim of the night.

Jimmy threw first. Three balls. No body splashed. The wager doubled. And again.

With eight grand on the line, all eleven snakes I owned swam in the electrified tub. The reptiles served as decoration anyway; neither man was getting wet. The kiddy ball tagged Jimmy’s kneecap, but that only pissed him off.

When they reversed spots, Jimmy held two balls over his crotch and sneered, “I got balls!”

He heaved the twelve-pounder in a high, lazy arc. Morris raised his eyes and arms to catch it, so he never saw the little one coming. The lightweight crushed his nose with a deafening crack. Blood and bits of cartilage splattered in every direction.

An eerie silence fell over the crowd. Morris slumped sideways before dropping into the pool, dead before he hit the water.

The mob erupted in cheers – no ringer was taking their hard-earned cash. I collected my share and shut down for the night.

After the alley cleared out, I dumped Morris’s body under a pier and let the undertow carry him away. Poor guy deserved better. Oh well.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Early Monday morning, I awoke to a house call. Thomas Sambuco wanted to know where he could find the rest of Morris Hempel. Two goons apprehended me and we took a drive.

I wasn’t surprised to arrive at Playhouse. On lane three, my aquarium was smashed, the snakes beheaded, crushed, or worse. “Snakes are small time,” Sambuco explained, lighting a cigar. “****, those weren’t even poisonous.”

“Dead players make for bad repeat business.”

Another thug arrived carrying a fish bowl with something glistening inside. He spilled the contents into the dunk tank and I lost sight of whatever it contained.

Sambuco spoke. “Ever heard of a candiru?”

“No.”

“You find them in the Amazon. Crazy little fish. Parasites. Get this – they swim up your dick and suck your blood.”

Though many questions filled my head, the only one I dared ask was, “Why are you telling me this?”

Sambuco puffed. “Mr. Hempel owed me money.”

I shrugged. “And?”

“As I understand matters, he brought a sizeable investment to this...” he tapped my placard, “Dunk a punk. You were the last person seen with that money.”

“What about Jimmy Minelli?”

“Jimmy told me about your little operation. I wanted to see how it works.”

****. “How much did Morris owe?”

“Sixty.”

“He told me it was twelve!”

“How does what he told you affect me?”

“I don’t have sixty thousand dollars!”

“No? That’s a shame.”

One goombah tied my hands behind my back; the other took my pajama bottoms. Sambuco observed, “Once the candiru enters your dick, you’ll have about ten seconds of burrowing time before it reaches your guts and eats you apart. So you’ll have a little less time than that to rip off your willie with your bare hands.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Sambuco’s face darkened. “You get my boys to pound the **** out of each other with bowling balls, you skim their cash, and you ask me why I’m pissed?”

The Guidos carried me and set my bare **** on the bench. Sambuco lifted a ball.

“Come on, Thomas! Isn’t there some kind of arrangement we can work out?”

He hesitated. “How much money do you have? Don’t lie to me, because I’ll know.”

Until this morning, I believed I had plenty. Thirty, maybe? Some in various stashes, and on advice Morris had given, I invested some. Without knowing the exact amount, I estimated, “About fifteen? Give me until noon and I’ll get you fifteen!”

“You lying sack of ****! I already found twenty at your house.”

He lobbed the ball. It bounced off my lap – precariously close to my manhood – and plunked into the pool. I prayed it might crush the dickfish below.

“Okay, then twenty! I don’t keep books!”

Sambuco rolled the big ball between his hands. “I tell you what. You get lost. Forever. If I ever see you again, nobody else will. This set up is under new management. The cops ever find me? I find you. That twenty? Mine now. You getting all this?”

I nodded, unwilling to give new meaning to “swimming with the fishes.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hitching a ride on I-480 Eastbound outside Cleveland , I pass a billboard reading “Clowns Hate Tangelos!” Perfect. That kind of sign announces, “This town has idiots.”

Along the highway, I spot an overgrown golf driving range with a ball collector hitched to a rusty, encaged tractor. I ask to be dropped off at the next exit, my new destination.

I wonder if Italians play dirty golf?