Jack wasn't terribly good at billiards, but when you were playing by yourself that didn't really matter. It also didn't matter when you were already practically drunk, and slogging down another shot every time you sank a ball. He noticed that the longer he played the longer it took to actually get the chance to drink, so to fill in the empty space he had small line of beer bottles on the chair nearby. Some were empty, two were open and partially emptied.
He dressed in a pair of plain old jeans and a pristine white v-neck t-shirt that had come untucked god knew how long ago. After helping to prepare the food he'd started out by pre-gaming with a few rounds of JD, and had been going strong practically ever since. He felt good, and he could still stand and shoot, so that was certainly something. He had no idea what his score was, or what game he was actually playing, if any. Rules felt complicated, but "shoot the ball into the hole" was nice and easy. Well, it had been for a while. Now the balls just mostly clicked against each other if the cue didn't miss its target entirely. He was sober enough, barely, to realize that it was him and not the stick, or the table, or the ball that was at fault. That meant he needed another shot, right? At the very least he wasn't thinking about much of anything else, which was good. It was aaaaaall good.