The three tattooed gangsters threw their clubs on the table, "I heard that you have been running a stall for three years and you haven't lost yet? Today, my brothers brought 20,000 yuan - losers, get out of this street."
He wiped the green onion from the corner of his mouth and stared at the curvature of the opponent's wrist when he was setting up the pole.
"Okay, best of three."
In the first game, the little boss used "low stick to reduce stars" to clear half of the stage, holding a cigarette in his mouth and smiling: "That's it?"
Lin Hao took out a rag and wiped the rod with his peripheral vision scanning the opponent's every move just now.
At the start of the second game, his wrist suddenly reached the same angle as the little boss - the moment the white ball hit the ball pile, it bounced twice and accurately hit the black eight in the bottom pocket.
"You fucking stole a teacher?!"
He slapped 20,000 yuan on the table and tilted his head angrily: "Brother, this is called talent."
Later, someone saw the boy who always squatted by the stall eating pancakes imitating O'Sullivan's "rocket shot" in the CPL finals, with the white ball grazing the mouth of the bag and drawing a strange arc.
The commentator roared to the point of breaking his voice: "The shot he just made... Was like Ding Junhui's ball control and Trump's violence! Who the hell did this come from?!"
Lin Hao, holding an unlit cigarette in his mouth, looked at the cold-faced Su Wan in the audience - the woman said that he "cannot become a street gangster", but he wanted everyone to know:
From the alley to the world, one stroke can determine the sky.
