Dead Uncle Sam

A skull grins out from under the stovepipe hat, bony finger leveled at you like a draft notice from the wrong side of the dirt. Stars and bars in pure black and white, the only blood in the frame the vertical tag running up the seam in arterial red. This is the bag Raoul Duke would've palmed somewhere outside Barstow when the ether took hold — "We can't stop here, this is bat country." Skeletal patriotism. The American dream with the skin peeled off.

Pro-fabric face on the 6 — slick, fast, skates clean through traffic and finds the cup before the blocker knows what hit it. Flip to the herringbone carpet 9 and the bag plants like rigor mortis. Full stop, no roll, no flinch. Six to glide, nine to bury.

Built for the player who steps up down two with the bracket on fire and the crowd already counting the bags. Pull these out in the ninth frame. Some bags throw the first pitch — these throw the last rites.