Jaws in the Basement
The basement smelled like old carpet, wood paneling, cigarette smoke, and whatever cheap aftershave Alton had slapped on before coming over. The walls were all dark fake walnut, the kind that made every room feel warmer and smaller than it really was. A boxy television sat in the corner with rabbit ears twisted toward the ceiling, playing nothing but soft static because nobody had bothered to fix the channel. An orange shag rug covered most of the concrete floor, and a low coffee table sat in the middle of it, crowded with sweating bottles, a bowls of pretzels and nuts, and the newest obsession in the house.
The Game of Jaws.
Wells had brought it down from upstairs like it was treasure.
“Look at this thing,” he said, setting the pale plastic shark in the center of the table. “It’s you against the great white shark.”
Alton laughed from the plaid couch, one arm stretched along the back cushion, his shirt collar wide and open in that easy mid-seventies way. “Man, that shark looks like it’s seen better days already.”
“That’s because Alton keeps poking the teeth,” Wells said.
Trey, sitting cross-legged on the rug, lifted both hands in protest. “I haven’t even touched it yet. Don’t start blaming me before the shark’s even loaded.”
The three of them leaned in as Wells set the lower jaw, checked the rubber band, and placed the little blue pieces of junk into the shark’s mouth. Tires, anchors, barrels, boots, bones, odd little plastic bits that looked brighter than anything else in the room. The shark’s mouth gaped wide, frozen in a hungry grin beneath the buzzing basement light.
Outside, somewhere beyond the small rectangular basement windows, summer evening pressed against the glass. Inside, time felt locked in amber. The paneling, the shag rug, the hum of the TV, the clink of bottles, the smell of popcorn and malt. Three young men in a basement, laughing too loud, leaning too close to danger made out of plastic.
Wells took the gaff hook first.
“Watch and learn,” he said, lowering his voice like a captain at sea. “This is precision.”
He guided the hook toward a tiny blue tire. His hand was steady at first, then wavered as Trey began humming the Jaws theme under his breath.
“Dun-dun,” Trey muttered. “Dun-dun. Dun-dun dun-dun dun-dun—”
“Shut up,” Wells said, trying not to laugh.
The hook caught the tire. Wells lifted slowly. The shark held still.
The tire came free.
Wells raised it triumphantly. “One piece. Clean.”
Alton grabbed his drink and pointed the bottle at him. “Beginner’s luck.”
Trey leaned forward, the gold of his chain catching the lamplight. “My turn.”
He took the hook and crouched over the table. Trey always had a way of making anything look like a performance. Even fishing junk from a toy shark’s mouth became dramatic. He narrowed his eyes, rolled his shoulders, and aimed for the little barrel near the back.
“Careful,” Alton said. “Touch the teeth and you’re chum.”
Trey smirked. “I don’t lose to fish.”
“It’s a shark,” Wells said.
“It’s plastic.”
The hook slipped beneath the barrel. Trey lifted.
For one long second, nothing happened.
Then the jaws snapped shut with a hard clack.
Trey jerked back so fast he nearly spilled his drink. Alton exploded with laughter, slapping the rug. Wells leaned back, grinning wide as Trey stared at the shark like it had personally insulted him.
“Plastic, huh?” Wells said.
Trey pointed at the shark. “That thing cheated.”
“The shark obeys no man,” Alton said solemnly, already reaching for the hook. “Now let a professional handle it.”
He reset the mouth, loaded the pieces again, and took his turn. Alton’s style was different. He moved slowly, deliberately, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth. The basement seemed to quiet around him. Even the television static sounded softer.
He hooked the boot.
Lifted.
Paused.
The shark’s mouth trembled, held open by the thin pull of the rubber band.
“Come on,” Wells whispered.
The boot popped free.
Alton leaned back, satisfied. “That’s how it’s done.”
They played round after round. The shark snapped at Wells. It snapped at Trey twice more. Alton got cocky and lost three pieces in one bite. Each clack of the jaws sent them laughing harder, the game becoming less about winning and more about daring each other closer to the teeth.
The drinks made the room warmer. The paneling seemed darker. The lamp above the table threw a golden circle over the shark, over their hands, over the little scattered pieces of junk they kept winning and losing. Somewhere between turns, Wells noticed how the light made everything look strange. The blue plastic pieces gleamed like artifacts. The shark’s open mouth looked deeper than it should have. The gaff hook felt heavier in his hand.
Trey noticed it too.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Trey said, quieter now. “Whole game’s about reaching into danger and pulling something out.”
Alton snorted. “Man, it’s about not getting bit.”
“No,” Wells said, staring at the shark. “Trey’s got a point. You reach in, you take the risk, and if you’re steady enough, you come away with something.”
Alton looked between them. “You two getting philosophical over a toy shark now?”
Trey smiled, but his eyes stayed on the game. “Maybe it’s not just junk in there.”
The basement hummed.
Wells reset the shark for the final round. All thirteen pieces went back inside the mouth. The jaws stretched wide, white teeth curved around the pile. The rubber band tightened beneath the plastic body. Everything waited.
“Winner takes all,” Wells said.
Alton nodded. “Fine.”
Trey leaned forward. “One at a time. No rushing.”
Wells went first. He drew out a barrel.
Alton took the anchor.
Trey removed the tire.
The shark stayed open.
Again and again, they took turns, suddenly serious. The jokes faded. The basement felt like a ship cabin under deep water, sealed away from the rest of the world. Their hands moved through yellow lamplight. Their reflections shimmered faintly in the empty bottles. The shark waited with its mouth open, patient and hungry.
Wells pulled another piece free.
Alton followed.
Trey’s hook dipped into the mouth, searching for one of the last pieces. His knuckles brushed the plastic teeth but did not press them. He held his breath. Wells and Alton watched.
The hook caught.
Trey lifted.
The piece came loose.
The jaws did not snap.
Trey placed the final bit of junk on the table.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Alton exhaled. “No bite.”
Wells grinned slowly. “We beat the shark.”
Trey sat back, the lamplight turning his face warm and golden. “Together.”
That word settled into the room more heavily than the laughter had. Together. It felt right in the paneled basement, surrounded by old carpet, cheap drinks, static, and the little plastic shark that had tested them all evening. The game had started as a joke, a movie tie-in, a silly thing Wells had dragged downstairs to pass the time. But now the table looked like a trophy display. Thirteen pieces of junk. Three empty bottles. One defeated shark.
Alton raised his drink. “To Wells, Trey, and Alton. Shark hunters.”
Wells lifted his bottle. “To steady hands.”
Trey clinked his against theirs. “To not letting go when the jaws get close.”
They drank.
The TV flickered. The basement light buzzed. The shark sat silent on the table, mouth still open, teeth exposed, beaten for now.
But before they packed it away, Wells picked up the gaff hook one last time and turned it between his fingers.
“Sunday prompt’s gonna love this,” he said.
Trey laughed. “Sharks, Jaws, and three guys in a basement?”
Alton leaned back against the couch, smiling. “Sounds like a classic.”
And in that warm, wood-paneled room, with the night pressing dark against the small windows, the three of them knew one thing for certain: the shark had snapped, the game had tried them, and they had come through it together. Solid. Laughing. Golden in the dim basement light.
The shark snapped, the basement roared, and the bros held the line together. One game, one table, one lesson: Gold wins when brothers move as one. Join the Golden Army. Play hard. Bond harder. Stay golden. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @alton-gold77 and @hero21us
