“Fore!” I shouted as the wood smacked the ball, blasting it a good 250 yards down the middle of the fairway. I won’t lie to you; it was a perfect shot and all but guaranteed that I’d finish the hole with a birdie, possibly even an eagle. “Ha! Read ‘em and weep, boys! Doesn’t look like Old Man Winter shaved an inch off my long game, now does it?”
“Confound it!” Bosco Peterman wailed. I had joined him and two other former business associates, Charles “Chuck” Luddite XV and Leo Dreisdale, for eighteen holes at the very exclusive Whitemale Country Club, and the weather was gorgeous. “I will never understand how someone as corpulent as you can play golf so beautifully!”
“Bmm mmm hmm rmm hmm jmm hmm!” echoed the severely stroke-damaged Dreisdale. Ever the class act, Chuck simply smiled and doffed his cap.
“Well Bosco,” I said, handing my club to my caddy, “some mysteries aren’t meant to be understood. They’re just meant to be enjoyed.”
Peterman grunted as he teed up his shot. “Whatever, fat man. Now step back and let me show you how it’s done!”
Much to my amusement, he did nothing of the sort. Instead, his left ankle twisted in an alarming manner as he swung, and he collapsed to the ground in agony. Simultaneously, his ball veered into the woods while his club flew backwards and struck Chuck’s caddy in the head, killing the lad instantly. To make matters worse, the caddy was Chuck’s nephew by marriage, and his wife proved to be inconsolable upon receiving the news.
But that was later. First came the ambulances and police questions and whatnot, then Chuck, Leo, and I retired to the clubhouse for a well-deserved dinner. What can I say? It’s a hard-knock life being wealthy, but someone has to do it. Peace out.