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tikificTitle: DETHGOLF
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG
Warnings: Pretty much nothing scary. Some violence against magical creatures. Explicit golf.
Summary: The boys play golf. On their own special course. And drag their manager along. Par ensues.
Disclaimer: I had a pretty bad week, so if this sucks, you'll need to tell me it's "Hamburger Time." I don't actually play golf, so that part is probably all wrong, but I figure the boys would probably make up their own rules anyways. Oh, and also, I totally don't own the Metalocalypse universe, so the Klokateers are probably gonna come hunt me down, but considering my week so far, the dungeons at Mordhaus are starting to look sort of attractive.
Notes: I owe exactly 100 beers to the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jewelabelle, who is the most metal beta EVAR! All errors, however, are totally my fault, so let me know.
Note: this was the first Metalocalypse fic I had the nerve to actually post to CLDK. Fortunately, this fandom is probably the nicest and most supportive in the whole world.
DETHGOLF
“Toki can’t come along on Saturday. We need a fifth for Dethgolf,” Nathan had growled.
“Actually, you, uh, golf in a foursome,” Ofdensen had explained, though mindful that, in any battle pitting logic versus Dethklok, logic was likely to end up bleeding in a ditch.
“This is Dethgolf, THE MOST BRUTAL TYPE OF GOLF. We need a FIFTH,” Nathan persisted.
Ofdensen sighed and tried once more. “You, uh, only need four….”
“NOOOOO! WE NEED A FIFTH FOR DETHGOLF!” Nathan howled. There really was no arguing it. Ofdensen had found that when the pitch in Nathan’s voice threatened to shatter the glass in his gun cabinet, it was probably time to admit defeat.
Under normal circumstances, golf ranked as Ofdensen’s third or fourth favorite pastime. However, Dethklok’s private links had been laid out by madmen, specifically, five madmen, who had designed the course in order to optimize not playability but, well, the whole “metal” thing. This had resulted in several acres of Mordland covered in minefield-inlaid roughs, water hazards containing actual sea monsters, and sand traps that, if Ofdensen hadn’t conveniently mislaid the invoice, would have served as nests for flesh-eating scarab beetles. It was completely unplayable to anyone sane. This meant the boys were out there pretty much every weekend.
Ofdensen, who normally prided himself on a thoroughgoing knowledge of Mordland and its environs, actually had no idea really the full extent of the course, as he had finally despaired of reading the ever-changing blueprints after the boys had insisted the number of holes total neither more nor less than 666. He’d tucked his favorite handgun into his golf bag, just in case, but questioned whether he should have brought along something a bit more brutal when he noticed everyone else’s bags included at least one shotgun among the clubs. Murderface was evidently packing a chainsaw.
Skwiagaar had, of course, brought along his Gibson Explorer, which he continued to strum as Nathan teed off.
Murderface, meanwhile, was already in the middle of an endless Dethphone conversation that had consisted so far of pretty much exclusively a lisped, “Yeth. Yeth. I’m on the golf courthe.”
“So, uh, where exactly is Toki?” Ofdensen asked Pickles, who was already sucking down his fourth or fifth beer.
“Dood, he’s at Stitch ‘n Bitch.”
“Stitch ‘n Bitch?”
“Yeah. Knittin’.”
“Toki is, uh, knitting?”
“Ja,” put in Skwisgaar, not missing a chord, “Knittings ams totally brutal.”
They were interrupted by the nuclear blast of Nathan swearing loudly. “NOOOOOOOO!” He had sliced again, and laid into a hazard. Which was probably not unlikely being that there was a giant bunker smack dab in the middle of the first fairway. A real bunker, that is, complete with artillery, which were evidently set to fire back upon being set off by an errant golf ball landing in the vicinity. Suddenly, the ground shook as a shell detonated a few feet from the teeing ground. Four of the fivesome hit the dirt. Murderface, apparently unrattled by the experience, was holding up two fingers towards the incoming ordnance, and telling his Dethphone, “Yeth. I am on the golf courthe. I am golfing.”
Ofdensen pushed his glasses back up on his nose and glanced at Nathan, who seemed to be wresting a large object out of his bag.
“FOUR!” bellowed the lead singer as he pounded the rocket launcher. A guided missile hit the bunker. Everyone dropped again as a smallish mushroom cloud grew over where the bunker was formerly located.
Everyone but Murderface. “No. Yeth. I’m on the golf courthe,” he told his Dethphone.
“Tanks, Nathans,” Skwisgaar said, rising and brushing off the dirt. “Now my guitars ams all outs of tunes!”
“Dood,” inquired Pickles, peering at the score sheet, “Did we say da rocket launcher counted as two strokes or t’ree?”
Nathan had sliced again off the 28th hole, and ended up in the Spanish castle trap. Which was, probably not surprisingly, made of sand and threatened to fall into the sea. Ofdensen made a mental note to look into this oddity when he returned to the safe haven of his office. He couldn’t remember Mordland at any point actually abutting the sea. He sincerely hoped that his company hadn’t been charged to drain and reposition an entire ocean so it lay favorably to the Dethklok links.
Ofdensen had pulled out his sand wedge. Though his drive had thankfully avoided the sand castle, he found this particular club useful for keeping the yard wolves at bay. The pack had grown quite large, and seemed to have taken a liking to this particular fairway. Oddly enough, the one that was currently pestering the manager appeared to be wearing a pair of eyeglasses. He decided to check on this too when they got back to Mordhaus – assuming they would at some point, make it back to Mordhaus – as he thought currently Dethklok licensing agreements included only eyeglasses meant for house cats.
Nathan had optimistically extracted a fairway wood from his pack.
“Dudes, you ams not going to use a driver heres.” scolded Skwisgaar, swinging and missing at a large-ish grey wolf with his Gibson.
“A driver is the most BRUTAL CLUB!” Nathan fumed.
“Yeah, but dood, yer in about 20 feet of sand,” Pickles explained. He fired his hunting rifle into the air several times, successfully scattering the pack.
“QUIET! YOU’RE RUINING MY CONCENTRATION!” Nathan rumbled.
“I’m on the golf courthe,” Murderface told his cell phone.
Nathan swung his club mightily, and a small dust storm suddenly enveloped the Spanish castle. A golf ball emerged from the whirling dust, rolled about three feet, and sputtered feebly to a halt, still embedded in sand.
“NOOOOOOOOO!! I TOLD YOU TO BE QUIET, MURDERFACE!” Nathan exploded.
Murderface held up two fingers. “Wait, I’m getting another call. Yeth,” he said into his Dethphone, “That’th what I thaid. I’m on the golf courthe.”
Ofdensen turned and swung out with his wedge, just missing the spectacled wolf. It sat back, just out of range. He could have sworn it was grinning at him.
“You need a wedge, dude,” Pickles explained to Nathan, setting off a flare gun. The yard wolves didn’t scatter this time, but did seem to enjoy watching the ensuing fireworks.
Skwisgaar was not pleased. He’d gotten hung up in the titties. It was actually sort of Ofdensen’s fault.
As a cost-cutting matter, he had suggested they salvage parts from the Super Tits Candy Snake Project for the course, and somehow, the super tits part had all ended up on hole 38. Skwisgaar, however, was currently having trouble getting through the maze of giant plastic mammary glands to the fairway, perhaps partly because he simply refused to remove his Gibson to tee off. Whatever the reason, Ofdensen currently felt it the better part of valor to shut the hell up about the origin of the, er, hazards.
“Theys ams too many tit on this holes!” screamed the Swede.
“Dood, dere cannot be too many tits,” Pickles reasoned.
“This hole ams dildos!” Skwisgaar fumed.
“This hole is totally brutal. WHAT COULD BE BETTER THAN TITS?” Nathan rumbled.
There was a long, thoughtful silence.
“More titsth.” The foursome suddenly looked around. Murderface had actually interrupted his important phone conversation for a fraction of a second to comment on this important matter. He suddenly held up two fingers. “Wait, I’m getting another call….”
“SEE?” demanded Nathan.
“Wait, dood, try dis,” suggested Pickles, digging something out of his golf bag and handing it to the guitarist.
Throwing down his golf club in disgust, Skwisgaar pulled the pin, and, with a shout of “Fires in da holes!” hurled a hand grenade down the fairway. The party cringed, and then looked up to see, amid the settling dust, a way cleared through to the green.
Ofdensen regarded the ruins and suddenly wondered if there was a way to declare depreciation value on tits for tax purposes. He made a mental note to check into it with Accounting.
Ofdensen watched Pickles extract a rather huge joint from his golf bag. He had long ago lost count, but he believed they were currently standing in the rough next to the lower fairway of hole 156 or 57, maybe 158. The rest of the fivesome was gathered up the hill, out of sight, presumably still arguing over the relative brutality of steel versus carbon fiber at the tee. They were not too much the worse for wear considering the events of the past few hours, although their Dethgolf outfits were covered in mud after rescuing Murderface from the quicksandtrap he’d fallen into after getting angry and chain sawing down a tree he that he claimed was interfering with his Dethphone reception. And, of course, they were a bit disheveled after the incident at the 125th, which included, among its other hazards, a pit of zombies near the green. Ofdensen was offering silent thanks that he’d thought to load his handgun with silver bullets.
“So. What are the, uh, scores now?” he asked Pickles, hoping to glean some kind of idea how far they were from a clubhouse. And, possibly, brandy and cigars. Not that there would actually be brandy and cigars at a Dethklok clubhouse – much more likely stripper poles. And skulls full of maggots. But still.
Pickles lit up and took a very long, satisfied drag. “Scores? Dood, let me see.” He proffered the joint to Ofdensen, and then went digging in his bag among the beer bottles, pickaxes and pharmaceuticals for the score pad. “Well, let’s see… Nat’an was two strokes under t’rough da sea monster, but he lost it in da ice caves. And Skwisgaar totally fucked up when he used da flamethrower on da troll. I keep tryin’ to tell him you really need a 5 iron for dat.” Thoughts drifting wistfully to a cigar, Ofdensen took a long pull on the joint. “And Murderface went over par using da chainsaw on the back of da 25th….”
“I don’t, uh, think I’ve seen William actually playing today…”
“Dood, you t’ink we let him play? Murderface is in charge of da sandwiches.”
“Oh,” replied Ofdensen, letting the smoke curl restfully in his lungs before he exhaled. And, only then, realizing his mistake. “Pickles,” Ofdensen said quietly. The sky was on fire. And starting to melt. He waved the joint. “Uh, what’s in this?”
“Dood! Dis is my special blend. It has da finest Jamaican weed, a quaalude, t’ree tabs of acid, and a hint of yopo.”
“Yopo?”
“Yeah, dood, straight from da Amazon!” Pickles grabbed his joint back and took a tremendous, greedy puff. He coughed slightly. “You got any ancestors you wanna contact? It’s great for dat!”
Ofdensen sighed. Though, realistically, the part of his brain that was not currently in the middle of an electrical storm thought, playing this course high was probably not too terribly different from trying to play it sober. They heard a whistling overhead. Pickles cringed, but Ofdensen stuck his hand up and snatched a golf ball out of the air. Without a word, he chucked it towards the green.
“Dood, dat’s totally cheating!” Pickles protested.
“Uh-huh. So you’re, uh, going to tell Nathan he’s in the rough?”
Pickles nodded. “Yeah, you got a point.” He handed the joint back to Ofdensen, who, with a “what the hell” shrug, took one more puff. They started walking towards the green, and Ofdensen idly wondered if the leprechauns there were supposed to be on fire like that.
What hole was it? What day was it? More to the point, what planet was it?
“I think I see a Hydra on the field,” Ofdensen told Pickles.
“Yeah, dood, dat’s da Hydra,” Pickles told him.
“Uh, this hole has a Hydra?”
“Of course it has a Hydra. It’s Par 6!” The giant, many headed snake slithered and writhed and snapped, and occasionally, just for fun, puffed out poison smoke. Its coils curled menacingly, as well as damned inconveniently, between the sand trap and the water hazard on the fairway.
“We need to play through the Hydra, MURDERFACE!” Nathan exclaimed.
“Yeth. I’m on the golf courthe. Yeth,” Murderface was telling his Dethphone.
Ofdensen sighed and looked at his watch. It was eleventy past the puppetmaster or something like that. He dropped his own golf bag, walked over and extracted a broadsword from Nathan’s bag. He hefted it. It was a bit heavier than the fencing foils he was used to, but it ought to do, and besides, he was currently stoned out of his mind. He marched down the fairway towards the Hydra. One of the heads writhed and lashed out, but he sidestepped, and, grasping the hilt with two hands, sliced the spitting head clean off. There was a spurt of blood and other nasty, gooey stuff from the amputated neck. He heard the hiss of a second head behind him, so he swung around and ran Nathan’s sword through its open mouth, up into its brain. The head choked, and a violent fountain of blood and brain matter spewed forth. With the next few strokes, he managed to hack through a couple more snapping heads, and finally thrust the blade deep into the eye of one last head, which spat blood and poison, quivered, and fell with an audible thump.
The Hydra lay silent.
Experimentally, he gave one of the segments a kick. It steamed a bit and wriggled weakly. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. It came back covered in blood, but it was green blood, so he decided it was probably not his own.
He walked back to the rest of the party and jammed the sword back in Nathan’s bag.
Nathan was glaring at him.
“That was seven strokes. YOU’RE OVER PAR!” Nathan growled.
Ofdensen regarded the lead singer. Thanks to the Yopo, you could really see his aura.
“Fuck par,” said Ofdensen.
Nathan was sucking in air for a measured rejoinder when Pickles piped up, “Doods,” he said, scrutinizing the score pad, “did we say da broadsword was a 5 stroke handicap?”
“What?” said Nathan, suddenly distracted. “A 5 stroke handicap? WHAT ABOUT THE MORNINGSTAR?”
“Dat was a 3 handicap.”
“Oh,” said Nathan. He turned back to Ofdensen. “OK, you’re still UNDER PAR.” Ofdensen nodded, and went to retrieve his 9 iron. “Next time,” Nathan announced, still wielding the Morningstar from his golf bag, “We’ll play this course in FULL SUITS OF ARMOR.”
“Dood, no way.” sniffed Pickles.
“WHY NOT?” growled Nathan.
“Natans, if you ams not goings to take golf seriousklies, then maybe we ams going to use dat guy as our fifths again,” warned Skwisgaar, gesturing with his Gibson towards Ofdensen. If the manager heard, he didn’t show it. He was teeing off into the herd of unicorns grazing in the Martian dawn.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG
Warnings: Pretty much nothing scary. Some violence against magical creatures. Explicit golf.
Summary: The boys play golf. On their own special course. And drag their manager along. Par ensues.
Disclaimer: I had a pretty bad week, so if this sucks, you'll need to tell me it's "Hamburger Time." I don't actually play golf, so that part is probably all wrong, but I figure the boys would probably make up their own rules anyways. Oh, and also, I totally don't own the Metalocalypse universe, so the Klokateers are probably gonna come hunt me down, but considering my week so far, the dungeons at Mordhaus are starting to look sort of attractive.
Notes: I owe exactly 100 beers to the lovely
jewelabelle, who is the most metal beta EVAR! All errors, however, are totally my fault, so let me know. Note: this was the first Metalocalypse fic I had the nerve to actually post to CLDK. Fortunately, this fandom is probably the nicest and most supportive in the whole world.
DETHGOLF
“Toki can’t come along on Saturday. We need a fifth for Dethgolf,” Nathan had growled.
“Actually, you, uh, golf in a foursome,” Ofdensen had explained, though mindful that, in any battle pitting logic versus Dethklok, logic was likely to end up bleeding in a ditch.
“This is Dethgolf, THE MOST BRUTAL TYPE OF GOLF. We need a FIFTH,” Nathan persisted.
Ofdensen sighed and tried once more. “You, uh, only need four….”
“NOOOOO! WE NEED A FIFTH FOR DETHGOLF!” Nathan howled. There really was no arguing it. Ofdensen had found that when the pitch in Nathan’s voice threatened to shatter the glass in his gun cabinet, it was probably time to admit defeat.
Under normal circumstances, golf ranked as Ofdensen’s third or fourth favorite pastime. However, Dethklok’s private links had been laid out by madmen, specifically, five madmen, who had designed the course in order to optimize not playability but, well, the whole “metal” thing. This had resulted in several acres of Mordland covered in minefield-inlaid roughs, water hazards containing actual sea monsters, and sand traps that, if Ofdensen hadn’t conveniently mislaid the invoice, would have served as nests for flesh-eating scarab beetles. It was completely unplayable to anyone sane. This meant the boys were out there pretty much every weekend.
Ofdensen, who normally prided himself on a thoroughgoing knowledge of Mordland and its environs, actually had no idea really the full extent of the course, as he had finally despaired of reading the ever-changing blueprints after the boys had insisted the number of holes total neither more nor less than 666. He’d tucked his favorite handgun into his golf bag, just in case, but questioned whether he should have brought along something a bit more brutal when he noticed everyone else’s bags included at least one shotgun among the clubs. Murderface was evidently packing a chainsaw.
Skwiagaar had, of course, brought along his Gibson Explorer, which he continued to strum as Nathan teed off.
Murderface, meanwhile, was already in the middle of an endless Dethphone conversation that had consisted so far of pretty much exclusively a lisped, “Yeth. Yeth. I’m on the golf courthe.”
“So, uh, where exactly is Toki?” Ofdensen asked Pickles, who was already sucking down his fourth or fifth beer.
“Dood, he’s at Stitch ‘n Bitch.”
“Stitch ‘n Bitch?”
“Yeah. Knittin’.”
“Toki is, uh, knitting?”
“Ja,” put in Skwisgaar, not missing a chord, “Knittings ams totally brutal.”
They were interrupted by the nuclear blast of Nathan swearing loudly. “NOOOOOOOO!” He had sliced again, and laid into a hazard. Which was probably not unlikely being that there was a giant bunker smack dab in the middle of the first fairway. A real bunker, that is, complete with artillery, which were evidently set to fire back upon being set off by an errant golf ball landing in the vicinity. Suddenly, the ground shook as a shell detonated a few feet from the teeing ground. Four of the fivesome hit the dirt. Murderface, apparently unrattled by the experience, was holding up two fingers towards the incoming ordnance, and telling his Dethphone, “Yeth. I am on the golf courthe. I am golfing.”
Ofdensen pushed his glasses back up on his nose and glanced at Nathan, who seemed to be wresting a large object out of his bag.
“FOUR!” bellowed the lead singer as he pounded the rocket launcher. A guided missile hit the bunker. Everyone dropped again as a smallish mushroom cloud grew over where the bunker was formerly located.
Everyone but Murderface. “No. Yeth. I’m on the golf courthe,” he told his Dethphone.
“Tanks, Nathans,” Skwisgaar said, rising and brushing off the dirt. “Now my guitars ams all outs of tunes!”
“Dood,” inquired Pickles, peering at the score sheet, “Did we say da rocket launcher counted as two strokes or t’ree?”
Nathan had sliced again off the 28th hole, and ended up in the Spanish castle trap. Which was, probably not surprisingly, made of sand and threatened to fall into the sea. Ofdensen made a mental note to look into this oddity when he returned to the safe haven of his office. He couldn’t remember Mordland at any point actually abutting the sea. He sincerely hoped that his company hadn’t been charged to drain and reposition an entire ocean so it lay favorably to the Dethklok links.
Ofdensen had pulled out his sand wedge. Though his drive had thankfully avoided the sand castle, he found this particular club useful for keeping the yard wolves at bay. The pack had grown quite large, and seemed to have taken a liking to this particular fairway. Oddly enough, the one that was currently pestering the manager appeared to be wearing a pair of eyeglasses. He decided to check on this too when they got back to Mordhaus – assuming they would at some point, make it back to Mordhaus – as he thought currently Dethklok licensing agreements included only eyeglasses meant for house cats.
Nathan had optimistically extracted a fairway wood from his pack.
“Dudes, you ams not going to use a driver heres.” scolded Skwisgaar, swinging and missing at a large-ish grey wolf with his Gibson.
“A driver is the most BRUTAL CLUB!” Nathan fumed.
“Yeah, but dood, yer in about 20 feet of sand,” Pickles explained. He fired his hunting rifle into the air several times, successfully scattering the pack.
“QUIET! YOU’RE RUINING MY CONCENTRATION!” Nathan rumbled.
“I’m on the golf courthe,” Murderface told his cell phone.
Nathan swung his club mightily, and a small dust storm suddenly enveloped the Spanish castle. A golf ball emerged from the whirling dust, rolled about three feet, and sputtered feebly to a halt, still embedded in sand.
“NOOOOOOOOO!! I TOLD YOU TO BE QUIET, MURDERFACE!” Nathan exploded.
Murderface held up two fingers. “Wait, I’m getting another call. Yeth,” he said into his Dethphone, “That’th what I thaid. I’m on the golf courthe.”
Ofdensen turned and swung out with his wedge, just missing the spectacled wolf. It sat back, just out of range. He could have sworn it was grinning at him.
“You need a wedge, dude,” Pickles explained to Nathan, setting off a flare gun. The yard wolves didn’t scatter this time, but did seem to enjoy watching the ensuing fireworks.
Skwisgaar was not pleased. He’d gotten hung up in the titties. It was actually sort of Ofdensen’s fault.
As a cost-cutting matter, he had suggested they salvage parts from the Super Tits Candy Snake Project for the course, and somehow, the super tits part had all ended up on hole 38. Skwisgaar, however, was currently having trouble getting through the maze of giant plastic mammary glands to the fairway, perhaps partly because he simply refused to remove his Gibson to tee off. Whatever the reason, Ofdensen currently felt it the better part of valor to shut the hell up about the origin of the, er, hazards.
“Theys ams too many tit on this holes!” screamed the Swede.
“Dood, dere cannot be too many tits,” Pickles reasoned.
“This hole ams dildos!” Skwisgaar fumed.
“This hole is totally brutal. WHAT COULD BE BETTER THAN TITS?” Nathan rumbled.
There was a long, thoughtful silence.
“More titsth.” The foursome suddenly looked around. Murderface had actually interrupted his important phone conversation for a fraction of a second to comment on this important matter. He suddenly held up two fingers. “Wait, I’m getting another call….”
“SEE?” demanded Nathan.
“Wait, dood, try dis,” suggested Pickles, digging something out of his golf bag and handing it to the guitarist.
Throwing down his golf club in disgust, Skwisgaar pulled the pin, and, with a shout of “Fires in da holes!” hurled a hand grenade down the fairway. The party cringed, and then looked up to see, amid the settling dust, a way cleared through to the green.
Ofdensen regarded the ruins and suddenly wondered if there was a way to declare depreciation value on tits for tax purposes. He made a mental note to check into it with Accounting.
Ofdensen watched Pickles extract a rather huge joint from his golf bag. He had long ago lost count, but he believed they were currently standing in the rough next to the lower fairway of hole 156 or 57, maybe 158. The rest of the fivesome was gathered up the hill, out of sight, presumably still arguing over the relative brutality of steel versus carbon fiber at the tee. They were not too much the worse for wear considering the events of the past few hours, although their Dethgolf outfits were covered in mud after rescuing Murderface from the quicksandtrap he’d fallen into after getting angry and chain sawing down a tree he that he claimed was interfering with his Dethphone reception. And, of course, they were a bit disheveled after the incident at the 125th, which included, among its other hazards, a pit of zombies near the green. Ofdensen was offering silent thanks that he’d thought to load his handgun with silver bullets.
“So. What are the, uh, scores now?” he asked Pickles, hoping to glean some kind of idea how far they were from a clubhouse. And, possibly, brandy and cigars. Not that there would actually be brandy and cigars at a Dethklok clubhouse – much more likely stripper poles. And skulls full of maggots. But still.
Pickles lit up and took a very long, satisfied drag. “Scores? Dood, let me see.” He proffered the joint to Ofdensen, and then went digging in his bag among the beer bottles, pickaxes and pharmaceuticals for the score pad. “Well, let’s see… Nat’an was two strokes under t’rough da sea monster, but he lost it in da ice caves. And Skwisgaar totally fucked up when he used da flamethrower on da troll. I keep tryin’ to tell him you really need a 5 iron for dat.” Thoughts drifting wistfully to a cigar, Ofdensen took a long pull on the joint. “And Murderface went over par using da chainsaw on the back of da 25th….”
“I don’t, uh, think I’ve seen William actually playing today…”
“Dood, you t’ink we let him play? Murderface is in charge of da sandwiches.”
“Oh,” replied Ofdensen, letting the smoke curl restfully in his lungs before he exhaled. And, only then, realizing his mistake. “Pickles,” Ofdensen said quietly. The sky was on fire. And starting to melt. He waved the joint. “Uh, what’s in this?”
“Dood! Dis is my special blend. It has da finest Jamaican weed, a quaalude, t’ree tabs of acid, and a hint of yopo.”
“Yopo?”
“Yeah, dood, straight from da Amazon!” Pickles grabbed his joint back and took a tremendous, greedy puff. He coughed slightly. “You got any ancestors you wanna contact? It’s great for dat!”
Ofdensen sighed. Though, realistically, the part of his brain that was not currently in the middle of an electrical storm thought, playing this course high was probably not too terribly different from trying to play it sober. They heard a whistling overhead. Pickles cringed, but Ofdensen stuck his hand up and snatched a golf ball out of the air. Without a word, he chucked it towards the green.
“Dood, dat’s totally cheating!” Pickles protested.
“Uh-huh. So you’re, uh, going to tell Nathan he’s in the rough?”
Pickles nodded. “Yeah, you got a point.” He handed the joint back to Ofdensen, who, with a “what the hell” shrug, took one more puff. They started walking towards the green, and Ofdensen idly wondered if the leprechauns there were supposed to be on fire like that.
What hole was it? What day was it? More to the point, what planet was it?
“I think I see a Hydra on the field,” Ofdensen told Pickles.
“Yeah, dood, dat’s da Hydra,” Pickles told him.
“Uh, this hole has a Hydra?”
“Of course it has a Hydra. It’s Par 6!” The giant, many headed snake slithered and writhed and snapped, and occasionally, just for fun, puffed out poison smoke. Its coils curled menacingly, as well as damned inconveniently, between the sand trap and the water hazard on the fairway.
“We need to play through the Hydra, MURDERFACE!” Nathan exclaimed.
“Yeth. I’m on the golf courthe. Yeth,” Murderface was telling his Dethphone.
Ofdensen sighed and looked at his watch. It was eleventy past the puppetmaster or something like that. He dropped his own golf bag, walked over and extracted a broadsword from Nathan’s bag. He hefted it. It was a bit heavier than the fencing foils he was used to, but it ought to do, and besides, he was currently stoned out of his mind. He marched down the fairway towards the Hydra. One of the heads writhed and lashed out, but he sidestepped, and, grasping the hilt with two hands, sliced the spitting head clean off. There was a spurt of blood and other nasty, gooey stuff from the amputated neck. He heard the hiss of a second head behind him, so he swung around and ran Nathan’s sword through its open mouth, up into its brain. The head choked, and a violent fountain of blood and brain matter spewed forth. With the next few strokes, he managed to hack through a couple more snapping heads, and finally thrust the blade deep into the eye of one last head, which spat blood and poison, quivered, and fell with an audible thump.
The Hydra lay silent.
Experimentally, he gave one of the segments a kick. It steamed a bit and wriggled weakly. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead. It came back covered in blood, but it was green blood, so he decided it was probably not his own.
He walked back to the rest of the party and jammed the sword back in Nathan’s bag.
Nathan was glaring at him.
“That was seven strokes. YOU’RE OVER PAR!” Nathan growled.
Ofdensen regarded the lead singer. Thanks to the Yopo, you could really see his aura.
“Fuck par,” said Ofdensen.
Nathan was sucking in air for a measured rejoinder when Pickles piped up, “Doods,” he said, scrutinizing the score pad, “did we say da broadsword was a 5 stroke handicap?”
“What?” said Nathan, suddenly distracted. “A 5 stroke handicap? WHAT ABOUT THE MORNINGSTAR?”
“Dat was a 3 handicap.”
“Oh,” said Nathan. He turned back to Ofdensen. “OK, you’re still UNDER PAR.” Ofdensen nodded, and went to retrieve his 9 iron. “Next time,” Nathan announced, still wielding the Morningstar from his golf bag, “We’ll play this course in FULL SUITS OF ARMOR.”
“Dood, no way.” sniffed Pickles.
“WHY NOT?” growled Nathan.
“Natans, if you ams not goings to take golf seriousklies, then maybe we ams going to use dat guy as our fifths again,” warned Skwisgaar, gesturing with his Gibson towards Ofdensen. If the manager heard, he didn’t show it. He was teeing off into the herd of unicorns grazing in the Martian dawn.
