by Dave Leys
Dudley came through with a fluent shot that smashed the ball into the distance. As he turned to let Oliver have his shot, Dudley smiled and cocked his head. He was wearing earplugs! Oliver snarled and steadied himself to take his own shot. Just as he came down to hit the ball something blinked in his vision and he mishit. The crowd oooed as the ball bounced off to the left. Dudley won the hole. One down, seventeen to go.
They were even for the next two holes, but on the fourth hole something strange happened again just as Oliver was putting. It was as if there was a sudden flash in his eyes, he blinked and the putter almost slipped from his hand. The ball chipped up in the air and off the green. The crowd muttered to themselves at this lapse in form, while he yelled to himself and threw his golf club into the air in frustration. He was starting to feel nervous. Dudley smiled and putted into the hole cleanly. He was four shots ahead now and Oliver was starting to sweat.
By the sixth hole the crowd were wearing t-shirts and singlets, it was so bright and hot.
At the tenth hole Dudley hit a magnificent tee shot, sending the ball one hundred and fifty metres in a graceful arc that sent it right onto the green. Oliver would need to play an even better shot. He strode up to the tee and looked around at the crowd nervously. That was when he noticed the bald man from the other day. He seemed to have brought along his four friends from the clubhouse. They were standing off to Oliver’s left, right in his eyeline, and they were all wearing hats which bore the slogan Now We Get Even. Oliver had no idea what it all meant, but somehow they made him nervous. He leant over the ball, breathed in deeply, and began to swing. Just as he did there was another flash of light, almost blinding him, and he only just clipped the ball, sending it a mere three metres in a dribble onto the grass. The crowd laughed, and Oliver, furious, looked up at them quickly. As he did he noticed the bald man and his friends all seemed to be putting their hats back on their heads in one synchronised move.
By now Oliver was completely rattled. He thought if he couldn’t insult Dudley he could at least insult the crowd.
‘Why don’t all you babies go home?’ he yelled at them in a rage.
‘You’re the baby,’ said someone in the crowd, and they all laughed.
At last they reached the final, eighteenth, hole. It was Oliver’s turn to play the first shot. He would have to score a hole-in-one to have any chance of winning the match, and that was almost impossible. What had gone wrong that day? He felt confused and angry all at once. Grumbling to himself he walked up to the tee and placed the ball down carefully. Maybe he could still do it. No, it was impossible. Still, he may as well try.
‘I hate you all,’ he said to no one in particular.
He lined himself up to play the shot and then there was that same blinding flash in his eyes again. He could hardly see. He staggered back, shielded his eyes and looked out at the crowd. That was when he realised what it was. The bald man and his friends had all taken their hats off and were facing him in a line along one side of the course. They must have polished their bald heads the night before, because the sun was shining directly off them and it was reflecting into his eyes like a thousand headlights on high beam. Through the glare he thought he could see the skinny man with glasses smiling.
‘Arghhh!’ he cried in desperation, and swung at the ball with all his strength. As he did so the bald men moved forward in a line and the flash of light struck deep into his vision. He ended up swinging at the ball so badly it went straight up into the air and landed behind him. The crowd broke up into fits of laughter, and even Dudley was smiling. The game was over, Dudley had won the Carrington Golf Classic Competition.
He fell in a heap next to his golf bag, all his dreams shattered. Rolling over, he banged his head on the ground and a clump of his hair fell out. Dudley pulled his earplugs out, leaned over and helped him up gently.
‘Never mind,’ Dudley said. ‘Golf, huh? Some days it’s like torture just playing it.’
Rare Pets
Mr Lukra drove home from work in his gold plated car. He thought of how much money he had in his house. Lots of money. Oodles of cash. Positively piles of dollars. He pulled into his silver brick driveway, got out, and went into his enormous home.
His two children, Sapphire and Timothy, stood in the hallway, and folded their arms.
‘We want a pet,’ they said. ‘Now.’
‘A pet?’ said Mr Lukra. ‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ They both smiled and planted their feet firmly in front of him.
‘I see,’ said Mr Lukra. ‘What sort of animal were you thinking of? A little dog, to do tricks, a fat orange cat?’
‘No, they’re boring!’ they cried.
‘Well,’ said Mr Lukra. He paused.
‘I saw a picture of a big lizard, Daddy,’ said Timothy. ‘A komodo dragon. It was two and a half metres long. Here.’ He pointed to the computer.
‘Timothy,’ Mr Lukra said, ‘I don’t know. It says here the komodo dragon eats its own weight every day. It is heavier than you and your sister put together. Are you sure you want it?’
‘Daddy,’ said Timothy. ‘I said I want it.’ He then put his hands in his pockets and frowned.
Mr Lukra looked at him. ‘Timothy, I don’t know, it says here that the komodo dragon is an endangered species, that it’s very bad to take it from its natural habitat.’
Timothy bit his lip and went bright red in the face. ‘Daddy! I said I want it!’
Sapphire nodded enthusiastically in agreement.
‘It will cost a lot of money,’ said Mr Lukra, ‘an awful lot of money.’
Timothy held his breath. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.
‘Okay, okay,’ said Mr Lukra. ‘I’ll get you one.’ He patted their heads.
‘Thank you, Daddy,’ said Sapphire. ‘Our very own dragon!’ She spun around in circles, while Timothy got his breath back.
The lizard arrived, delivered by two animal handlers who deposited it in the lounge room before leaving. It looked slightly fed up, slithering out of the net, opened an eye, and poked around a bit before wandering off into the bathroom. Timothy chased it with a stick, swatting at its tail, and it hissed at him so loudly it made Sapphire squeal. Mr Lukra was very pleased.
‘Be sure to feed it,’ he said, ‘while I am at work.’
The komodo dragon flicked its tongue out, staring at him with its black eyes. He rushed to his car.
As Mr Lurka walked in the door, carrying a sack of feed for the lizard, his two children, Sapphire and Timothy, stood in the hallway.
‘Daddy,’ they said. ‘We want a pet.’
He stared at them. ‘But you already have a pet.’
‘A new one,’ they said. ‘We want a new one.’
‘But you just got the komodo dragon.’ He put down the sack. ‘It cost me a lot of money.’
Sapphire clenched her fists and growled, ‘The dragon is boring! All it did was poke its stupid tongue out, and slither around.’
Timothy nodded. ‘We let it go,’ he said.
Mr Lukra gulped. He had had the lizard shipped thousands of miles from the Pacific islands. A rare animal.
He scratched his head. ‘A new pet?’
‘Yes,’ said Sapphire. ‘I saw a picture today of the loveliest bird, with big white feet. The blue-billed Irish duck.’ She pointed to the computer.
‘Honey,’ Mr Lukra said, ‘there are only five of these left in the wild.’
‘A blue-billed duck!’ she squealed. ‘For me and Timothy.’ Timothy stood beside her nodding vigorously.
‘We’d have to build a special cage for it. And Daddy might get in trouble for taking one from the wild. Besides, I might not be able to get one at all …’
Sapphire stood on her head. She started screaming, and as the blood rushed to her temple she only got louder. Timothy frowned.
Mr Lukra knew it was no use.
‘Okay. Ho
ney, of course Daddy will get one for you. But you won’t get bored with it, will you?’ He started at Sapphire. Slowly she rolled over and looked up at him, smiling.
‘Only, I don’t want you to just … let it go.’ He thought of the lizard, and wondered if it was living somewhere in the back garden.
‘Of course not,’ said Sapphire. She clapped her hands. ‘An Irish duck!’
So Mr Lukra made some calls, and hired someone to travel to Ireland to track down one of the five remaining blue-billed Irish ducks. One was found shivering in a small bog outside of Cork. He had it flown back to his house, and the children stared in amazement as it flapped its wings neatly inside the brass cage they had built. Its beak was the most sensational colour blue.
‘Sing!’ shouted Timothy at the bird, but it only dipped its head and quacked. Timothy looked disappointed and wandered off while Sapphire hit at the bars of the cage, laughing as the duck flew up and down. Mr Lukra rubbed his hands together and went to work.
Some time later, walking into the house, he found his two children lying down in the hallway, sobbing and kicking their feet up and down.
‘What is it now?’ he asked. He had a bad feeling.
‘The stupid duck!’ groaned Timothy. ‘It’s dull. It’s lame. It’s the most boring thing I’ve ever looked at!’
‘Sapphire?’ asked Mr Lukra hopefully.
‘Its feathers are disgusting!’ she huffed. ‘I can’t bear it any more!’
Mr Lukra rocked back on his feet. ‘Did you feed it like I asked you to?’
Sapphire sobbed
