by John Scalzi
One of the assassins, brown-haired where the other was blond, actually grinned at this, though he kept his defensive stance. “That’s nice,” he said. “You have four people trying to kill you at the same time, and you’re thinking about your golf game.”
“Yes,” Sn said, and was stunned to hear the utter sincerity in his voice, coming through the translation device. “I need to finish this hole. It’s important. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Hey, sorry,” the blond assassin said. “But the fact is, after I deal with this guy, I have to kill you. There are other people on the course by now. I don’t have time to let you finish your round.”
“But why?” Sn asked. “What have I done to piss you off?”
“It’s not personal,” the blond said. “I got thrown this gig the other day.”
“Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll match it,” Sn said. “I need to finish this round.”
“Doesn’t work like that,” the blond said. “And anyway, are you going to pay him off, too?” he motioned at the brown-haired assassin.
“Actually, I have no objection to being paid off,” said the brown-haired assassin.
“What?” said the blond. He seemed honestly shocked.
“This is just a freelance gig,” the brown-haired one said, to the blond. “It’s not one of my regular clients. I don’t care if I burn him. I can just say others got here before I did and made it impossible to take the shot.”
“Right,” Sn said. “And it’s true, which makes it an even better story.” Sn pointed to the blond assassin, who was still incredulous. “And that way you don’t have to try to kill him first to get to me.”
“That’s a good point,” said the brown-haired assassin. “I didn’t think of it that way. Although now I guess I could charge you to kill him, instead of just killing him for free.”
Sn turned to the blond assassin. “I’d rather just pay you not to kill me than to pay him to kill you,” he said. “That’s a felony.”
“This assumes he’s going to be able to kill me before I kill you,” the blond one said.
“Well, now it’s two against one,” the brown-haired assassin said.
“Hey, shut up,” the blond assassin said, clearly irritated, to the brown-haired assassin. “You. You’re an embarrassment. You take a job, you stick with a job.”
The brown-haired assassin shrugged. “I just want to get paid,” he said.
The blond looked at the brown-haired assassin like a bug, and then turned to Sn. “This golf game is really that important to you,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” Sn said. “Yes. Please.”
The blond assassin stared at Sn for a hard moment. Then he sighed. “I want to register my strenuous objection to this situation,” he said.
“Noted,” Sn said, the gladness rising in his heart. It looked like he would be able to finish the round after all. Finish it and redeem his soul. The cost, whatever it was, would be cheap by comparison.
“This goes against everything I stand for as an ethical businessman,” the blond assassin said. “However, given the situation,” the blond’s exposition was drowned out by a loud bang and then halted when a sucking chest wound took away his capacity to speak. He collapsed.
Sn whirled toward the brown-haired assassin as a second bang went off, and caught him in the act of flying backward, a grievous wound in his forehead squirting blood and gray matter into the air. Sn continued his turn to see his caddy, conscious now, holding a large caliber handgun.
“What did you just do?” Sn said.
“Judge Bufan Nigun Sn, I strike a blow for the racial purity of the Earth,” the caddy said, and leveled his gun at Sn. “For great justice…”
Sn bellowed in pure, insensate rage and struck the caddy in the temple with the 3 wood. The caddy collapsed, arm falling sideways across his body as his hand reflexively pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the caddy’s lung, pulping it, before blowing out the ninth thoracic vertebrae, killing the man instantly. Judge Sn stood there for several minutes, 3 wood at ready, just in case anyone else suddenly reanimated.
Eventually Sn became aware of someone speaking to him. He looked up and saw a foursome of golfers standing at the edge of the tee.
“What?” Sn said.
“Jesus Christ,” said one of the golfers, and looked up at Sn. “What the hell is going on here?”
“What does it look like?” Sn said. “I’m playing golf.” And with that he turned, dug through his bag for a new ball and tee, found a spot that was not covered by blood or a dead body, and while the new foursome watched, disbelieving, set the tee and lined up his shot.
He swung.
The ball shanked hard to the left, disappearing forever into the woods.
“Fuck!” Sn said, and collapsed into the grass.
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Judge Sn Goes Golfing
