by Patrick Kill
“A little Beach Boys, a little Hitler and Dad.”
Joey just frowned, shaking his head.
Then Nicholas broke his trance and suddenly rushed toward Clitorissa. “I want to try, I want to try.”
Nicholas was older than the both of us put together, but with only half the IQ of a normal 6-year-old. He knelt beside Clitorissa, panting like a dog in a sauna. The collar of his shirt was drenched in saliva and a big oval piss stain had spread across one of his jean pockets.
“No, Nick, you can’t,” Joey said.
Clitorissa stroked his head gently.
“Ah, he’ll be okay,” I said, “Maybe the only time he gets the chance to eat a woman’s leg while listening to hell through her vagina.”
“Very funny, smartass.”
Nicholas looked back to his brother for approval, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his lips arched in the biggest, retard smile I had ever witnessed.
“Go ahead,” Joey said, “But hurry it up, it’s getting late and Mom will be home from work soon.”
And soon after he gave Nicholas the go-ahead, things got a little bit confusing.
Nicholas, being a little messed up in the head, suddenly lunged at her vagina and clamped his teeth down.
“No,” Joey screamed, “Her leg, you idiot!”
But it was too late. Nicholas had already ripped one of her lips off. Blood dripped down into the black hole between her legs. She screamed, wriggling on the bed of nails, the points tearing at her flesh, sending a torrent of blood across her legs and feet. As she pulled back away from Nicholas, she lost her balance and flipped backwards. I heard a sickening crunch as several nails punctured her skull. She flopped several times, more nails driving their way into her flesh, her body stuck, spread-eagle, breasts fluttering momentarily until a screechy sound of dry air was expelled from her mouth and her eyes bulged, staring vacantly at the red and white stripes of the tent’s ceiling.
“Holy shit!” I yelled, watching Nicholas chewing happily like it was a big stick of cotton candy or caramel apple.
Nicholas returned to the spot and bit down on the other side as well, ripping her entire midsection wider.
Joey threw up again and I stumbled back, fearing that Dad would crawl through the gaping wound and whip my ass just for old time’s sake.
But he never appeared. Instead, there came liquid darkness, like she had suddenly started her period and bled an entire tar pit onto the bed. And the blackness bubbled and popped, shaping itself into tiny creatures I still can’t accurately explain. Each one scattered around the growing puddle and that God damn Beach Boy’s song erupted again, but louder so that everyone in the tent could hear.
And worse yet, all the little creatures started singing acappella. “Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody…”
Some even were hydroplaning across the blood and gore and black tar-like substance, riding the waves of her discharge.
The smell of rotten hushpuppies wafted through the tent.
Joey vomited again while Nicholas belched and farted and went back for another bite.
I turned and ran out of that tent, screaming my ass off. I ran through the countryside in hysterics until I finally arrived home.
* * *
That was seven years ago. And there still hasn’t been any signs of either Joey or Nicholas. The carnival had simply disappeared overnight, taking the gypsies and townspeople with it.
I think the investigation has finally ceased, filed as one of those “unsolved mysteries” without clues or reason.
The countryside is eerily quiet. And I have this awful feeling that we really fucked things up that night seven years ago. Especially when I turn on the radio today and each station keeps playing “Surfin’ USA” over and over again.
I really feel bad for Mom most of all. I still haven’t told her that Dad was waiting for her. It’s probably too late. Especially since I swore I saw one of those little black creatures riding one of the chickens yesterday.
I think the whole world’s finally gone to hell.
Screaming Greens
Rolling hills of lush green seemed to deaden the closer everything got to the Lincoln that had pulled into the parking lot. A wire-thin older man with pepper-gray hair stepped out, fumbling with paperwork and a leather briefcase that looked even older than him.
As soon as he straightened his stash of documents, he closed the car door and walked up to me.
“Hi, I’m Bob from the board of safety and health,” he introduced himself.
“Hop in, Bob From The Board Of Safety And Health,” I instructed. “Ready for a tour?”
He adjusted his tinted wire-rimmed glasses. “I guess so.”
I lifted the heavy door to the golf cart so he could climb inside. It felt strange showcasing man-to-man chivalry. The last time I had opened a door for anyone was prom night more than twenty years ago. But then I reasoned that, much like my prom date, Safety Board Bob was a shoo-in to get fucked by the end of our rendezvous together.
“I’ve never seen this kind of setup in a golf cart before,” he said, touching the enclosure. “I’ve seen something similar in mowers at local courses, but never this.”
I smiled. “It’s bullet proof glass.”
He looked at me strangely and chuckled. “Why?”
“Why not?” I countered.
He opened up a legal pad and began scribbling. I felt like I was taking my first driver’s test all over again.
“Is this sort of thing usual for new businesses?”
“Not usually,” he replied, “but this is a special case.”
Case, I thought. This guy sounds like a lawyer already. “Why?” I asked.
“Our office has received some reports from neighboring properties about your new business.”
I depressed the accelerator and we rolled out of the parking lot and onto the course, passing by two burly security personnel, one who extended a metal wristband towards Bob.
“No need,” I said, waving him off, “He’s here to inspect, not play.” The one guard flashed a smile he quickly concealed before Bob noticed.
“I’ve never seen a golf course with security like this,” Bob commented.
“That’s because you’ve never seen a golf course like this one before,” I replied, “Not even close.”
Dust stirred as we left the stone and asphalt entranceway for the neatly-trimmed cobblestone path that led to the first hole. A group of men exited the clubhouse, all laughing, some clearly way past the drunken stage.
“I thought opening day was still a week away, Mr…” he shuffled through his papers. “Mr. Patrick, is it?”
I nodded, confirming both facts. “The course opens in one week, but those are my core investors who get to play first.”
“I see,” he said.
“This is actually the last cluster of them here,” I said, “Four other groups are already out there.”
“How exciting for them!” he said, smiling for the first time. I cringed, catching a glimpse of his stained teeth in the sunlight.
“Don’t worry, I made them all sign liability waivers at the front gate,” I told him, “which will be a general rule for all who play here.”
“Good,” he said, “This is a beautiful place you have here.”
“Thanks,” I replied, stopping the golf cart short of the first hole tee area.
A flock of geese flew by us, gliding silently across the ocean of cerulean above.
A slight breeze hinted at the summer to come.
Bob inhaled a deep breath, clearly impressed by the serenity of it all.
The sound of water trickling through a small stream softly cascaded from beyond the trees.
Then the first explosion erupted.
A puff of black smoke rose beyond the hills.
The glass on the golf cart rattled violently, then all was silent again. I looked over at Safety Board Bob who was now gripping the edges of the seat violently, his papers now strewn across his feet.<
br />
“My God, what in the world was that?” he asked.
“Sand bunker,” I answered, “Probably the sixteenth hole.” I thought about schematics again. “Could’ve been the fourteenth rough, not sure.”
“Explosives on a golf course? Why?”
I laughed. “Obviously, you didn’t get the memo.”
“Huh?”
“This is an extreme golf course.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“Think of a regular golf course fused with putt-putt greens mixed in with a rather dangerous obstacle course, filled with a whole lot of lethal shit,” I described.
He looked at me long and hard. “You’re joking, right?”
“Nope.”
“You can’t do that!”
“I can and I have.”
“This is insane. Do they know what you’ve done here?” he asked, pointing to the last cluster of investors now teeing off. Some were shading their eyes, looking towards the looming cloud of smoke on the horizon. One skinny man, Mr. Hite, was pacing nervously.
“I think so. I told them it was extreme,” I said. “They’re all corporate elites. Older business tycoons. Rich fuckers who lead boring lives and want to be a part of something exciting, something different.”
Mr. Hite saw us. He waved, beckoning us to come closer.
“But do they know they can potentially die out there?”
“I guess I forgot to mention that,” I said.
Mr. Hite strayed off the pathway, then stopped in mid-stride and grabbed his chest. He took two more steps then collapsed. As he rolled on the ground, he clutched at the metal bracelet, trying to pry it off his wrist.
“What’s the matter with that man?” Bob questioned as he rose slightly from his seat, now clearly alarmed.
“He got shocked,” I answered. “Once you enter the course, you have to follow the path forward. I installed a system linked to those bracelets where they must progress through the paths to all eighteen holes or it transmits tiny shocks.”
Bob’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious?”
“You stray five feet, you get a little jolt,” I explained. “You get to ten feet, you get zapped pretty good.” I laughed. “At twenty feet your heart will skip beats. Past twenty-five feet and you’re toast.”
Bob shook his head, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“But they all signed waivers.”
“You won’t let them quit once they start?”
“No,” I replied, “But there are water fountains and rather fancy port-o-pots at every third hole.”
“What if they decide to walk the course and not play?”
“That’s why the caddies are there.” I wondered if Bob had even noticed that each caddy was armed with a stun gun and nightstick. “But it’s all pointed out in the contracts they signed before beginning.”
“Can I see one of these waivers, please?”
“For the record, they signed before the five drink minimum needed to start hole one,” I stated, pulling out a sample contract from the dash. I handed it to him.
“Five drink minimum?” he said, sounding out of breath. He scanned the one page waiver and looked at me in disgust. “This entire contract is nothing but fine print!”
“So?”
“I can’t even read any of it!” he said, pushing a button on his cell phone.
I flipped it shut.
“Don’t touch me or my phone!” he countered.
“I have to show you one thing before you phone me in,” I said, turning the cart around and heading back toward the clubhouse. “This might change your mind.”
Another explosion echoed behind us.
Safety Board Bob grabbed the handle and pushed on the reinforced door, but it was latched from the other side. “Sir, please take me to my car immediately.” He flipped open his phone again.
I leaned over and stabbed his hand with a metal tee, then whacked him in the head with a four-iron I pulled from the back seat.
His phone fell to the floor and I crushed it beneath my steel-toed spikes.
Blood trickled from just beneath his ear as I pulled up to the rear of the clubhouse next to an attached shed.
“Take a look at what I have in here,” I said, exiting the cart.
I popped the latch on the shed and revealed Bob’s daughter bound and gagged in the corner. Her shirt was torn, exposing one bare breast. Her lipstick was smeared, her hair disheveled.
“Unlike you, I did get the memo,” I said, laughing. “I knew you’d be coming this morning.”
He groggily squinted out the windshield. “Michele?”
“Is that her name?” I asked, “The caddies call her ‘The Nineteenth Hole’.”
“You son of a bitch!” he yelled.
“Shut the fuck up, Bob, what’s going to happen now is that we’re going to finish this tour,” I demanded, “And you’re going to like what you see!”
I shut and latched the shed door, then hopped back in the cart, smiling. Bob, however, was shaking horribly. I just didn’t trust this guy at all, so I tossed him a pair of handcuffs I had in my pocket. “Put your legs on the dash and cuff them together.”
He did as he was told. So I tossed him another pair of cuffs and instructed him to do the same with his hands. He did it slowly.
“Now if you bite me, I swear to God, Bob, that I’ll pluck every tooth out of your pretty little mouth,” I warned. “We in agreement?”
He shook his head, forced to agree.
By the time we reached the second green I could already tell that it was too much for Bob to take.
Crawling up the fairway was someone I no longer recognized. Possibly it was Mr. Douglas, but it looked kind of like Mr. Jones as well. It was hard to tell with the man’s scorched face and clothes. The lower half of his body was gone, severed at the waist. Strings of his innards trailed as he clawed closer toward the clubhouse.
I pulled the golf cart closer, still trying to figure out who it was. The man reached up with a fingerless stub of a hand towards the floor of the cart.
“You looked parched, go get yourself a drink,” I said, laughing. “On the house, of course!” I elbowed Bob who didn’t seem amused by my sense of humor. “The blast must’ve fucked up his bracelet. Or maybe he can no longer feel the shocks.”
I drove on and Bob said, “You need to help that man.”
I stopped the cart, looked at Bob for a few long seconds, then shook my head. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”
I sighed, flipped the cart’s switch into reverse, then backed over the man. The cart lurched to one side, knocking Bob against the bulletproof glass.
I stopped the cart, looking at the burnt man once again. His face was now buried in the turf, but one arm was still reaching. I flipped the cart into forward and ran him over again. Several more times I repeated the process until he was finally still.
“You happy now?” I asked.
Bob was silent. Suddenly distant.
We ran into more drama on hole three. Stan McGee, my top investor, almost made it to the green, but found his ball submerged in a mini water hazard.
“You have to play the ball where it lies,” Derrick, one of my best caddies, explained. “Course rules!”
“No way I’m going in there,” Stan argued.
We pulled the golf cart next to the hazard and I watched the pool teeming with quite large electric eels that appeared to be more feisty than I remembered.
“You big pussy!” Alan Cummings, Stan’s partner in his law firm, joked. “I over-putted the green and look where I’m at.”
He was in another water hazard that mirrored Stan’s, but his appeared much deeper.
“You have no snakes in yours,” Stan remarked.
“Eels,” I corrected.
“Mine’s deeper,” Alan countered, “I can’t even see where my ball went.”
“You first,” Stan said, “You’re farthest from the hole!”
It was funny how neith
er of them even questioned why Alan’s hazard had a slight smoky mist atop it, or why it bubbled violently when the ball fell in.
But they quickly learned as soon as Alan rolled up his khaki pants and jumped in.
The smell of burnt flesh wafted instantly. The pool bubbled violently around Stan has he shrieked like a little girl, taking in a deep gasp of breath before his lips burnt off.
After the sight of Stan’s face melting off, Alan surely didn’t think the eels were such a bad lie after all.
As we approached hole number five, the sky suddenly darkened, the silence was filled with screams. Three golfers jumped in front of the golf cart. They began banging on the side and yelling frantically.
Angry buzzing sounds echoed over their pleas, growing louder. From the other side of the hill the swarm emerged. Someone had obviously chipped into the hives stationed opposite the green on hole five. The entire colony seemed to be stirred from their nests. As if every bee had fused into a single deadly mass, the swarm turned on a dime and descended toward the men around us. Within seconds, their bodies transformed to a crawling coating of translucent wings and dark, hairy segments. Bees clung to every part of them. With each breath they took the insects invaded farther into any orifice that would open.
“You have to admit that’s kind of cool,” I said, hunched over the steering wheel, watching the scene unfold.
“You’re a sick sonofabitch, you know that?” Bob spoke up. “This pays no respect to golf. This is murder…plain and simple.”
“For your information, Bob, I have no respect for golf.” I pulled out the fly swatter and swung at a lone bee that had managed to infiltrate the cab of the cart. “In my opinion, it’s the worst fucking sport ever created,” I said, swatting at the insect some more. “Bunch of upper class white guys sporting Cardigan pullovers being ushered around by slave-caddies so they can hit—” I lunged forward, flicking the swatter one final time, squishing blood and nectar across the windshield.
“Tiger Woods and Vijay Singh aren’t white,” Bob cut in, obviously venting his anger any way he could.
“Shit, Bob, you’ve got to be high or something,” I stated, “I’m more black than both Tiger and Vijay put together.” I rolled up my sleeves. “And fucking look at me…I’m half albino!”
