Bogey Boys Part II

“Yo, Dillweed! You down there, dude?” Dillweed craned his neck around the corner to see Pimpy’s silhouetted ears pointing out like horns from the sides of his oversized sun visor. His hair was spiked hard and high to the heavens. “I can see you! We gotta get going- they’re almost done guzzling Dickmeyer’s booze.”

“Let’s get to the green, Dillweed!” Shane’s voice boomed from a golf cart somewhere behind Pimpy. “It’s gonna be a long fucking day!”

Dillweed climbed out of the tank room into the sun, which was being a big, red asshole; all stinging hot and blinding. Dillweed sprawled out in the cart’s backseat. Pimpy offered him a lidded butter container.

“New batch,” said Pimpy, “feel.” Dillweed poked at Pimpy’s hair spikes. The immovable stalagmites seemed to be part of Pimpy’s skull. He made his own hair gel from a secret recipe that crept toward perfection with every batch. Dillweed removed the lid. This batch smelled like grape- probably the Kool-Aid powder.

“Have some!” said Pimpy.

“I’m good today, thanks Pimpy.” Dillweed unzipped…

Shane drove Dillweed and Pimpy to the green where the legit caddies- Real Ones, who were actually into this golf shit- were checking their tee supply, polishing clubs, cleaning balls. Pimpy re-gelled his hair spikes. Dillweed giggled.

“Where the hell have you been? We’ve been waiting for nearly eight minutes!” Fabian, the putting overlord, reprimanded Pimpy.

“Sorry, sir,” said Pimpy.

“Could you not find a smaller shirt?” Fabian continued. “You look like damned clown.” The other already-sweating golfers laughed as they polished off their dick-stirred beverages. It pissed off Dillweed when they made fun of Pimpy, which was constant. Pimpy was small, a newish hire, and therefore, a soft target. But watching them force down the Dunkel filled him with a particular bliss. They tasted it. It was delightfully apparent. “Such a challenging mouth-feel,” one of them murmured to another.

“Oi!” Shane yelled from the golf cart. “Do you fellas plan on playing some fucking golf today?” Shane was working here before any of the other caddies. He was hired because he was Scottish and for literally no other reason. He gave Hillbury that signature essence of authenticity. Shane threatened to quit after his first day unless they hired his friends. Bleach, Dillweed, and Pimpy are simultaneously grateful and contemptuous because of it.

Pimpy set a ball on a tee for Fabian, handed him a driver, and backed up out of his way. Fabian made some damp throat noises and popped his neck by flinging his goateed head from side to side. He took a stance in front of the ball and lowered the club next to it. Fabian stared at the ball. The ball didn’t do shit. A moment lapsed. Shane sighed loudly. Fabian’s club nudged the ball off the tee. Pimpy rolled his eyes and approached to reset the ball. He picked it up and dropped it immediately, reacting to the slimy, orangish thread of fluid that had been drizzled onto it.

“The fuck?” Pimpy grumbled. Another web of slime dangled down onto his hand. Pimpy looked up to see Fabian’s mouth coated in cheesy foam. Pimpy only had a second to be disgusted before Fabian brought the driver back and swung it through Pimpy’s face. His nose burst up into his frontal lobe, pushing his eyes over their lids. The club chipped off a chunk of forehead and sent Pimpy’s scrambled brain firing whatever it had left into every nerve. Pimpy dropped to his back, twitching, biting his tongue.

Shane leapt from the golf cart in disbelief.

“Holy SHIT! Get him a fucking medic, you assholes!” The golfers stared at Pimpy as their mouths frothed with acrid, orange paste. Dillweed, immobilized with horror and hatred, glared at Fabian. His eyes had also taken on the unnatural, electric amber hue. The surrounding golfers coughed, their lungs rattling through the surmounting mucus. Their orange eyes turned to Dillweed.

“Dillweed,” Shane’s voice was low, “get over here now.”

“They fucking killed Pimpy.”

“Now, Dillweed. Fucking now.”

“Why did he do that?” The golfers pulled clubs from their bags.

“DILLWEED, GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!” Shane started the golf cart. A bald golfer sprinted toward Dillweed, flailing a putter. Dillweed finally turned and ran. Baldy flung the putter, catching the neck of a Real One, who dropped to his knees to gasp blood into his lungs. Two other golfers chomped through his neck, taking wild gulps of his throat flesh until his spine showed.

With Baldy still in pursuit, Shane grabbed a fistful of Dillweed’s dirty collar and dropped him in the passenger seat before Baldy’s putter head cracked off the side view mirror. A massive, mustachioed golfer barreled after them as Baldy reeled back for another swing. Shane floored the pedal and swerved around Fabian as his driver smashed against the hood.

“What the hell is happening?” Dillweed shouted, looking back at his now-lifeless friend.

“Fuck if I know,” said Shane, “but it’s not happening to me.” The cart decelerated and squealed under the strain of new weight. It was another Real One, hitching a ride.


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