Death on the Green

Johnson didn't see it coming. It fell on him like the callousness of a brutal death on a far and desolate shore, and he was laid low with revulsion. The disappearing white globe spun and spun and spun dug its own grave immediately behind a mammoth monolith of a oak tree, halting its progress like the limits of Johnson's fragile spirit.

Oh, Nice Shot! his boss ejaculated, chuckling freely with evil, greedy glee. Spittle throttled from his mottled mouth, reminding Johnson of his youth on the farm, when the cows would suffer from a slobbering and disfiguring radioactive madness conducted from the Nuclear Regulator Commission's mismanaged symphony. His boss doubled over with the corrupt mirth of a child-molesting principal at a private afternoon evaluation.

In a persecuted vision of gross clarity, Johnson saw the ball halted like his heretofore ever-tenuous career, like a slug at the attempt of the crossing of a salt lick with no roller skates. An insurmountable object lay in its path, an object an untold measure greater its capacity for progressive perseverance. Like the doomed invertebrate, Johnson seemed to lack the legs to stand, much less roller skate.

Stumbling and gibbering, his boss shambled toward Johnson's speck of white failure. Geez, he wheezed convincingly, have fun gettin' outta here, ya nut! frothed his boss. Johnson followed the customary steps behind his boss with a strange feeling growing in his moth-eaten stomach. The feeling felt like frenzied feeding of corpulent worms in the wake of a expired, blind creature thousands of feet below the ground in the deepest ocean. Johnson looked up into his superior's leering grin, and the worms increased their jostling, as if they had found a major artery in the carcass.

Visions drifted across like storms across Johnson's mien, though his knotted visage did not reflect them. He saw his boss, drunk, at last month's corporate Christmas party, making passes and rude remarks to his wife. He saw himself, impotent and helpless as his wife's face glowered at him for lacking the courage to discourage the buffoon. The worms of his stomach squirmed with madness. He saw himself standing silent as his boss commented to other plaid-legged ogres as to how Johnson's frail son was probably weaker and more insipid as Johnson himself, should that be possible. The worms multiplied, as if readying themselves to attack any remaining vestiges of Johnson's dignity.

Sputum dripped onto his boss's unaware and uncaring chins.

A final vision of blazing intensity overcame Johnson. He saw himself taking his seven iron to his boss's fleshy neck. There was no one on the 18th hole but the two of them, an evil Hardy with a humiliated Laurel. With one bludgeon he could end the groveling, the indignity and insults. They were close enough to the ball that he could claim it was an accident, with his boss standing too close behind him. Well? I haven't got all day, urged his boss. Well?

Johnson gripped his iron and the worms shivered.