Part One: Golf (Cart) Mania

A fictional account: No relation to reality…

The professional had been retired for more than a decade. He had been on his own personal golf course for the previous twelve hours with various friends. Deeper in the night, it was just a business friend and he and he were on a drinking spree. No other drugs. Just various whiskys, ice, and soda water… don’t forget the bucket of lemons…

I doubt they paid the lemons much attention… But previously they had paid attention to several… ummm… female friends (who had since been sent away by Uber).

The friend was a European guy from somewhere who made his fortune in women’s lingerie. He got out of the business and became an alchoholic. So the two were riding around the course in absolute insanity.

Part Two: Golf, Fun, and Stupidity

Around two am, the two began to set up a “ramp” where they could (in their brilliant minds) jump over a sandtrap… They knocked boards off a shed in the nearby woods, took a bunch of old cart tires stacked up next to it, and made a structure they were proud of… After they created their masterpiece, they lay on the pampered green and drank from a bottle of rare Scotch whisky…

Part Three: The Jump

As you may recall, the individuals involved in this event constructed a ramp to “pass over” a sandtrap on a golf cart… that is to become airbourne and to land on the opposite side.

The event ocurred between around 5 am on the date provided… And the attempt was successful… Or was it? The cart was damaged. The right side of the vehicle was “out of whack”. But the businessman was no where to be seen.

Part Four: After the Jump

The professional called out for his missing friend. No answer. He swung around to the other side of the cart and found him there face down in the sand. He pulled him faceup, brushed off his sandy face, and slapped him several times in an attempt to make him conscious. No response. He didn’t seem to be breathing and the professional bent down with his ear to the prone man’s face. He panicked. He pushed on the businessman’s chest, counting between compressions as he had seen on television shows. No response. He even tried to blow air in his mouth.

Exhausted, the professional fell back in shock and desperation. He landed like a schoolboy on his buttocks next to a full bottle of single malt Scotch whisky. He ripped off the cork with a blood curdling cry and commenced to guzzle.

The sun was just peaking its crown above the horizon casting a light blue tinge over the businessman’s dead face. Moments passed. The professional dropped like a wet log face up. There was a throttling sound and then he was motionless…

Two old men lie dead in a sandtrap.

Blessings to the living

For the dead

No longer require them

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