Cult of Kill #1 Page 3

  “So why are you doing all this?” he asked.

  “Money,” I replied. “And I thought it would be a cool idea.” I answered honestly.

  “Your idea?” he questioned.

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you come up with it?”

  “Well, Bob, since you’re so genuinely interested, I’ll tell you.”

  “Please do.”

  A furry head popped out of the taller grasses between holes six and seven. I pointed to it. “Quick, look over there!”

  “Groundhog?” Bob asked.

  “Fuck no!” I replied, “Badger in the rough.”

  He seemed relieved, stating, “Well, that’s not so bad.”

  “It has rabies,” I added.

  “That’s horrible,” Bob said, “And I’m sure the CDC would like to know about that.”

  “Actually, they do.” I jerked the wheel of the cart, made a sharp turn and plowed into the wooded area directly past the rough.

  About fifty feet into the wooded path, I stopped the cart. “Go ahead and ask him.”

  Bob looked puzzled till I pointed out the man dangling about fifteen feet off the ground, directly above our position. The man swayed, eyes half open, lips horribly chapped. His blue windbreaker with the words “CDC” barely visible beneath several layers of bird shit collected from the past three days.

  The man pawed at the air. “Rabid badger,” he whispered hoarsely. “Rabid bad—” he managed, then nodded off, eyes rolling back into his head.

  “My God, you’re not going to let me go, are you?” Bob asked, as if suddenly coming to that realization.

  “You asked me how I came up with the idea, right?” I said, ignoring his latest query.

  Bob stared past me; he didn’t answer.

  I glanced off in the distance, following his gaze and saw a mammoth grizzly bear chasing a man.

  “Drop and play dead, Connors!” I yelled.

  Connors, one of my biggest investors (at nearly three hundred and fifty pounds) glanced quickly over in our direction, then tumbled to the ground. He lay still. The bear straddled him. Sniffed him. Then looked towards us. It glanced down at Connors once again then started to walk away.

  “Good job, Connors, told you it would work!” I said.

  Connors slowly moved his hand and gave me a thumbs-up.

  The bear must have caught his movement. It suddenly lurched back atop Connors and bit into his neck deeply and shook him violently. Blood spurted from Connors’s neck.

  “Stupid-ass!” I remarked, “Since when does playing dead mean flashing hand gestures?”

  Bob began to shake harder than ever. His face flushed of any remaining color. His eyes stared down at his cuffed hands.

  “Oops, sorry, getting back to how I got my idea,” I said, pressing on the gas pedal before the bear decided he was tired of his chew toy. “I’m dyslexic.”

  My answer seemed to instantly break Bob’s trance-like state.

  “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

  “Damn, Mr. Grouch-ass,” I swiped back. “I’m getting to it if you’ll just shut the fuck up!”

  I swore I heard the bear belch in the distance. Or it may have been the rabid badger, or possibly a few of the deranged inmates I purchased the previous month from the maximum security mental ward in Cuba.”

  “Since I’m dyslexic, every time I went past a golf course when I was little I read it as ‘flog’ which is golf spelled backwards.” I explained. “Which means to basically beat someone or torture them.”

  Bob shook his head, obviously not getting it.

  “I thought it was kind of funny,” I said, “The idea formed sometime later after watching other extreme sports on TV. And then I watched a movie once where hunters were bored of typical game and paid big money to take it to the next level…to hunt humans.”

  “Mr. Patrick!” a voiced shouted from atop a hill to our left.

  I shielded the sun from my eyes to see one of my new caddies named Johnny.

  “All the crabs are dead in the sand trap off twelve,” he reported, walking towards the cart. “Greg fucked up and mixed in a land mine in the bunker with them. Then Paulie went to feed them and then BOOM!”

  “I’ll put in a new order for crabs tomorrow,” I told him. “Paulie dead then?”

  “Yeah, ‘fraid so,” Johnny said, placing the golf bag next to the cart. He took off his visor, wiped away sweat and a spattering of blood from his forehead. “Jimmy bit it, too. He chased a ball into the lake off fourteen.”

  I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. “Dumb shit knew there were piranha in there.”

  “He must’ve forgot, sir.”

  “Where’s your group of golfers,” I asked.

  “Mr. Jacobs gotten eaten by an alligator, sir.”

  “He go in the water, too?”

  “No, sir,” Johnny replied. “Alligator actually came right up to the fairway on sixteen and snagged him. Rolled him right there in front of everyone, then ate him.”

  “That’s odd,” I commented, “It must have been super-hungry.”

  “Dr. Jennings got in the quicksand.”

  “Poor bastard.”

  “Professor Dawson freaked out and tried to scale the electric fence.”

  “All of them dead?”

  “No, sir,” Jonathan answered. “Mr. McMurtry is headed to seventeen now. He’s got a pretty bad snakebite from a viper in the sandpit at sixteen, so I’m not sure if he’ll make it or not, but he told me to ‘get fucking lost’ so I did.”

  “Very good, son,” I commented, noticing the bag hanging off an iron. “What’s in the burlap purse?”

  “Only crab left alive by the blast,” he explained, opening the sack and reaching a single gloved hand within. He pulled out the mammoth sand-crab. “I named him ‘Lucky’ and plan to keep him as a pet.”

  “My God,” Bob said, gazing at the crab. “I’ve never seen a crab that big before.”

  “You’ve obviously never fucked your daughter then.”

  Johnny smiled, straining to hold up the crab. His arm began to shake hard.

  “You’re fucking mad, aren’t you?” Bob muttered.

  “Nah, I’m good,” I told him. “He can keep it. I’ll just deduct it from his pay.”

  Bob closed his eyes and banged his head twice against the headrest.

  Johnny secured the crab back in the bag, put his visor back on and said, “Well, I’m headed to the nineteenth hole to take a break.” He pumped his hips, licking his lips. “Figure I’ll score a hole-in-one there!”

  Bob wriggled in his cuffs and grunted, “You sick sonsofbitches, all of you! Leave my poor Michele out of this!”

  “Good work, Johnny, go get yourself a nice piece of ass,” I said, “On the house, of course!”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  By the time we got to eighteen, the sky was already dotted with vultures. Three of the ghastly creatures were wrapped up in a skirmish atop Mr. McMurtry’s corpse which found its resting place somewhere between seventeen and eighteen.

  Not a single golfer had made it out alive.

  Now this is a great fucking sport, I thought.

  Circling the course, we passed a lone golfer in the middle of nowhere, his body badly bloated, twice its normal size. The man’s eyeballs looked like they had erupted from their sockets and dribbled down his cheeks.

  “Why would you do this to your own investors?” Bob inquired.

  “First off, I didn’t do this,” I pointed out. “The course did it.” I looked around. “They were obviously lousy golfers.”

  “You really believe that?” Bob asked.

  “I reckon I won’t have to pay them back the money now, will I?”

  “You’re not going to let Michele and I go, are you?”

  I thought about that long and hard, then told him, “I’ll drive you to your car. You file the paperwork. You state this course passes your inspection,” I instructed. “I’ll know the minu
te you do, as a good chunk of the investors’ contributions went straight into the pockets of officials that have connections to your office.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Money will turn heads, that’s for sure.”

  “If I do this, when will you let Michele go?”

  “Twenty-four hours from now,” I said, “You come back here and get her. I’ll make a call and if you’ve held up your end, I’ll let her go.”

  “No strings attached?”

  “Oh, there are always strings, Bob.”

  “What are they?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Fine.”

  “You talk, she dies.”

  “Okay.”

  “Police show up, she dies.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  * * *

  The eighteenth green was a modern marvel of engineering. Barring you made it to this point through the fairway, you would need to insure you would not over-hit the green. Doing so would lead to many bad things. But on the flip side, the mouth of the fairway constricted into what looked like a normal green.

  But then there was the catch.

  And this is where countless hours at the office putting green paid off the most.

  From the edge of the green, you must putt into a five inch diameter tube. If accurately hit, the tube would take the ball through pipes which led down ten feet into yet another green. If you miss to either side of the tube, it would trigger a hidden laser which would then fire a row of nail guns at average crotch level. Unfortunately, the real pain was that once you crossed this laser once, you had to hit back across it, causing the nail guns to spray you yet again, this time from the backside.

  All the nails were rusty, of course. Poison-tipped. Hand-excreted from a rare blowfish by my now-deceased ex-wife.

  The sublevel of the green was layered in broken shards of glass. The stairs that led you down a small flight had a sign posted.

  Shoes, socks, shirt, no enter.

  Caddy regulated.

  Once you made it to that level, an industrial heater would escalate the temperature at least thirty degrees on entry. It would feel like running into a blow torch without suffering the immediate consequence of the flame. The fanned-in dry heat coupled with the solar glass panels above made it quite hard to concentrate.

  Especially while walking on broken glass. Which you could imagine makes for some strange treks your ball might take.

  If the pain and heat doesn’t kill you, the enclosed hallway you’re putting within just might. Lined with barbs, the place appears as some twisted maw. Throw in a custom putter with a sensor and each time you putt, the walls move in six feet.

  Two-putting this hallway would get you out alive.

  Three-putting would permanently implant a rather nasty barb in your ass. Your eye sockets. Your mouth. Actually, just about everywhere.

  There is no hole at this level, just another tube leading to yet an even lower level of the green. And the tube is only a half-inch in diameter bigger than the ball.

  Precision putting required.

  You make it in two and a trap door opens to a ladder leading to your final portion of green.

  I like to call this last stage the “green crapper.”

  It’s a metal cave lined in porcelain, coated with the most foul-smelling algae known to man. Luckily, it also glows in the dark which will serve as your only lighting.

  Its U-shape makes it difficult, as the hole couldn’t be placed at the lowest point due to the fact that there’s a mechanical circular trap-door there that will open with enough suction-force to rip your nipples off your chest if you resist. But this only happens if you can’t make the putt into a hole that exists about a quarter of the way up the side of the concave wall.

  If you get sucked down there, you’d rot in a metal septic tank which is linked to every port-o-pot pisser and clubhouse crapper on the property.

  There would be plenty of food and drink supplied daily.

  But with little nourishment.

  And this is what Bob now faced.

  If he made it through, I agreed he could take Michele and leave with both lives. If he failed, he’d end up a literal shit-bag while his daughter served staff for her remaining days as the cream-filled hostess known forever as “The Nineteenth Hole.”

  “No pressure, Bob,” I encouraged, patting him on the back. “Just suction.”

  “Fuck you!” he said, gripping the putter.

  “You play a lot of golf?”

  “Fuck you!” he repeated, which answered my question.

  “Probably good that I gave you a handicap and started you on the green instead of at the tee, huh?”

  He ignored me.

  Moments later he threw up.

  And that’s when we left him there, facing the eighteenth green.

  The chief engineer who designed it joined me at the golf cart. He had wired every square inch of the green with video surveillance equipment, so we could watch every putt on duo hand-held monitors.

  “This could be the only time this thing gets used at this rate,” I pointed out.

  “This is indeed exciting!” the engineer said.

  I sat back in the cart and watched Bob take a deep breath and practice putt. Derrick, the caddy, was there to monitor him till he reached the sub-level green.

  After several more practice putts, Bob squared up, took another deep breath, then focused on the tube.

  Then all of a sudden his shoulders slumped a little and he glanced at Derrick to his far left. Derrick had obviously muttered something, breaking his concentration.

  “What do you suppose that was about?” I asked.

  The engineer looked up from his own monitor only to shrug.

  “Why don’t we have audio?”

  “Sorry, didn’t think of it, sir.”

  “So you’re telling me that you designed all of this high-tech shit and you didn’t think to add audio to the feed?”

  “No, sir.”

  On the monitor Derrick and Bob were now engaged in a full conversation.

  “I don’t like this,” I stated.

  “Not to worry you, sir,” the engineer said, “But I overheard a rumor in the locker room today that Derrick has fallen in love with The Nineteenth Hole.”

  “You’re shitting me?”

  “Afraid not, sir,” he replied. “Word was that he punched Johnny in the mouth today after he walked in and found him cornholing ‘his bitch’.”

  “Dammit, he was my best caddy,” I commented. “So hard to get good help these days!”

  “Yes, sir, I agree, sir.”

  “Remind me to fire Derrick after Bob dies.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Bob squared up once again. He swiveled, tapping the ball with the putter. The ball traveled half way to the tube then stopped. Bob glanced up at Derrick who then nodded.

  “The fucker short-putted!” I yelled. “On purpose!”

  “I bet Derrick told him to,” the engineer said, “He’s obviously trying to impress the father of his new woman.”

  The next putt only traveled a few more inches, now more in line with the tube.

  “Fuck!” I yelled. “Make a note.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tomorrow you need to synch the sensors with the first part of the green,” I instructed. “Someone two-putts, I want them nailed to the fucking green.”

  “Got it, sir.”

  “Also, make the nail guns spray the entire area,” I continued, “I want to see nails at foot, crotch and head levels.”

  “Can do!”

  Three more mini-putts and Bob sank the ball into the tube without tripping the sensors.

  Luckily, Derrick had enough brains to enforce the shoes, socks and shirt rule. Bob stripped off his shirt, extracted his shoes, then peeled off his socks, handing everything to his caddy. He descended the flight of stairs to the lower level.

  Now it was getting fun to watch.

  Bob hit the bot
tom of the stairs, wobbled, shielded his face from the scorching dry heat, then erected himself once again to size up the ball. His chest heaved in and out. His body was almost instantly sheathed in running rivulets of sweat. He alternated lifting his feet from the shards of glass, each time more blood dripped from his heels.

  His first putt barely made it half way.

  The walls closed in six feet.

  “This is getting good,” I said.

  “If he misses this one, he’s a goner,” the engineer pointed out.

  Bob staggered, swaying slightly side to side. He licked his lips continually, glancing to each side where the barbs jutted from the walls.

  As he teetered there, it seemed as if he suddenly lost all hope. One-handed, he swatted at the ball, smacking it down the green.

  The ball hooked slightly.

  And went directly into the tube.

  “No fucking way!” I screamed.

  The engineer was still gawking into his monitor, mouth agape.

  “Beginner’s luck?” I questioned.

  The engineer shrugged.

  The trap door opened and Bob hurriedly climbed down the ladder.

  I clicked on the monitor to switch cameras.

  Bob located the ball which was directly centered atop the vacuum port. Little did he know that on the second tap of the putter, he’d be sucked into a crap-filled prelude to oblivion.

  But the first tap of the putter never came.

  He simply picked up the ball, walked over to the hole along the wall and shoved it in.

  A side door opened, leading to stairs that exited the green.

  “Whoops,” the engineer stated.

  I glanced over at him and scoffed. “You’re killing me, man!”

  “I’ll fix it,” he said. “I just didn’t factor cheating into the equation.”

  Bob staggered next to the golf cart. “I’ve made it through. Now where’s Michele?”

  I ignored him, still staring down the engineer. “You know why they call the best golfers ‘scratch golfers’?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Because when you look at their score sheets there is nothing but scratches!”

  The engineer frowned, obviously not getting my point.

  “Everyone cheats at golf!”