“Don’t even talk to me about local courses,” Raymond sneered. “Manicured lawns and geometrically perfect ‘lakes.’ Those places are about as real as a pornstar’s tits.”
“Then where are we going?”
Raymond pointed. Ahead, the woods closed in around them, an old forest-god, grinning snaggletoothed and hairy, with entwining vines and mysterious culverts. Water dripped down unseen pathways. In the distance, something howled, abruptly cut off.
Smiling, Raymond set down his bad. He withdrew a club, one with a spiked handguard on the grip and a jagged razor on the reverse of the head. “We’re going to play real golf.”
Tapson on Tales and Totalitarianism
7 hours ago