God created the earth and everything on it. He created this lovely green lush grass, primarily for men like myself to play golf on. Plain and simple. I guarantee Jesus goddamn Christ himself plays the front nine at the Pearly Gates Club. Probably has an inclusive five-some invite for 24K whenever the unfortunate happens and he decides to pluck us from this ungrateful rock. I feel like a prayer is needed to grace this glorious course.
Thank you Little Baby Jesus for Medinah otherwise I’d have no idea where my mind is. I can tell you what it is on though; this light breeze, easy sun, and vodka lemonade hanging in the cup-holder in front of me.
“Mr. Witherhold, do you think you’re gonna win War Games?”
And this annoying fucking ‘mark’ of a caddy I somehow got stuck with. No professionalism, no shutting of his disgusting plaque-ridden mouth, nope. Endless chatter like I’m his buddy on the block. Thank God for vodka which I’ll enjoy right now… and it’s gone.
“Kid, do me a favor.”
He’s too chipper for my liking. I hate fanboys. I hate fans just in general. I hate just about everything regarding this pimple faced nerd’s conception- from the whore which he expelled out of.
Maybe I should join HATE. Nah! I enjoy the lads and like being a winner too much to take my stock from blue chip to goddamn pennies.
“Call the clubhouse on your walkie and have the cart broad bring me another one of these.”
Little wave of the glass so this cat gets it.
“Right away. Would you like me to have her bring a Bloody Mary in a cooler for you too?”
“Holy shit. You can do that?”
“We can do whatever you want… you’re Perfection.”
I like this kid all of sudden.
“You’re damn right I am. Okay. Let’s go, call it in and then grab the clubs.”
Stumbling a little out of the golf cart but that’s perfectly okay. It’s only ten AM and this is pretty much par for the course, pun one hundred percent intended. The part I enjoy most of this game is right now. Just staring out from the tee box and down the fairway is relaxing. The smell that lifts off the greens is almost a pure high. You can’t have this in a ring, you can’t get this sort of energy from a crowd. This is something different and something every man should enjoy. Just you, your clubs, your thoug-
“Okay! She should be here in ten minutes, Mr. Witherhold! Here’s your driver, sir! I can’t believe it actually plated in gold and I’m caddying Perfection! This might be the best day of my life.”
And your caddy. The loudest mental sigh just occurred. Believe me.
“Kid, we have sixteen holes to go here. Let’s simmer it down a little. Yeah?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Set the tee, set the ball, set my hands, my mind, focus is on and swing!
“Great shot, Mr. Witherhold.”
Great shot? Is this kid fucking blind?
“You’re glasses dirty, kid? That’s the best fucking ball hit on this course the last decade! You know it, I know it…”
Well shoot. There’s no one else here.
“Everyone… else. Whatever. I know it and you know it and that’s what you’re gonna tell people.”
I may be going broke or on the verge of losing my money by way of the IRS but my reputation is easily worth $50. So, I’ll give the kid it.
“Oh wow. Thank you!”
“Best goddamn shot…”
“Of the decade on hole two. I wish others were here to have seen that beauty, sir.”
Smart kid. Learning fast, I surely didn’t slice that ball either. Not one bit.
“Alright, back to the cart. Let’s go.”
I’m not interested in spending my entire day on this course as great as it may be. I have to still meet with Marshall Owens later and go over even more legal issues. This game is the only thing keeping my mind clear and free for War Games. The pressure on me has never been so great, not only with this match and the belts that are on the line but my personal life is spiraling out of control. Is that enough motivation to push me through War Games and secure a top tier prize in this company? I seem to think so.
“Mr. Witherhold I heard you ordered a chilled Bloody Mary?”
The kid wasn’t lying. She’s actually holding a cooler with the drink in it. This is out-goddamn-standing! Of course I reach for the vodka first. I’m thirsty, it’s hot. Bloody will be somewhere between Hole 3 and pissing in the rough at Hole 6.
“You’re driving, kid.”
I have a vodka to drink and would probably crash the cart.
So, this is it, huh? In a few days four of us will walk down as a team into a goddamn slaughter. I don’t expect any less from the people competing in this match. Everyone here is a competitor and has proven their worth more than enough times that we don’t need to go down the ridiculous charade of listing them off. We know who the legends are, we know who the champions are, we know what the stakes are.
So, what’s unknown? The one man on my team, Max Kael. I haven’t spent a single minute with that guy. Haven’t talked to him about this match. Hell, haven’t talked to him period and I wouldn’t. Men like me have a certain level of class that they carry with them, not to be seen with people of that lower distinction. It’s not just that though, even if he cleaned himself up and operated even at the level of the middle class I wouldn’t speak a word to him. Why?
Because he’s an absolute fucking psychopath. That’s why.
The guy gives me the creeps but he’s a hell of a fighter and I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to have on my team. Look at him, with his wonky eye, running around with masked people, being ‘the Minister’. The guy has some serious goddamn screws loose in that almost bald head of his.
But that’s what’s goddamn beautiful about it! In this setting of course.
I have a complete nut-job that will do just about anything to win. I have Andy Murray. Andy freaking Murray, my tag team partner, a staple of 24K- dare I say the staple of High Octane?
Fucking right I will.
‘How dare he say that?! REEEEEEE!!!!!’
Scream the bootlicking peasants that hang on this place like leeches. Shhh. Pipe down and take a Xanax, plebs. You made Andy Murray a staple, not 24K. Well, I mean, yes, 24K kinda put him on that track and that’s because of Mikey Unlikely.
BUT- he’s become the staple mainly because you fucks can’t keep his dick out of your mouths.
The only name that circles the High Octane airwaves every single day, GUARANTEED, is Andy Murray.
The biggest threat in this match is Andy Murray.
PERIOD. FULL STOP.
Everyone knows it and if you doubt ‘Yours Truly’ then go listen to yourselves over the last few months. Shoot. It couldn’t be more clear even if I tattooed it on each of your dopey fucking heads- “Andy Murray IS HoW”.
Big block letters too.
Oh, guys, that also means 24K is HoW… twenty four seven!
So, am I nervous about our prospects? Nope. Even as much as I dog M.J. Flair she’s the daughter of Eli, a legend in his own right. She literally studied you, Lindsay, and Dan. She knows your games, your in and outs. Go head and try and jump her while Andy and I are there to have her back. Give me an excuse to play goddamn dirty, I’m itching for it.
Like I said, I will bust my own beautifully waxed fucking balls to make sure we win this match. Even if it means saving M.J. Flair to carry us to a win. Whatever it takes. Whatever I need to do in order to make sure only two people walk out with the top prize from this team.
And I’m not talking about M.J. Flair and Max Kael.
Hell, I’ll be the nice one here and give you guys an option for the LSD if and when the time comes. I think it’s fair to everyone involved in our little smorgasbord of misfits.
Let me lay it all out, I don’t care who Lee hands the LSD Title.. Hell, we should have a four way match for the belts after we put down GoD. Now that would be a bang to War Games. See, Lee should have hired me instead of useless Mario.
Luckily for you two that won’t happen. Imagine being the receiving end of Murrfection. I guess I wouldn’t have held it against any of you if you decided to rather lay down on that canvass afterwards instead of encountering one of the worst experiences of your careers.
We all could have even shook hands after.
Ah. If only.
But what we can have is the ability to talk about that time we beat the fuck out of GoD. Hell, maybe I’ll even have one single beer with you two losers after because I’m a good sport and team mate. It’s true. I’m not here to betray anyone, I know I have a certain reputation but I’m here to win, friends.
Oh and we are friends Saturday night. Even if you don’t want to be.
In fact, we’re gonna be best fucking friends. Such good friends that when I put my neck out on the line for you, you should… better, return the favor. Because that’s what friends do. Otherwise, who knows what I might decide after feeling shorted and lord knows I hate being shorted. I might just decide to throw this entire match into the shitter.
Who’s to say ol’ Perfection doesn’t storm down, grab a chair, crack M.J. Flair over the head, and toss her ass to the wolves? I have a short temper, friends. I’d hate to have to do something like that. I’d hate to just let GoD walkout with the belts because I didn’t get my way.
If you can’t sense the lingering snark, you should. Again, we’re all friends until twelve-o-one AM, Sunday morning.
So, for the sake of each of us, let’s make sure this all goes swimmingly. I have all the confidence in the world that if it does, if all of us click together, we will win. If we believe in ourselves, we will overcome legends like Dan and Lindsay. We will conquer coke heads like Mike Best. Hell, we will even topple the mountain that is Cecil Farthington.
And at the end of war games, together, we can make Andy and ‘Yours Truly’ ICON and World Champion!
Now, tell me my new and close friends.
Isn’t that goddamn empowering?
Ever hear that song by Foreigner ‘Double Vision’? That’s Hole 12. A complete slosh to say the least and yes I did indeed take that piss between Hole 6. I truly appreciate your sincere concern in regards.
“Sir, do you want me to change the double bogey to an eagle?”
Hmm. That’s a good question.
“No. We did the eagle on eight. It’ll look too weird.”
“I’ll mark it a birdie.”
Good. That makes it seem more legit. That’s easily worth another $50.
“Mr. Witherhold, can I ask you a question?”
“Kid, I’ve been paying you to pretty much not ask me anything. You know? Just pay attention to the scorecard and kick the ball out of the rough for me.”
I hate autographs. The last time someone asked for my autograph was when I was out with my buddy Claude Baptiste Rainer and these two tween cunts decided to disturb us. Who does that? Do you know what that’s like? Eating dinner and some dope comes up for a picture while you’re chewing on some aged steak? It’s unacceptable. Anyways, we took their phone for a selfie and smashed it on the ground.
Total P.R. disaster but worth every single penny.
“You want an autograph?”
“No. No. No. Um, is this your like… last stint?”
What kind of question is this?!
“Sorry. No. Never mind.”
Hell no. This brat has the guts to ask that sort of question? Either I’ve paid him too much or taught him too well during our time together. First I’m going to walk to the cart and grab my vodka because that shit was heavy. Is this my last stint? No, not even close. But, after High Octane? That’s the real question. When does it stop? When do I actually hang up the boots and call it day?
“I’ve never thought about that, kid. Never once have I looked at anything as ‘the last stint’.”
It’s true. Kid actually managed to squeeze some pure goddamn truth out of me.
“So, when is the end then Mr. Witherhold.”
Hmm that’s a good question.
“You buy my merchandise?”
That’s an A+ answer but not worth $50. It should be expected almost like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
“Do you see people around town wearing 24K merchandise?”
That’s because we are excellent promoters of ourselves. No one promotes 24k better than us. I’ve always said that.
And yes, I said it first.
“Do you buy tickets to see us?”
“Well, with all these $50’s I can buy more.”
Good. I’ll get my money back from the gate then in some form.
“Are you and your friends going to purchase a pay-per-view to see ‘Yours Truly’?”
“Well of course.”
“So, when are you going to stop doing all of those things?”
“Uh… I don’t know?”
“When you do and everyone else does, that’ll be my last stint, kid.”