The Winner: Part Thirty-Three

The golf cart hits a bump on the green at about fifteen miles per hour. It’s enough to lift me out of my seat and bang my head against the plastic roof. I have the great pleasure of driving out to my execution with Buck, who is driving the cart like it’s a bronco or something.

“Whoo-we!” he yell before spitting a black stream of tobacco spit out of the cart. “Looks like I got ya good there Poopy!”

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?”

“Aw jeez, Peanutz, I thought you were a good ‘ole boy. No it ain’t like I did that on purpose.”

I call bullshit on this cousin-fucker. I may be dumb on many levels, but I can always recognize when someone is sending out waves of contempt towards me. I’ve been sending them back. It doesn’t matter. Since it seems as if my plans are quickly going to shit anyway, I will soon be dead. If there is any silver lining to this, at least Buck will likely be killed in the blast as well.

How could I be so naïve? Did I really think that Burke’s men were just going to let Apple go away scot free with her kids before the assassination? Now, I guess I just have to trust that they will let her go after it’s done, a possibility that is probably just as unlikely. Though I won’t be alive to even know what happens, I’m sure in a day or two, someone is going to stumble across Apple’s body stuffed somewhere in a dumpster with a double-tap gunshot wound in her head. Maybe the bodies of her children will be with her as well. It would be best for them not to leave any loose ends.

Sorry I failed you, Apple. You will never know, but at least I tried…

The other two carts are already at the first tee when Buck screams up to it, hitting the brakes suddenly, which causes me to nearly fly out of the cart. “Well, was that fun for you Peanutz?”

The combination of this cart ride, the brandy, and the asthma medication (not to mention the fact that I’m supposed to assassinate the President) has made me nauseous. I stumble out of the cart and grab my bag of golf clubs. Why do I have to lug these fucking things around? Horace and the President are taking some practice swings to loosen up. Van Hertzwelder is setting his ball up on the tee.

“Anyone know what the par for this course is?” the President asks.

“Five,” Horace says. “Try and get your ball as far over to the left as you can. There’s a sand trap right around those trees.”

“Thanks for letting me know,” the President says.

“Yeah, thanks for the tip,” Van Hertzwelder says. “I haven’t played this course for almost a year now. Have any of you checked out the ones they are building in China? They put about eighty percent of the courses in the US to shame. You just have to put up with the hordes of nattering Japs that infest the place.”

Buck shrugs. “Better there than here.”

Van Hertzwelder sets up, takes a deep breath, then swings, his club cutting the air and scooping the ball into the air with a crisp thwack. He puts his hand over his brow while he tracks where it lands. “It went a little farther than I wanted it to. I keep forgetting about how thin the air is in the this state.”

“I, for one like it,” Bush says, setting up his own tee. “My strength on the initial drive is kinda low, so it should help.”

He sets up next to his ball and swings. It lands and bounces to a halt a good fifteen yards short of where Van Hertzwelder’s ball landed. The three of them give a smattering of golf claps.

“Excellent position, George,” Horace says. “What you lack in distance, you make up for in accuracy.”

“Thanks, Horace. I try to play to my strengths.”

Fuckin’ sycophantic pussy. I know nothing about golf, yet even I can tell that was a weak swing. Tiger Woods our Commander and Chief is not.

“Whose up next?” Bush says, taking a swig off a water bottle.

“Let’s let Mr. Peanutz go next,” Buck says. “See what the newcomer is working with here and whether the rest of us should be worried or not.”

I pull a club out of my bag and resist the temptation to beat Buck over the head with it for the condescension. I pick a ball and a tee out of the side pocket and walk up to the box. I kneel down and start setting the ball up. “Umm, Poopy…” Horace says.

“Yeah.”

“You probably want to use a driver for this first shot.”

“Gee, really. Thanks for letting me know,” I sneer. I’m having trouble sticking the tee in the grass so it sticks straight up. My fucking ball keeps falling off. It can’t help that I’m even more distracted, now that I notice Burke standing guard by some trees, scanning the perimeter of the course like he’s looking for threats when he knows damn well I’m the only threat anywhere close to here.

“I’m just saying because you grabbed your sand wedge. Your ball isn’t going to even get half way down the course if you use that.”

I finally get the ball to stay on the tee, so I get up, go back to my golf bag and replace the sand wedge with a different club. I go back to the tee box and start to set up.

“Um, Poopy,” Horace calls out from behind me. “That’s a nine iron. The driver is the club made out of wood.”

I turn around and snap, “Look, asshole. I play my way, you play yours. If I wanna use a nine-iron I’ll fucking use a nine-iron. Okay? It’s called ‘thinking outside the box’.”

Horace slinks back. “I’m just trying to help. No need to get snippy.”

I turn around and try to look like I know what I’m doing. Not that I even give a damn if I win this, I just hate being made to look like a fool. I’m sure Van Hertzwelder is having a blast watching this.

I raise up my club and swing as hard as I can. It feels like a good swing, but all it accomplishes is wacking a large clump of turf about ten feet away from me. Buck and Van Hertzwelder are behind me, giggling like schoolgirls. I set up and try again. I swing the club again and miss the grass this time. Unfortunately, I miss the ball as well. I look down and see it sitting on the tee, and then, as if to mock me, it falls off.

“Here, Poopy,” the President says. “Since you’re new to the game, I’ll give you some pointers.” He sets his water bottle down on the cart and comes up behind me. As in right behind me. As in if this bomb goes off now, his guts are gonna be spread out across this entire golf course before my mom can come to my rescue.

“First, you want to keep your feet at about shoulder width,” Bush says, arranging me close to the ball. I look over to where Burke is standing and I can see that he sees how close Bush is to me. I can’t see Van Hertzwelder, but if he’s smart, he’s probably meandering out of the bomb’s radius just about now.

“Then, you want to keep your left arm straight as you swing. That will give your swing better accuracy…”

I’m fucking shaking. I see Burke reaching into his pocket, probably to activate the detonator. I’m out of time, I’ve got to do something now or I’m dead, the President is dead, and Van Hertzwelder and his fucking conspiracy wins.

So I do what I do best…

“Now, you don’t have to muscle the club. Just use the natural momentum and…”

Suddenly the President jumps back from me. “What’s that smell? Poopy, did you just fart?”

I shrug, trying to put some discreet distance between myself and the President. “I don’t know. It was probably you. You know what they say, ‘he who first smelt it, dealt it.’”

George looks around, incredulous. “I didn’t do that. That wasn’t me. That was most definitely you.”

“What the fuck?” Buck yells, his face screwing up into a rictus of disgust. “My God! Look at that! Peanutz just crapped in his pants!” He uses his club to point at the tan-brown stream of liquid shit running out of the cuff of my pants leg and pooling next to my shoes.

As soon as Buck points this out, all four of them back up quickly in disgust. “Jesus Christ that smells,” Horace says, holding his nose. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

I grin. Normally, shitting your pants in the presence of the President would be quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that could happen to a person. However, in this case, it works completely to my advantage. Van Hertzwelder looks disgusted, just like everyone else, but I also see the undercurrent of rage at his plans quickly coming apart. This makes me grin even more.

“Sorry fellas,” I say. “Guess someone should take me back to the club house so I can get changed up. Maybe I can catch up with you guys on the next hole.”

“Next hole?” Buck says. “Fuck that. I ain’t spending my afternoon playin’ golf with some asshole who ain’t even potty trained.”

“Hey,” I say, pointing my nine-iron at him. “I donated a half-million bucks so I could play with Shrub here, and I plan on getting’ my money’s worth.” Actually, I don’t care if I finish up the game since as soon as I’m out of sight of Burke, I’m telling the first Secret Service agent I see about the bomb on my wrist and getting out of this for good. But I gotta keep up appearances for the time being and besides, giving Buck a heart attack would be a nice side bonus.

“Who gives a fuck?” Buck snaps, spraying spittle as he screams. “I’ve donated ten times that much money to the Party over the years and if they want to see another dime from me, they’re gonna make sure I don’t see you ever again in my whole fucking life you incontinent bastard!”

I almost don’t notice it over Buck’s tirade, but the Secret Service members are suddenly going apeshit. The three members closest to the President grab him by the arm and say urgently “Mr. President, we’ve just had a report of a code red threat in the vicinity. We have to evacuate you to a secure location immediately.”

“Code red?” Bush says. “What is it? What’s the threat?”

“Apparently we have a possible female Muslim extremist suicide bomber on the premises, claiming to be carrying a suitcase nuke.”

“Don’t you have snipers? Shoot her before she can set it off.”

“We can’t risk it,” the agent says. “It appears she’s carrying a deadman’s stick. If she’s shot and releases the pressure on the handle, we’re afraid the device will go off. Please Mr. President. We’ll explain this all to you once we’re at minimum safe distance. But we have to leave right now.”

Thank god. My mother seems to be doing

I nearly laugh as the agents practically drag the President onto the closest golf cart and race towards the contingent of SWAT team members who are already setting up a perimeter for an armored car just down the range. Less than ten seconds later, the President is nowhere close to the bomb on my wrist. The three people of my golf party, as well as two Secret Service agents are all that is left on the golf range. I look over at Van Hertzwelder, and just wonder how he must feel to see his plan all come apart.

I imagine he’s about ready to scream, but instead, he gives off a mean, sinister looking grin. The rest of the party is distracted by the commotion of the President’s detail, so he walks over to me and whispers in my ear:

“Nicely done, Mr. Peanutz,” he says, almost congratulatory. “Doesn’t matter though. You’re still fucking dead.”