Against a plain of yellow.

That was how the golf ball looked to him, staring down at it as he was. A world against a nebula of dull gold. Or a moon. Yes, moon was better. Craters and all. And this little moon at his feet was about to have the living s.h.i.t whacked out of it. The driver almost came into contact with the ball, but then backed off. Almost made contact again... and backed off. Concentrate. Tiger Woods. Be Tiger Woods.

He swung.

Too hard, the ball flew off into the sky like an ice chip, slicing to the left and dropping out of sight into a copse of evergreen trees.

The man calling himself Frank watched his ball disappear.

"SWEET f.u.c.k AWMIGHTY, YOU G.o.d... d.a.m.n PIECE OF s.h.i.t!" he roared, beating his driver into the yellow covered earth again and again as if trying to execute the very ground. Oath after obscene oath scorched the air. Frank abruptly paused and stabbed his attention in the direction of the trees, wishing he had a f.u.c.king flamethrower to point and spray. He stomped in a circle as if attempting to summon up a storm G.o.d that would bury the copse in a white sheet of flesh-ripping hail.

He eventually stopped and stood, reflecting on just what it was he did wrong. Just behind him, yet well enough out of his way, stood two figures. They knew their companion well, and exchanged looks between themselves-careful not to look at each other too long. If they did, they would start to giggle. In fact, they would probably laugh until their holes dropped out of their a.s.ses. In Frank's presence, it was never wise to laugh.

And it was blatantly stupid to laugh at him while he was playing golf.

So they only glanced at each other for a second, and tried to focus on anything else while Frank continued to heat the air with looks alone. He was fixated on the ground now, just daring demons to rise up so he could kick the unholy s.h.i.t out of them.

One of the onlookers cleared his throat, almost like a soldier fixing a helmet to a stick, and poking it partially up over a wall to see if any snipers are about. When Frank kept his silence, the man decided to take the chance.

"You can go again, Frank," he offered.

"Yeah, man," agreed the other. "Go again. It's only a game."

The air dropped a nipple perking ten degrees with the glare Frank launched at his playmates. In that instant, neither of them dared to breath for fear Frank would come at them with the driver. He would not think twice. He would probably feel a h.e.l.luva lot better if he did.

In the deep-s.p.a.ce silence that ensued, Frank released a heavy sigh. "It's okay?"

"Sure, man," they both said at once with encouraging nods.

"You're sure?" Frank asked again, warming to the idea now.

"Go ahead," said the first.

"We don't care," insisted the other.

Frank decided to take them up on the offer. He had conquered mini-golf and practiced driving on the gym simulator. The real stuff was only a few swings away.

"Thanks," he muttered and slipped back into Tiger-Woods mode. He dug out another ball from his pocket. Another whitey. He cued it up and kissed it ever so slightly with his driver. He was Tiger Woods, again. He paused and considered the wind coming in from the northwest. Nothing to really worry about there. He placed both feet wide of the ball, slipping into his stance. He was the hammer to this pale earth at his feet. He was Armageddon, and his driver was the meteor to slam the ball into the sun. It would fly true, it would fly true. He was Tiger Woods, again. It would most certainly fly true. The driver kissed the ball, again, testing its reality. Frank looked up, willing it to arrive in the place he wanted it to be. It would be there. It would. Will it, and it shall be so. It will be there.

He drew back and swung.

The ball snapped off the tee and sliced like an off-centre canon ball blast into the same copse of trees.

"G.o.d... DAMMIT! G.o.dDAMMIT! SWEET MARYf.u.c.kING DONKEY c.o.c.kS! DOGb.a.l.l.s! DOGb.a.l.l.s! GREAT GREASY DOGb.a.l.l.s! PIG c.o.c.kS! YOU STUBBORN, c.o.c.kEYED s.h.i.tSTREAK OF A p.i.s.s POT! G.o.dd.a.m.n YOUR SOUL TO CRAB h.e.l.l! JESUS NAILED ON A TELEPHONE POLE! JESUS! JOSEPH! And MARY you b.i.t.c.h! f.u.c.k!"

Frank thumped his driver into the turf with a force hard enough to bend it. He slammed it again and again before finally flinging it at the trees like an out of whack boomerang. "PIECE OF s.h.i.t! PIECE OF s.h.i.t! YOU f.u.c.kING j.i.z.m. STREAK PIECE OF s.h.i.t!"

The first onlooker about-faced completely to hide the blazing grin on his face, striking a pose as he did so.

The second onlooker did not dare to look at his companion, whose very frame shuddered with the force of will being exerted to contain his laughter. He would lose it if he did. He knew he would. He would lose it, and Frank would kill him and that would be the ending to an otherwise chilly day on the not-so-greens. Laughing now would condemn both of them to a fate worse than Augustus D. Franklin, and just the thought of it almost sent him over the edge of gut-stabbing, hysterical laughter. It was all he could do now not to split into gales as he watched Frank stomp out a Neanderthal-like dance on the yellow greens. He waited until Frank calmed down or at least appeared to have calmed down. He kept his head down, his fists on his hips, looking as if he had just lost a loved one.

"You can go, again, Frank," the second onlooker offered.

"f.u.c.k you," Frank shot back.

The first onlooker's shoulders trembled at this exchange, but he kept his back to both of the men, and kept his own head down.

"And f.u.c.k you too, H2," Frank fired at the man's back. "I see you over there. May crabs the size of turtles crawl up your a.s.s and snap your f.u.c.king spine in two."

"No, really," the second onlooker tried again, and his smile broke out. He clamped down on it like a man trying to suppress a gunshot wound. He tried to c.o.ke off his laugh and snot shot out of his nostrils. He immediately turned away, his hands covering his gushing nose.

"G.o.dammit!" Frank swore at himself this time. "The last f.u.c.king time I have either of you out for a game. A little company is all I ask for, and I get the f.u.c.king snickers brothers. No f.u.c.king wonder you guys are so G.o.dd.a.m.n popular with the kids. Both of you can go f.u.c.k yourselves."

"Awww, c'mon, Frank!" pleaded the man who had cleaned his nose but still grinned in spite of his efforts not to. "Don't be like that. You just take the game too serious, is all, man. We both can see it."

"Listen, H," Frank directed at the speaking man with a finger. "You see that tree over there? That's the one you can shove up your a.s.s. Ever hear the story of the angel on the Christmas tree? You'll be able to relate."

"You take the game too serious, I'm telling ya." H went on. "People play this game to relax. Not to blow the tops of their heads off."

"Like h.e.l.l, they do," Frank retorted. "They play to win. Either to beat themselves or the other guy. Don't f.u.c.king stand there, you tweed-covered dolt, and tell me otherwise. They may say they play to relax, but deep f.u.c.king down, they all play to win. Why do you think there are so many G.o.dd.a.m.n suicides, eh? If people only played to relax, you think there would be so many suicides?"

H inspected the palm he cleaned his nose with. "We still talking about golf?"

"Same field, different game." Frank stood, one fist on his hips, glaring in the direction of where his club might have landed.

The third man turned around, his laughter fully under control now, and decided to join the conversation. "Man does have a point," he muttered, "though I like to think-"

"Shut the f.u.c.k up," Frank snapped without looking. It was all he needed. H2 talked too G.o.dd.a.m.n much. Some people had the gift of the gab, and H2 was an Olympic G.o.d when it came to gabbing. The only way to swerve out of the way of that tri-athlete tongue, as revolting as it sounded, was to shut him up before he started. Fortunately for Frank, he knew all of H2's lead-ins like "I'd like to think..." or "It would appear to me that..."

If he heard any of these, Frank would take the necessary evasive action.

"Just shut the f.u.c.k up," he warned H2.

H2 did as he was told. He did not seem to mind.

"I'm going in," Frank declared and moved towards the gold cart parked a few feet off the yellow green. "Get a beer or something."

At once both H and H2 began to follow. Beer was something they both appreciated. They kept quiet. Neither wanted to walk back to the clubhouse, and Frank was legendary when it came to being p.i.s.sed off at nothing in particular.

"Oh, Jesus," Frank said and suddenly stopped.

"What?" H asked, looking around. Then, he saw the approaching figures.

H2 saw them as well. "Who are they?"

"f.u.c.k if I know," Frank said, anger still seething.

"We're supposed to be the only ones on the course today," H threw in. "I saw to that myself."

"Well, you didn't see to all of it," H2 accused him.

"G.o.ddammit, H," Frank closed his eyes and wished for peace. "I told you I wanted the greens to myself today. Just f.u.c.king me. It was bad enough you morons wanted in."

"You can't get much clearer than this," H informed him.

"Then who the h.e.l.l are they?" Frank pointed with his chin.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," H2 muttered, recognizing one of the people getting closer.

Frank recognized her, too, and shook his head in disgust. "Well, f.u.c.k me," he stated in a defeated voice. He placed both hands on the gold cart and closed his eyes. "How the f.u.c.k did she know we were here?" he grated.

H wanted to know that as well. He looked at H2, whose hands simply went wide in a questioning "What?"

Frank composed himself and focused on the approaching couple. The H's flanked him. Of all the folks he knew and a.s.sociated with on a semi regular basis, this particular individual had a knack for getting into just about anything and everything, and still coming out smelling sweeter than a field of roses. He hated that kind of luck. But there would be no escaping this time, and he suddenly realized he was looking forward to the confrontation. The H's understood his feelings.

Sort of.

"If I find out either one of you two hole lickers had anything to do with this, I'll personally make sure you're balless going through the remainder of the ages. You get me?"

H spread his hands. "Jesus Frank, I had no" but Frank raised his hand, silencing him. He looked at the newcomers. One of them was made, but who was the tough guy? Frank scrutinized him as he got closer. He could scry nothing on the man. Then, the answer smacked him between the eyes.

"Mundane," he seethed, as if no greater insult existed. He planted his feet as if bracing for a storm.

Tony and Lucy walked side by side as they approached the trio of men. All were well dressed in fall colours: beige dockers, deck shoes and sweaters. All looked to be in their early forties. The men on the sides wore sweaters, one all red and the other all yellow, with plain white ball caps. The guy between them wore a black sweater with a single white stripe across the chest. A White Sox baseball cap was on his head. None of them looked happy, and Tony felt a strong weight bearing down, trying to keep him away from the three golfers. Or one golfer. He did not see the other men's clubs. And where did they get the cart? Everything had been locked down at the clubhouse. There wasn't anyone working at the gate or office. The course was closed for the winter, so how was it that these three managed to get on the greens with a cart?

"Hey," Lucy greeted when they were close enough. Tony stopped when she stopped and gave her an uncertain look. Lucy did not notice him.

"Hey," the man in the black cap grunted. Tony tried to catch the guy's attention but it was centred all on Lucy. His eyes were as black as volcanic rock and hard.

"I'm Lucy," Lucy said.

For a moment, Tony did not think any of the three men would answer. None of them looked very talkative, especially Mr. Brightness in the black sweater, a sweater looking thick enough to deflect a knife thrust.

"You guys have names?" Lucy finally asked when the silence became painful. "Or should I just call you by what I think of you?"

"You..." the man in black hissed. "Just like you to show up with the likes of him."

"What's wrong with him?" Lucy asked.

"You know what's wrong, you f.u.c.king wench."

"Hey," Tony's finger came up. "You better apologize right"

"It's okay, Anthony," Lucy told him. "Really, it is. He's talking loud here, but there are rules that even he has to abide by. He'll introduce himself, won't you?"

"You want my real name, Lucy?" the man in black suddenly smiled, and the air around him became as cold as the deep Atlantic. The question froze Lucy, and her mouth hung open. She did not expect him to make such a threat.

"He's Frank," said the man in the yellow sweater.

Frank rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised," he said aloud, and fixed the man with a menacing look.

"There are rules, Frank,' H stated quietly.

"f.u.c.k the rules," Frank spat out, "and f.u.c.k you and you and especially you." His finger branded them all but lingered on Lucy. "You," he spoke as he switched to Tony, "I know you, but the question is do you know me?"

A breeze blew up then, filling the quietness. It made Tony think of winter winds and old houses that creaked.

"Yeah," he said, nodding and feeling a chill. "I know you. You're Augustus D. Franklin. You're Death."

There was a stunned silence on the course. The H's both looked at each other in absolute surprise before regarding this Mundane with new respect. Even Frank seemed a little taken back. But only for a moment. Hostility soon seeped back into his gaze.

"Well, well," he said acidly "looks like you got a real winner here, Luce."

"What? You mean my head didn't explode?" Tony said to Lucy.

"No, it didn't," Frank chipped in before she could say anything. "Death is the name given to me by cattle like you. And while it's nowhere near my true name, it's fine by me. A f.u.c.king nickname. But a nickname that carries a little more respect than what you just gave. Jesus Christ, Luce, where the f.u.c.k do you dig these dogs up? Back up, douchebag, else you tax my patience. I do have a question for you, though. How did you know it was me? Huh? Did old Luce there have something to do with it?"

"I guessed it," Tony informed him. "Just lucky."

Frank was not impressed. "Luck is being born with a second a.s.shole. Or maybe you think that's a good thing?" He aimed his next barrage at Lucy. "What have you told him, Lucy? Hm? What? Probably your side of the story. I can smell it off you. You haven't told him s.h.i.t about my side. G.o.ddammit. Just like a f.u.c.kin PR person, ain'tcha? Give just enough to get the job done. When were you going to tell this Mundane, huh? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? You think you got the time to wait that long?"

"You're a real f.u.c.king a.s.shole," Tony stepped forward.

Frank did not back up. "That's a problem then, ain't it? I'm the a.s.shole here. I'm a real f.u.c.king a.s.shole. Probably the biggest one on this course. And I don't give a s.h.i.t anymore. Not about Luce there or anyone of you f.u.c.ks, for that matter. I just want to be left alone for a while, but can I get that? Better I camped out in h.e.l.l for the day. I'd get more peace."

Frank revealed a perfect set of teeth as he spoke, and his face darkened. He glared at Tony, considering this mortal man standing not three feet before him.

"You really have a clue as to what's going on?"

Tony's smile was frosty. "People aren't dying."

"So, they aren't," Frank said without pity. "What do you think about that then, eh? People aren't dying."

"I think it's pretty s.h.i.tty."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony noted the man in the yellow sweater rub his face and look plainly uncomfortable.

Frank merely smiled and shook his head in disbelief. He muttered something foul under his breath, but Tony didn't catch it. Frank appeared ready to implode, his hands clenched and unclenched.

"That's the problem right there, isn't it, Luce? Isn't it? And you bringing one of them around just strengthens my resolve. You," he jabbed an open hand at Tony, "can go f.u.c.k yourself."

That was it for Tony. He stepped forward even as Lucy yelled for him not to. His hands shot out to grab Frank, meaning to shake the ever-loving s.h.i.t out of the c.o.c.ksucker. He grabbed the front of the sweater and felt the cold. The G.o.d-awful, freezing cold. With a scream of pain and terror, Tony released the man and drew back. He held up his hands, hooked into claws, and looking as if they had been exposed to the deepest reaches of s.p.a.ce. Grimacing, he backed away, and stumbled to his knees.

"You idiot!" Lucy screamed at Frank as she grabbed for Tony's hands, rubbing them frantically.

Frank smiled. "What did I do? You saw him. He wanted a piece of me. Ask me, he's f.u.c.king lucky he grabbed only wool instead of flesh. I'd be cracking his hands off me like f.u.c.king icicles."

"Why are you doing this?" Lucy demanded.