That morning, Bob got dressed, picked up his clubs and headed for the links. At the clubhouse, he had a drink, a Bloody Mary reeking of vodka and Tabasco. The TV played CNBC, news of the financial storm overturning all boats. Bob ordered another drink, handing over his credit card to the bartender.

“Charge it while it still works,” he said.

The first golfers were heading out into the humid dawn air. A group of Fellow Senior Citizens were looking for a fourth. Bob sprinted to the first tee, catching up with the group but feeling a little edgy from the vodka.
Bob sent his first shot careening into a drainage ditch, a line drive that sent up a big splash in the early morning mist.

“That’s  a mulligan,” Bob declared.

“Yeah sure, it’s practice!” the tallest of the lot said. He was the oldest, the wisest and was the leader of the group. His name was Sean.

Bob’s second attempt wasn’t much better. He seemed to slip on the dew-wet grass, his left leg jerking out, as if it had been yanked like a marionette. The ball overflew the drainage ditch and bounced into the neighboring fairway.
“I should’ve let the meter go through,” he muttered.

“Hey, it’s still early,” said Sean.

Bob took another mulligan and on his third try, sent a decent drive down the middle of the fairway. Sean then launched a ball high over Bob’s by a good fifty yards. His colleagues congratulated him enthusiastically.

“It’s the G20 and that new Lethal ball!” Sean exclaimed, holding the oversized driver in his hand. The club was nearly as tall as he was.

Bob scooped his ball out with a nine iron and sent it arcing onto the green. Sean did likewise.

The men lined up for their putts. The orange sun was just over the palm trees, starting to heat up the day.
“Did I tell you?” Sean said. “Winner buys drinks.”

“Got it,” Bob said, aligning himself with the hole. He was short by a good ten feet. Denny sunk his ball, a smile alighting on his face.

“Well, you got plenty of time for golf now, you Son of a B….,” one the other golfers said, kidding Sean, “now that you got other people canning Tuna for you.”

“That’s right,” Sean said. “No canning Tuna for me. I got a couple Javanese gents to do that. I just collect the money!”
On the second hole, Bob watched his drive make a bee-line for the lake, skipping a few times before being lost to the depths….”Mulligan” says Bob.

“Hey watch the Tuna, would ya?” Sean said with a laugh.

Bob not a bit pleased with the comment, flashed Sean a hand gesture that could only be deemed inappropriate but could have been interpreted as..”Hey, I think you’re Number One!”

Bob, clearly frustrated, began cheating on the next hole. It went beyond just taking mulligans, which he continued to do. He deliberately undercounted his shots and insisted on “do-overs” when he missed a putt.

For the first couple holes, the other 3 golfers were amused. Then at the ninth tee, the beer cart caught up with them. Bob chugged down a Bud light. And promptly lost another ball. Now he was hitting WGT unlimited balls. No one was talking to him.

“I’m calling that a four,” Bob said after the 9th hole.

“You sure?” Sean asked. “You got some funny accounting. More like a Snowman.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Bob said with a grin. The sun was now well over the horizon. Sweat rolled down his temples.

“They say if you cheat at golf, you cheat at life.”

Bob was glad that his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. He thought “Man, when is this gonna be over.”

“Did you make that up all by yourself?” he said, forcing out a laugh.

The rest of the round continued in silence. A couple of times he caught Denny looking at him with disdain when he announced his score but the man didn’t say anything and neither did his colleagues.

On the 18th hole, Sean sent his putt wide by a couple of feet and then tapped it in.

“You going to count that?” Sean asked.

“Are you kidding? It’s a tap-in. You never count tap-ins.”

“You don’t?” The Senior Citizens had gathered around their leader.

“Not where I’m from,” Bob said. He quickly added up his score. “I got a 67. How about you gentlemen?”

Sean’s face was red, either from anger or the heat nobody was sure.

“Sixty-seven!”

“That’s what I got. Guess you guys are buying drinks.”

“You did not get a sixty-seven.”

Sean looked down at Bob, anger switching to sympathy, “No, no, for god sakes, it’s just a game,” he said, his voice soft.  We’ll make yours a double.

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are purely fictitious. The names were changed to protect the guilty.