Johnson didn't see it coming. It fell on him like the callousness
of a brutal death on a far and desolate shore, and he was laid
low with revulsion. The disappearing white globe spun and spun
and spun dug its own grave immediately behind a mammoth monolith
of a oak tree, halting its progress like the limits of Johnson's
Oh, Nice Shot! his boss ejaculated, chuckling freely with
evil, greedy glee. Spittle throttled from his mottled mouth,
reminding Johnson of his youth on the farm, when the cows would
suffer from a slobbering and disfiguring radioactive madness conducted
from the Nuclear Regulator Commission's mismanaged symphony.
His boss doubled over with the corrupt mirth of a child-molesting
principal at a private afternoon evaluation.
In a persecuted vision of gross clarity, Johnson saw the ball
halted like his heretofore ever-tenuous career, like a slug at
the attempt of the crossing of a salt lick with no roller skates.
An insurmountable object lay in its path, an object an untold
measure greater its capacity for progressive perseverance. Like
the doomed invertebrate, Johnson seemed to lack the legs to stand,
much less roller skate.
Stumbling and gibbering, his boss shambled toward Johnson's speck
of white failure. Geez, he wheezed convincingly, have
fun gettin' outta here, ya nut! frothed his boss. Johnson
followed the customary steps behind his boss with a strange feeling
growing in his moth-eaten stomach. The feeling felt like frenzied
feeding of corpulent worms in the wake of a expired, blind creature
thousands of feet below the ground in the deepest ocean. Johnson
looked up into his superior's leering grin, and the worms increased
their jostling, as if they had found a major artery in the carcass.
Visions drifted across like storms across Johnson's mien, though
his knotted visage did not reflect them. He saw his boss, drunk,
at last month's corporate Christmas party, making passes and rude
remarks to his wife. He saw himself, impotent and helpless as
his wife's face glowered at him for lacking the courage to discourage
the buffoon. The worms of his stomach squirmed with madness.
He saw himself standing silent as his boss commented to other
plaid-legged ogres as to how Johnson's frail son was probably
weaker and more insipid as Johnson himself, should that be possible.
The worms multiplied, as if readying themselves to attack any
remaining vestiges of Johnson's dignity.
Sputum dripped onto his boss's unaware and uncaring chins.
A final vision of blazing intensity overcame Johnson. He saw
himself taking his seven iron to his boss's fleshy neck. There
was no one on the 18th hole but the two of them, an evil Hardy
with a humiliated Laurel. With one bludgeon he could end the
groveling, the indignity and insults. They were close enough
to the ball that he could claim it was an accident, with his boss
standing too close behind him. Well? I haven't got
all day, urged his boss. Well?
Johnson gripped his iron and the worms shivered.