The Pro Shop was dimly lit, like the men were hiding from their wives, or something worse. The cigar smoke haze, was like the monster fog, outside, floating between the fairways, like ghosts.

“It’s a blood moon tonight,” Mike said.

“What does that mean?” Ken asked.

“It means, she’s on the rag,” Bill offered.

“Who’s on the rag?”

“Your wife,” Bill said.

“I’ll kill you!”

“No, you won’t.”

“If you boys want to take it outside, I’ve got a pair of pistols,” Mike suggested.

“A duel on the golf course?” Ken asked.

“What better time, than a blood moon?” Mike said. He was the head pro, and distinguished in his dress. He wore a sweater and jeans.

“Romantic—why don’t you play poker, instead of playing with each other,” Greg suggested.

“You just want my money,” Ken said.

“I can’t argue with that. How about your wife?” Greg asked.

“You want my wife?”

“Take it easy—she’s a little bit big for me, but I know you’re a slob, and she keeps your house as neat as a pin. I need a housekeeper, and if I need something to bang, well…”

“I’ll kill you!” Ken said.

“Humf—argueo—lick—balls.”

“What’s that Billy?” Greg asked.

“I think he said, ‘Are you going to lick my balls?'”

Billy put down his cards. He had a straight-flush. His throat cancer made it so he couldn’t talk—three packs of cigarettes a day for 30 years. He won the pot, and nobody complained—it was only a couple months before he took the lonely walk into the dark. He puffed on a cigarette, while stacking his chips.

“Billy—how’s your experimental treatment coming along?” Mike asked.

“Icks gowes hard and soft.”

“What?”

“I think he said, the nurses get him excited.”

“Oh—he deserves it. The blood moon has nothing to do with that time of the month,” Mike said.

“What?”

“Werewolves have been breaking-off flagsticks on the number 6 green the last couple of nights—I didn’t want to scare you guys from work.”

“There’s no such thing as werewolves,” Greg said. He took a drink, like he was trying to convince himself.”

“Why don’t you go for a walk under the red twilight, and find out?”

“It’s too cold, and besides, we’re playing poker.”

“I’m game, if you are?” Ken said.

“Bill finally came out of the restroom and zipped-up his pants. “Did I hear that you guys want to kill the werewolves tearing up the number 6 green? If we go, I’m taking my lever-action Winchester rifle. It’s an exact replica of the one Jimmy Stewart used in that movie, Winchester 73′. Plus, I’ve cast silver bullets. Shouldn’t be a problem to take down one or two of those hairy beasts.”

The guys looked at him. Bill wasn’t that far-off. He had hair on his chest, and wore red suspenders.

“I’ll get the pistols,” Mike offered.

“So, we’re really doing this?” Greg asked. He was skinny, and scared of everything.

“As sure as werewolf shit,” Ken said. “Don’t get bitten, but above all, don’t get dead.” They walked out of the shop, loading their guns.

“I’ve got a crossbow in my car,” Ken said.

“What, are you crazy?” Bill asked

“Why?”

“Only crazy people have crossbows—you see it in the movies. They’re all serial killers. We should call you Crazy Ken,” Bill suggested.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Why are we doing this?” Greg asked.

“The werewolf is the ultimate predator,” Bill said. “When I take him down, I become the ultimate.”

“You take too much testosterone,” Mike said. “Are you still on testosterone replacement therapy?”

“Sure, I am. After 60, I was tired of seeing the little guy, tired—needed to invigorate him, if you know what I mean? The problem was, Betty wasn’t ready for him—I have to warn her one hour in advance before the torpedo mission. I feel like the captain of a U-boat, passing through the labyrinthian abyssal, sinking mother cargo.”

“Okay, Captain Nemo.”

Billy took-up the rear. He was coughing, and a dead give-away.

“Billy, why don’t you light up,” Greg suggested. “Here, use my lighter.” He bent down, and lit Billy’s cigarette. “Okay, the beast should be right around the next dog-leg right.”

But when they got there, all they saw was fog.

“Nothing,” Greg said. “I told you there would be nothing.”

“You told me?” Ken asked.

“I told you.”

“You told me?”

“I told you.”

“God, you guys. It sounds like you’re in second grade.”

Both of them grabbed a pistol, and paced out the yardage. “Bill, will you be my second?” Ken asked.

“Mike, what about you?” Greg demanded.

“Both of you are idiots. Why would I want to die because of your stupidity?”

Just then, the bushes moved behind the water hazard, and a lycanthrope creature, jumped into the moonlight and bit Billy.

“Shoot that thing!” Mike said.

Bill fired—rapid fire. Crazy Ken shot the beast in the eye with his arrow. And both pistols found their mark in the werewolf’s chest.

“Now, we have to bury him,” Bill said.

“Where are we going to do that?” Ken asked.

“How about the sand trap?”

“As good a place as any. Should someone say the last rights?”

“I don’t know that we can do that—the werewolf is cursed by witchcraft.”

“How’s Billy doing?”

“He’s turning. Look at the hair growing on his chest.”

“He has more hair than me,” Bill said.

Billy grew claws and fangs. His body transformed, and then turned back into a man.

“I guess he’s okay. He didn’t get enough werewolf in him to make a complete transformation, or maybe the cancer stopped his cells from mutating. Should we go back to the pro shop and finish our game?”

“I think I’m going home to my wife. I feel like you guys are animals, and I need a woman’s touch,” Ken said.

Next week, Billy went into the doctor to get his blood tested. It came back negative for cancer cells, and his testosterone was through the roof.

“You said, you got bitten by a werewolf, on the golf course?” The doctor asked.

“Yeah,” Billy said.

“And I thought I’d heard all the golf stories. I need to get-out there and play more.

“Just don’t do it on a blood moon,” Billy suggested.

“That’s when a married guy needs to get out and play the most golf. It’s that time of the month.”

The End

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