Once again, I kicked JC's ass golfing yesterday. Emerald Greens (corny name) is a beautfiul course perched on a plateau that overlooks the Bay. It's JC's favorite. I prefer Shetfield, but whatever.
I was robbed of complete victory by a thunderstorm rolling in from the ocean. We're on the tenth hole when lightning strikes the head of the Bay.
"Okay, time to split," JC says.
"Duuude," I whine.
"Lightning bad," he says in that caveman voice he does. "Grog holding metal stick. Bad." He cracks me up, but then, my standards are low.
What can I say? Any reasonable, non-invulnerable person would stop golfing, so I have to leave with him. Besides, I can't kill my best friend just because I want to win.
As we reach the club house I look back at the approaching storm; seething dark clouds, heavy with rain. The wind picks up. I can smell bad weather coming. Smells like... trouble. I better suit up and patrol tonight.
Man, I am corny. "Smells like... trouble." What a tool.
And no, I don't want to hear any comments about the ethics of superhuman golfing. I kicked JC's ass at golf before The Accident, I kick his ass at golf after The Accident. I shall always kick his ass at golf.
It is written.