Pete takes Soz back to their hotel room but he promises to
come back, needs to grab something. You wait by the elevators and the first to
come down carries your partner, their hands down someone else's pants. You
flick them the bird before the door closes again and your partner elevates with
tail between their legs. The next elevator down carries Al.
You inquire: 'Aren't you married?'
Confused: 'Yeah? What's that got to do with Flaming Pizza
Box Golf?'
He leads you to the beach. The guys are gathered around a
pizza box standing open like a tent on the sand. Wicks of newspaper, stuffed
through the pizza box's spine, are alight with flames catching on the greasy
cardboard. Pete gives Al a golf driver.
Al swings at the pizza box: 'Four!'
A clap and embers scatter like sea spray. The beach is
gone. The six of you now stand on mowed lawn between a suburban street and a
creek dense with reeds. Chris returns the separated, but still burning, halves
of the pizza box back to their tent formation. Frank takes the driver.
Another scattershot of embers, a distant chorus of
frightened waterfowl, Frank in mirth: 'And the crowd goes wild.'
Now you are in bitumen schoolyard, old timber logs
arranged behind you in unbound palisade wall and chalk 'fnords' and 'cracks'
amongst the hopscotch stencils. Frank hands you the driver and Chris again
prepares the box. Everybody is watching and waiting. The club's head above
yours before it pendulums down.
'The fuck?'
Your strike becomes fireworks in miniature. The cardboard
flies away, becomes shredded ash. You are in front of a suburban home.
Chris, pleasantly surprised: 'Cool. That saves cab fare.'
'How am I supposed to get back to my wife?' Al is not
angry. 'Trebuchet? Or another round?'
Your confusion is voiced as:
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