117 - Bets


As the golf club smashes into your teeth, you feel and hear a pathetic crunch inside your head. The sound makes you think of stepping on uncooked ramen noodles. It is a sound that, were your hands on the grip of the club instead of your lips being wrapped around its head, you would be almost certain to describe as “satisfying.”

Snake, your bookie, raises the club once again and buries the two-iron in your gut. Next, he flips the club around, gripping the head with both hands, and plants the grip on the ground. He bends over and rests his chin on his hands. He seems to think that’s enough for now.

“Where’s my money, asshole?” Snake asks you in a soft tone that reminds you more of a kindergarten teacher than a vicious loan shark.

You spit out three whole teeth and countless fragments. You try to talk. “Ah thaw hah tuh muh days,” you mumble, droplets of blood flying from your mouth and coming to rest on Snake’s clean white shoes. Your once-flawless diction has suffered.

“You do have two more days, motherfucker…until I come back and put this club through the side of your skull. Get me my money.” Snake turns and walks out your front door without another word. He doesn’t close the door behind him. Rude.

This is the last time you place a pre-season bet on the Brewers to win it all.