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As a full-ride scholarship student at Bridgefield State, Resource Jones was afforded many an hour to ruminate on his life and plans. These meditations, day and night, tended to center around this Don Knotts– looking character and how in the world to get rid of him for one simple golfing Tuesday.
He already knew that the first man was Malcolm Baker, but how was he supposed to locate this Knotts lookalike without a name, address, phone number, occupation, or background? Furthermore, how would he cancel that person’s regular Tuesday golf game without raising suspicion? And furthermost, how could he do it when he was allowed no outgoing e-mail messages and only one phone call per month?
Lesser men than this would’ve given up. Not Resource Jones. He cinched up the zipper on his bright orange prison jumpsuit and set to it.
He began with a simple idea. He waited for Don Knotts to leave a wedge on the edge of the green while he putted. Then Resource calmly wandered over, picked up the club, and glanced casually for a sticker on the shaft that would have not just his name but his address and phone number, for no golfer wants to lose his trusty wedge.
Alas, there was nothing. Mr. Knotts apparently was not in the habit of leaving wedges lying around golf courses like newspapers in a train station.
“Your wedge, sir,” Resource said, handing it to a very surprised and, in fact, petrified Don Knotts as he came off the green. Looking at Knotts, he had such a gaunt face you were sure it was painted over his bones. He had a weak chin, but not so weak that it couldn’t have beat the crap out of his formless mouth. The man looked like he tanned with a 25-watt lightbulb.
“Oh! Uh, well, uh, thanks,” he stammered.
Couldn’t do that again. Prisoners were not supposed to purposely come within fifty feet of the golfers, to say nothing of quasi-caddy for them. He returned to his bunker and began raking again without looking up.
On to Plan B. Resource had one friend in the pro shop, a black second-string assistant pro/cart washer who he’d crack jokes with now and then.
“Hey, wanna get a brew after work?” Resource would say to the guy.
The guy was at first taken aback, but he soon caught on.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “And then catch a movie?”
“Sure! How ’bout Shawshank Redemption?” Resource said.
This time Resource saw him, sidled over to him the way only a prisoner can sidle, and said, “Hey, man, I coulda swore I saw my fifth-grade math teacher out there on 1. I don’t wanna talk to him or anything—he gave me a D—but I just know it’s him. Could you check the starter’s sheet?”
“Uh, sure, I guess,” the pro said. “What time you think he went off?”
“I’m pretty sure it was the 8:08.”
Ten minutes later the guy was back with the news: “It just says Baker.”
“Nobody else?”
“Nope. Just Baker twosome.”
“Okay, not him. Thanks anyway.”
Just his luck to try to chase two guys who are just slightly more secretive with their personal information than KGB agents.
Plan C: For his weekly half hour of supervised Internet access, Resource Jones had memorized the phone number he’d stolen off Malcolm Baker’s scorecard weeks before and plugged it into Google while the guard was at the end of the line. He knew he had thirty-two seconds to do this—from the time the guard generally wandered past his station to the time he wandered back—as he’d timed it out. He hit ENTER as quickly as humanly possible, but the computer was in no such rush and just ambled along, the little blue bar meandering forward like a boy on the first day of school. At last, with the guard eight feet away, Google spat it out: Your search did not match any documents.
“Bummer,” he said as the guard looked over his shoulder.
“What were you looking up,” the guard asked, “travel agents? Hah!” And he paced on, rejoicing at his wit.
Plan D came to him weeks later, when he suddenly glanced up from his powdered eggs with a look of Eureka! What was the leading export of Bridgefield State Penitentiary—hello?—license plates!
The next day he made it a point to be working near the parking lot fence when the black Ford Explorer arrived. He took one glance at the tag and memorized that, too: 513YZZ. Then he took that number, along with three packs of Marlboros and a promise of dessert for a month, to Porn Stash, the office guy in the license plate office. Hey, if this thing went right, he would be gone within a week and anybody could have his desserts as far as he cared.
Within two days Porn Stash was back with the goods on Massachusetts 513YZZ:
MALCOLM W. BAKER
1127 Delpino Way
Fitchburg, MA
978-555-3839
Bought at Fitchburg Ford
May 21, 2001
Paid $19,877.33
Once he had the number, it was only a matter of waiting for somebody to go putt while leaving a cellphone in the front of the cart—and almost everybody brought their cellphone—slipping it into his pocket, then slipping into the lightning shack an hour later and calling Two Down’s cell.
There was no answer, so he left the following message, as slowly and succinctly as he could: “Two, it’s ’Source. Got a big project for you. Big. My life depends on it. Can you please call one of your guys with Mass Bell and get the last six months of outgoing and incoming calls for 978-555-3839? Guy’s name is Baker. When you get the records, see if you can find a number that he calls every Monday or Tuesday morning or a number that calls him every Monday or Tuesday morning. Probably a short call, a minute or less. Call the number and figure out some way to tell if that guy is Baker’s golf partner every Tuesday out here at Prison View. You’ll think of some way to do it. Maybe you’re an MCI salesman, I don’t know. When you find his partner, come out to the course. Get a morning tee time. I’ll see you. Leave the guy’s info under the water jug on the tee box at 5. You do this without fucking it up, you skinny mother, and I’ll give you seven shots a side for life, and you know you got no business getting no more ’n four.”
Click.
Directions as long and complicated as that would seem more confusing than Father’s Day at Woody Allen’s house. But for whatever divine reason, it all came off as smooth as soft serve. Two called his friend in the mail room at Mass Bell, who faxed the bills to him at the assisted-living home posthaste. In his examination of the bills, Two, thinking himself Sam Spade, thrilled at finding the number almost immediately. It was the first time in a week he wasn’t thinking about which kidney Big Al would knife.
Resource had said every Monday, and there was only one call that happened nearly every Monday the last six months: 978-555-6671. Just to double-check, Two plugged the number into Google and it came up as a Mrs. Sylvia Hornbecker, who had once volunteered to host a quilting meeting at her house, leaving for the world to see her address, phone, and even a suggestion of cookie types for the Quite-a-Quilt members to bring.
Two Down went to a phone booth, slapped on his best Don Pardo voice, and said, “Is Mr. Hornbecker in?”
“Hold on,” said the disappointed teenager.
In a moment Mr. Hornbecker, first name unknown, came on with his squeaky, nervous voice: “This is [throat clear], this is Mr. Hornbecker.”
“Mr. Hornbecker! What a pleasure! It’s First Sergeant Darrell Dregs over at Prison View nine-hole golf course over at Bridgefield State Prison. How are you this fine evening?”
“Oh, uh, okay I guess.”
“Fine, fine! Mr. Hornbecker, I’m conducting a customer satisfaction survey on our Prison View nine-hole golf course here at Bridgefield.”
“Oh.”
“Now, you ARE a regular at the golf course, am I correct?”
“Well, yes, yes I am.”
“—play every Tuesday, according to our records.”
“Well, yes—”
“Play with Mr. Baker, am I right?”
“Well, yes. Have I done anything wrong?”
“Wrong? Wrong? Oh, no, Mr. Hornbecker! We’re eternally grateful for your business. We just want to ask you one question: Are you happy with the course?”
“Oh, well, actually, as long as you mentioned it, there are quite a few—”
“Wonderful! Thanks so much for your time this fine evening Mr. Hornbecker and remember, the only bad view at Prison View is from the inside! Hah! Little prison humor there, Mr. Hornbecker! Well, again, thanks and goodnight!”
The next day, keeping a low profile to avoid Big Al, Two “borrowed” the drop-dead white 1964 Lincoln Continental belonging to Mrs. Opel Hickenlooper, an early Alzheimer’s patient in the Benny Goodman wing. God, she was beautiful—baby blue interior, white trim, suicide doors, and only 32,356 miles.
He drove the two hours out to Bridgefield. The drive would give him time to think about what the hell he was going to do that night at 6:00 P.M., when the Brothers Grim would be sitting at Ponky, expecting $36,000 from him or a Bentley, which, he noticed, was no longer in the basement garage at the assisted-living home. In fact, he even toyed with the idea of dropping off Resource’s info and then continuing west until he hit, say, Milwaukee.
He’d played here once before, on a visit to see Resource, but this time he couldn’t find him. He played the first six holes, sticking the little envelope containing all the information under the water jug at No. 5 as prescribed. At 7 green, he thought he recognized Resource working on a bunker wall, his back to him. Nobody else was anywhere near, but Two dared not speak directly to him. So as he lined up his putt, his head down, he said, “Nice work if you can get it.”
“Shuttup,” Resource said quietly, without turning, “Everybody will apply. How you playin’, Two?”
“Bad. Had to lay off two trophy engravers. How’s the food in this joint?”
“I toss my own salad, if that’s what you mean.”
“We all miss you, ’Source. You’re the only one all of us trust.”
“I’ll include it on my résumé.”
Two putted out and got in his cart.
“You don’t got it too bad, you know. In fact, today? I’d trade you places.”
“Tell the warden, will ya?”
Two drove off.
Later, Resource got himself a drink at 5, slid the small envelope into his pocket, then looked at it during his grumpy break.
Resource,
You SO owe me, bitch.
Guy’s name is Hornbecker. Don’t know his first. Home number: 978-555-6671. 2890 Juniper St., Fitchburg. Wife: Sylvia, and at least one teenage girl. Real mousey type. Scared of own sneeze. DOES play weekly w/ Baker.
I get EIGHT a side for this, plus one floating Clinton, you slob.
Huggy Bear
Then and there, Resource Jones decided to raise his success expectation to 85 percent.
While the Father and Son from Hell were ruining my life out on the unfriendly confines of the Gog Magog golf course, Blind Bob was back in the clubhouse, keeping his ears open and asking questions. People love to help blind people. They’d give them piggybacks down I-95 if asked.
So when word filtered back to the clubhouse what they’d done to me, Bob’s little ears perked up.
“Excuse me?” he said, looking purposely lost with his white cane in the middle of the clubhouse. “Who are these two men you’re talking about?”
Immediately an assistant pro came over to him. “Ah, it’s that sod Worstenheim and ’is bratty kid, Phillip. ’E’s a big blow’ard with the Royal and Ancient. Or the Royal and Dandruff, as I call ’em. ’E thinks ’is smarmy kid is the next Nick Faldo. ’E ain’t bad, but ’e ain’t no Nicky, let me tell you! Plus, ’e’s got the manners of a sick walrus. If you were t’ask me, I’d be delighted to see the both of ’em ’angin’ from that willo’ there.”
“Oh?” said Bob. “This Worstenheim, what’s his first name?”
“Allistair. But most people call ’im Commodore, ’cuz ’e was in the Royal Navy. Falklands. Lot a bollocks. A lot of us know wha’ he really done. ’E fucked up is wha’ he done. Incompetent bastard. Drove ’is boat too damn hard. Blew the thing up! Coupla blokes came home in pieces, I heard.”
Blind Bob decided that was very interesting.
Honestly, at that moment, when I realized I would have to birdie three of the last five holes—all of them long par-4s—and that my ass was probably fricasseed, you’d think every fiber in my body would’ve screamed, Quit, you fool! It’s hopeless! Go in, get a beer, and sleep in the car for about twenty-two hours!
People said I had no ambition and, at that instant, they were absolutely right. But I had something better. I had a textbook case of Fire-Truck-Red Ass. I was so pissed at the little trick these two snobs had played on me, I could hardly see. Everything about these guys reminded me of all the reasons I hated competitive golf: the Joan Crawford daddy, the arrogant spoiled kid who either burns out at thirteen from the insane pressure or, worse, begins to believe his father is right, that he will be the next Tiger.
I tend to be very lazy when happy and very good when pissed. Not with words or resignation letters or breakup speeches. But with golf, I get all kryptonite when pissed. My swing gets slower, my eyes narrow, my every effort is to stomp on your neck. I have no idea what Desmond shot those next four holes, but I know exactly what I did. I birdied 14 and 15, parred 16, and made a seagoing 45-footer on 17 for birdie. As we say at Ponky, t-t-t-t-t-take a s-s-s-s-suck of that!
After that putt, I asked the official scorer how the other guys were doing in comparison to me.
“Mr. Worstenheim is five-under. Mr. Casey [Desmond] is four-under. You are four-under.”
I guessed I needed one more birdie out of me or one bogey out of Dez or the Punk. I didn’t particularly want it to be Dez.
The last hole was a 454-yard par-4 and I painted it down there in such a perfect goddamn place they should’ve shot the catalog for the hole right then and there. Dez was about twenty yards behind me and the punk was as long as me but in the right junk.
We were walking to our balls when I saw him, wandering out on the fairway, his white cane waggling—Blind Bob.
“Commodore Worstenheim?” he was calling in a shaky Scottish accent, walking right toward us. “Commodore Worstenheim?”
The dad practically spit out his dentures.
“See here!” he said.
“Commodore!”
“See here! Who is that? We’re playing a very important golf tournament here!”
Bob just kept coming. “Commodore! It’s Nigel! Nigel Smithson, from the boat! Remember? Second Lieutenant Smithson? Maybe you heard about my accident, with the boiler? Just after you left?”
Worstenheim was within ten feet of him now and trying to shush him. His son was getting fidgety, hands on hips, and spitting.
“Of course, of course, my good man,” the father said, checking his son over his shoulder. “I remember you well. But could I speak to you after this hole? We’re in a tournament, you see?”
Whatever the hell was Bob’s play, it was a thing of beauty.
“Ah, Commodore. I was a cracking golfer myself before the horrible accident. North Berwick was my track. Had the front 9 record there for a time, don’t you know? What I wouldn’t give to swing the club again. May I have a swing of a club, sir? Just to feel it in my hand again?”
“Father, will you get Stevie Wonder out of here?”
“Ah, a son!” said Bob. “You’re so lucky. The accident didn’t just take my eyesight, you know, Commodore. Put a dent in the ol’ wedding tackle, yes?” And with this, he gently tugged at his crotch.
I had to do a 180 not to laugh out loud.
Bob somehow got to the clubs and tried to pick up the bag. “Let me just carry the bag for the boy on this last hole, will you, Commodore? It would just mean the world to me!”
I started to get the idea of where this was going.
“Go ahead, Commodore,” I said, just to let Bob know I was there. “That’s the only way we’re going to get on with this hole.”
“Yeah,” said Desmond. “That could’ve been you at the boiler, you know.”
“Fine, fine, just a moment,” the Commodore said, exasperated. “Let my boy hit this approach shot and we’ll work something out.”
So Punk Boy hit a decent 8-iron to thirty feet and flipped the club at his dad in disgust. The dad took the putter out and instead of handing it to his son, handed it to Bob to carry.
“Just ’til we get to the green. Then you hand it to my son and simply—and quietly—stand off to the side, understood?”
“Bless you, Commodore!” said Bob, walking. “Ooooh, I remember this feeling well! Nothin’ does a man more good than a long walk with his putter, yes?”
Bob held the putter like a band majorette, pumping it as he went, his white cane tucked under his elbow. Old man Worstenheim kept having to herd him in the direction of the green. Twenty feet from it, he snatched it back.
Bob kept saying, “Bless you, Commodore! Bless you! Say, would you have a shilling or two for an old sailor?”
Worstenheim lost it then. “That’s what it was about, was it then? Piss off, you!”
He pointed him roughly toward the clubhouse and Bob kept right on, walking to it, his cane waggling in front of him.
All that was left in this Three Stooges comedy was the putting. I hit a perfect putt but it guardrailed on me, cruelly I might add, and I tapped in for par. Dez made his par, too, which left us both with 66s. I couldn’t remember playing better.
The kid two-putted for par. I was keeping his card, so I totaled it and handed it to him to sign.
“Sixty-seven?” he said. “You’re daft! I shot 65, you twit!”
“Wrong, dude,” I said.
“Here it is, you dolt—you’ve got me for six on 18. I made four!”
“Sorry, ol’ bean. You did make six.”
“Sod off, you old poofter,” he yelled. “Change it!”
“What’s the problem here?” his dad barked.
“Your son is the problem,” I said. “Not only did you not teach him manners, you didn’t teach him math, either. He made six on the last hole, not four.”
“Bollocks!” his dad said. “He made four! I saw it with my own eyes!”
“Nope. Six. He gets a two-shot penalty for violating the two-caddy rule.”
“What?!” they screamed.
“Yeah, he had two caddies on that last hole. You’re only allowed one. Right, Dez?”
“Actually, that’s right,” Dez said, grinning. “You let that blind guy carry the putter while you carried the bag. That’s two caddies. Two caddies—two shots.”
The two of them looked at each other, aghast.
“Wrong, you sod!” said the kid. “That would mean I’d miss the cut by one!”
“Get used to it,” I said, staring right at him.
Dez laughed right out loud. Bless that man.
“Listen, you fucking miserable wanker,” said the dad, getting close enough to examine my fillings. “I don’t know how you know that man, but you set us up!”
“Oh, you Brits,” I said, not moving an inch from his nose. “Always so paranoid.”
The scoreboard was clear. There was one guy at 63, two at 64, 5 at 65, and two—Dez and me—at 66. That meant Dez and I were in, since they were taking the top nine plus ties. There were nine guys at 67 and none of them were in, including (so sad) young Phillip Worstenheim and his trained mouth.
“The shame of it is,” I said, “without the two-shot penalty, Phil, you would’ve been in at 65, which would’ve made nine total, and 66 would have missed the cut. Isn’t that a bitch? An American is in and a cocky-shit Brit is out. And on July Fourth, too!”
When Phillip figured it out, he turned red and actually began crying, screaming at his own father, “You stupid shit! Do something!”
The elder Worstenheim called in everybody but the Queen Mother to try to get the ruling changed, but it didn’t work. Bob was gone, but we’d all seen it happen—me, Dez, and Provisional. Where Bob had wandered off to, I had no idea, but I could’ve frenched him right then and there.
“See you at St. Haggith?” Desmond said as I trudged toward my car, past exhausted.
“St. Who?”
“St. Haggith, for the final qualifying? That’s where the nine of us go.”
“Right,” I said. “Absolutely. We will kick St. Haggith’s ever-lovin’ ass.”
Made note to self: Find out where the hell St. Haggith is.
As I loaded my clubs into the trunk, elated and nearly nauseous with fatigue, a very curious, very tall, very skinny orange-headed man walked up. He was such a bizarre character I wondered if the combination of No-Doz, pork pies, and tense golf was causing me to go completely batshit crazy. He had the thickest eyebrows and sideburns I’ve ever seen. But it was not that they were just thick. It’s that they were the oddest orange I’d ever seen, too. They looked like they were painted with a bad stencil and a can of Day-Glo orange spray paint. They were the color of highway cones or slow-moving-vehicle triangles. You could’ve safely hunted with the eyebrows alone. The freckles all over his face were that same orange. He featured braidable ear hair, too. The guy looked like he slept under a newspaper somewhere. He wore not one but two plaid sport coats, both hand-me-downs, a shirt under that, a T-shirt under that, old striped pants that finished a good six inches too high, high-top Converse hoops shoes, and a Simpsons hat with Mr. Burns on the crown.
“You’ve go’ a fine game, American,” the big galoot said. “But i’ ’ll never ge’ you throo at St. Aggith. Tha’s true Sco’ish links there, no’ this bollocks English pish! Ih-ull eatcha alive, mon! You’ve no clooo how tae hi’ the Musselborough Skitter, and tha’ would’ve saved you a sho’ a’ least on 6! And maybe 18, too. And tha way you hi’ your irons so high mi’ work at Firestone but no’ at St. Aggith! Those greens are faster’n Oprah on a wa’er slide! They don’ hold grass, much less yer golf ball! You’ll need t’ learn the punch-and-run, the Texas wedge, the Elmer Fudd. And tha’s just the beginnin’ o’ your troobles!”
“Oh?” I said, too tired to care. “Who are you, Orange Tom Morris?”
“The name’s Sponge,” he said, offering his orange-freckled hand. The man had to be six-eight. He looked like Ichabod Glasgow. “Bes’ caddee in Sco’land. I could see you throo tae the Open champeenship. If ya had a brain in your daft haid, you’d take me on nex’ week.”
“Yeah? If you’re so good, why don’t you have a bag already for the final qualifying?”
“Acchh,” he said. “My man today couldna made the cut wi’ a gian’ pair a novelty scissors.”
This guy was too much.
“So, wha’ you say?” he said.
I said nothing.
Suddenly he was Richard Dawson from Family Feud: “Ohh, good answer, good answer! Survey SAYS . . .”
And he held his hands out, palms up, like it was my line.
“. . . Uh, survey says I don’t have the first pound to pay you, Sponge, so thanks anyway.”
Now he was doing a flawless Ronald Reagan, “Wail, now, thair you go again.”
And with that, I tipped my hat, crawled into my car, locked the door, cranked the seat back, put my hat over my eyes, and prayed for Scotland’s Robin Williams to leave.
Resource Jones had to make a couple calls, but saying that in prison is a mouthful. He had to wait until the exact right time, Monday night, had to find a phone, and had to make the calls perfectly or the whole thing was sunk. There were no second chances at this.
That Monday he stole a cellphone from a cart, slipped it into his pocket, then into his shoe so that it wouldn’t be found in the daily search as he reentered the prison. He knew he wanted to make the calls at 9:00 P.M., but he couldn’t allow himself to be heard, so he paid each of the inmates on both sides of him to start yelling loudly to each other, from one cell to the other, so that it would cover up the sound of his calls.
And so they did:
“I’m finna kick your ass tomorrow,” said the neighbor on the east.
“My ass?” said the west. “You don’t even know the rook-castle swap! How you finna kick my ass?”
With the racket in place, Resource dialed a Mr. Hornbecker of Fitchburg, Mass. It was 9:01.
“Mr. Hornbecker!” he began in his whitest voice. “This is groundskeeper Wallace at Prison View Golf Course up here at Bridgefield? Yes, yes, how are you? Sorry about the noise, Mr. Hornbecker. Yes, well, we’ve had a bit of an incident out here tonight. Yes, sir. We’ve had information of a possible breakout attempt tonight. Not to worry, not to worry. We get these rumors now and again—chatter we call it—usually amounts to nothing, but we’re shutting down the course for twenty-four hours. We’ve informed your playing partner, Mr. Baker, and he wanted us to tell you that you guys will just skip a week and resume your regular game next week. All right? I woke him up, poor guy, but he did say to tell you, he’s only giving you half a shot this time! Hah! He’s a jokester, Malcolm is. He says he’ll call you tomorrow night about it. Anyway, all the best. Fine, fine. Goodnight!”
He flipped the phone closed and wiped the rivers of sweat pouring off his bald head. The shouting went on, unabated.
“Spassky? You think Spassky was better than Bobby Fischer? You’re the Spazz-ky!”
“Oh, fuck you! Spassky could beat Fischer with one lobe tied behind his back!”
Resource breathed deeply again and dialed the next number.
“Mr. Baker? Yes, this is Officer, uh, Wallace of the Fitchburg Police Department. Yes, excuse the noise, Mr. Baker. Some drunks, as usual. Mr. Baker, I need to go ahead and inform you that Mr. Hornbecker was involved in a single-car accident tonight. Yes, sir. Yes. Well, he’s fine, but he’s being held at the hospital for an indefinite time for observation. He wanted us to go ahead and call you and tell you that he certainly is sorry, but he won’t be able to make your golf game tomorrow. But he said to be sure to go ahead and play without him. He says he wants you to go out and break 90 out there at Prison View and let him know how you did. Says it’d mean the world to him if you played your round and then reported back to him hole-by-hole. Says if he can’t play golf, he wants to at least hear about some golf. Yes, right, right! Also, the hospital is requesting that family and friends go ahead and let him rest, a day or so, and then he should be able to have visitors. Yes, yes! Well, then, all the best, Mr. Baker. Goodnight!”
He snapped the cell shut, turned it off, hid it under his mattress, breathed a huge exhale, and then realized he hadn’t called his neighbors off.
“Andrew Lloyd Webber? He wrote a musical called Chess, you moron! He didn’t play chess!”
“I’m a moron? You wouldn’t know the Ruy Lopez Opening from the Trini Lopez!”
“ALL RIGHT!” Resource screamed. “Shuddup now!”
All three collapsed back on their mattresses, spent.
Finally home from his prison mission, Two Down pulled up to a red light at Crosley and Winchester in front of the assisted-living home. It was 1:30 A.M. Whatever happened, he decided, he’d at least gotten through that 6:00 P.M. deadline without getting robbed, killed, or both.
And that’s when he couldn’t help notice a shiny black Lincoln Continental in front of him with its hood up. And Dewey opening his front passenger door. And Yoshi opening the driver’s side rear door. And Big Al coming back to him, looking nothing at all like the Massachusetts AAA.
They did not want to rub up against Two Down for luck. What they wanted to do was throw him out onto the pavement, nose first, and steal his car, a task they achieved in just less than six seconds.
Both Continentals—new and old—were starting to pull away when Two Down heard Big Al yell, “We shall zee you in the funny paperz, Too Zad!”
Two was about to ask if he could at least get his clubs out of the trunk, but as the blood trickled into the corners of his mouth, he realized the traitorous bastards had gotten him in all the trouble in the first place.