IF you get bitten by a walker and don’t immediately chop the infected area off, you’ll turn within 12 hours. Every golfer knows that.
But a sportsman can’t saw through his limbs these days without some moronic team of surgeons trying to sew them back on.
I cant say Im sad to go. Twenty years roaming the overgrown golf courses of a ruined continent, smashing the heads of freshly-turned walkers with my nine iron, switching to the one wood for the really necrotic ones with no flesh left on their skulls. Alone, except for the caddy I no longer speak to after an incident with a scorecard 16 years ago. Washing in filthy creeks. Eating roast woodchuck. Winning no Majors.
Ian Poulter, Seve Ballesteros, Nick Faldo I’ve buried all the greats. Actually I possibly made the wrong call with Nick. He was on the phone discussing buying a pergola, which isnt normal for the undead, but his face was a hateful, expressionless mask so I carried through on my swing. At the end of the day, the pro who stops to think is the pro who gets eaten alive, screaming as rotting hands yank out your hot guts.
And now its my turn. The hand I cut off with a chainsaw, my own traitorous limb, has been sewn back on by do-gooding idiots. Nice to have something to hold my Omega on obviously, but that pleasure is tempered by its murderous intentions toward me. Ill probably be strangled in my sleep and then the next morning out on the road again, shambling along the fairways a sick parody of a man, like Jack Nicklaus.
So I hope someone out there has the courage to do what I could not. Promise me when the time comes, each one of you will be prepared to plunge a Phillips head screwdriver into my temple. Don’t get sentimental: I won’t be Greg Norman, two times Open champion, the Great White Shark. Ill be nothing but a monster begging for an end.
