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Toadfish Rebecchi unfurled a languid drive and the ball sailed down the middle of the fairway. He picked up his tee and nodded to William Shakespeare.

Shakespeare, clad in a large, swooshing doublet covered by a voluminous coat despite the searing heat, plucked a wooden club from his golf bag and placed his ball on a tee. He addressed it with an awkward, hunched-over stance. For a moment, he stood motionless and then he drew the club back slowly. Before it reached the perpendicular, he brought it back down again with a wild, hacking motion. The ball sliced off to the right, into some trees.

“Fucking fuckshit,” he exclaimed. “Fucking, fucking fuckshit. This fucking course. I fucking hate this fucking course.”

“It’s not the course,” said Toadie calmly. “It’s you. Your swing’s terrible. You simply aren’t very good at golf.”

“Fuck you,” screamed the bard. “I fucking am. It’s this fucking course with all the trees and shit.”

“Why don’t you aim away from the trees,” asked Toadie mischievously.

Shakespeare took a couple of steps towards him, raising his club with one hand, as if it were a weapon. Toadfish slowly blinked and looked away, unconcerned.

“Come on,” said Shakespeare. “Let’s get on with this.” He strode off towards the trees, club in one hand, dragging his bag behind him with the other. Toadfish parted ways, heading down the fairway towards his own ball.

As Shakespeare approached the trees, a lank-haired man in a leather jacket emerged from them. It was Danny McNamara from Embrace. He eyed Shakespeare morosely.

“What?” asked the bard, aggressively.

“Wanna buy a ball?” responded McNamara.

“No,” said Shakespeare. “I want to find mine.”

“A quid,” said McNamara. “It’s a good ball. Titleist. They make good balls, do Titleist.”

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “That’s why I use them. I use a Titleist DT Solo. I get great distance.”

“With that shitty club?” said McNamara, pointing at the wooden anachronism in the playwright’s hands.

“Yes, actually,” replied Shakespeare indignantly. “With this shitty club. What do you know of golf anyway, you little urchin?”

“I know you need a ball,” said McNamara. “Go on. A quid.”

“We’re in Mexico,” said Shakespeare. “Why are you charging a quid? You should be quoting your price in pesos, or dollars at the very least.”

“All right, smartarse, a dollar,” spat McNamara.

“That’s a completely different price,” said Shakespeare, outraged. “You’re just making this up. How many balls have you got to sell anyway?”

“One,” said McNamara. “It’s a Titleist DT Solo.”

Shakespeare launched himself towards McNamara. “That’s my fucking ball, you little shit. Give me my fucking ball before I rip both of yours off and drive them over the fucking clubhouse.”

Toadfish Rebecchi turned when he heard the kerfuffle. Even from some distance away, he recognised the tone-deaf Embrace singer. “Is that Danny McNamara?” he bellowed at Shakespeare. “Stay away from him. He’ll nick your golf balls, he will. He’s always at it, the little shit.”

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Posted by Alex On November - 22 - 2011

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A man who has no interest in writing about Toadfish Rebecchi, largely because his surname is annoying to spell.