Short Fictions From the Fictionary (Part One)

Morty and I started going to miniature golf on Saturdays wearing pastel miniskirts. Morty is much hairier than I am, and I'm not exactly an olympic swimmer myself. Normally we've had the whole place to ourselves, as a kind of meditation retreat. There's t he giant sockpuppet hole-in-one, the magic castle, and the fourty-foot tennis shoe by Whammo. They must be the sponsor. Normally it brings me a sense of well being and calm, a warm assurance that all is basically right. The square fits into the square ho le. A body is a body. But this time a motorcycle gang called The Warriors were running the whole damn course. They had jean jackets and buttrock haircuts, red and black checkered shirts. They cut the Whammo with their butterfly knives. They stomped on the rock garden. They burned the stuffed jalapeno dinosaur. They took my club and put it through the gift shop window. Later we took the owners out for apple pie and ice cream at the twenty-four hour pancake house. Deborah was crying when they brought out the syrup. I assured the waiter it wasn't his doing. And please, bring some more butter when you get a chance.n