rm-r comic Halloween Contest 2013
Practice
A man and his caddy encounter a plague victim.
Practice
The club falls in a wide arc, impacting harshly and crushing the hollow vessel. The man holding the club stands alert and expectant. His face is perfectly composed revealing no emotion. He is clean shaven with black hair that hangs loosely over his eyes. He is tall and lean, with the grace and poise of an athlete. As he stares at the mailbox the club slowly falls to the ground. The end is bent sharply and the head is badly scraped, the number three barely visible.
A blond man stands just behind and to the side, his eyes slightly closed. He is wearing a simple wool vest over a white linen shirt and tan slacks. He is also tall and lean. He is relaxing against a golf bag with an air of smug satisfaction.
“I told you it wasn't enough club.” The blond man says, his hand extended out ward in a gesture of obvious expectation. The other man takes a breath and sighs, handing the club away.
“Now the seven iron, while a bit lighter, has a sharper angle and would have swept it clean off.” The blond man takes the club and runs a white cloth over it, cleaning the rust and paint from it before sliding it into the bag with a sharp punctuation. He swings the bag up onto his shoulder and begins to walk down the street, following along behind the dark haired man to the next box.
The dark haired man comes to a stop beside a metal mailbox painted pink and shaped like a pig, a curly piece of spring stabled to the back serving as a tail. He eyes it up and down, looking under to see how its fastened to the post.
“The seven.” His voice is calm and the request is given as a command. The blonde man smiles and reaches into the bag, pulling out a seven iron and polishing it with the cloth before handing it over. He takes a step back and sets the bag down, then pulls out a small package from his waste pocket and begins to roll a cigarette.
The dark haired man grips the club, settling his weight in a slight squat that roots him to the ground and gives him plenty of traction. He hears his companion strike a match and soon smells the burning tobacco as the slight breeze pushes past. He takes a breathe and lets it out, his entire body relaxing. He takes in another breathe and the club swings up over his shoulder. He lets it out as his torso twists, a coiled spring releasing potential energy. The club swings around in a wide arc and the mailbox is ripped free from the post and soars over the street and into the lawn on the other side.
The blonde man gives a whistle and claps his hands softly at the spectacle.
“Good hit, you got it just under the lip. Very nice.” He takes a drag on the cigarette before passing it to the dark haired man. Trading the club for the cigarette, the dark haired man takes a drag and gently blows it out into the night sky. Over cast and a gray, a fog has rolled in, filling the quiet suburban neighborhood with an eerie atmosphere.
The blond man puts the club back in the bag and hoists it up on his shoulder, indicating to the dark haired man that he's ready for the cigarette again. The dark haired man passes it back glancing up and down the street before crossing to the other side.
“I still don't understand why you do that.” The blond man saunters across the road, his eyes casually sweeping over the abandoned two story house, its pastel coloring appearing as a stern gray in the dark fog.
“Its not as though there's any traffic.” He drops the bag and leans on it, the cigarette a beacon as he takes a pull.
“Old habits.” Is all the dark haired man says as he leans down and looks at the crumpled mailbox. The sound of glass breaking draws the attention of both men. A large window of the double front doors of the house is spider webbed with cracks and a gray fist is thrust through it. A figure falls into the remaining window and stumbles out into the night, sending a storm of glass shards over the walkway.
“Huh, well it LOOKED abandoned.” The blond man, now standing alert, takes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke into the air. “So what do you think?”
“The seven.” The dark haired man stands up and hold his hand out. His fingers close over the grip as the club is placed into his palm. The blond man takes a step back and leans on the bag. The cigarette dangles between his index and ring finger.
The figure is covered in gray flakes that crumble and fall to the ground. It moves in a jerky, mechanical fashion, it's limbs stiff from long negligence. As it turns to the two men its jaws crack open revealing two rows of broken teeth. A coughing scream thunders across the grass as it shambles closer.
The dark haired man takes a deep breathe and lets it out slowly. He inhales again, lifting the club in a smooth motion. His body is coiled and tense, a spring ready to snap. As the figure steps up to him he brings the club around in a wicked arc. The edge catches the figure under the chin. Its head shatters into fragments of stone and crystallized flesh. The figure crumples to the ground, sand pouring from the open hole in its neck.
The dark haired man is turned the opposite direction, still twisted, but without the impression of intent. He relaxes, slowly coming back to a more casual posture.
“Yes, definitely the seven.”
The blonde man raises the cigarette to his lips. “I told you.”
The club falls in a wide arc, impacting harshly and crushing the hollow vessel. The man holding the club stands alert and expectant. His face is perfectly composed revealing no emotion. He is clean shaven with black hair that hangs loosely over his eyes. He is tall and lean, with the grace and poise of an athlete. As he stares at the mailbox the club slowly falls to the ground. The end is bent sharply and the head is badly scraped, the number three barely visible.
A blond man stands just behind and to the side, his eyes slightly closed. He is wearing a simple wool vest over a white linen shirt and tan slacks. He is also tall and lean. He is relaxing against a golf bag with an air of smug satisfaction.
“I told you it wasn't enough club.” The blond man says, his hand extended out ward in a gesture of obvious expectation. The other man takes a breath and sighs, handing the club away.
“Now the seven iron, while a bit lighter, has a sharper angle and would have swept it clean off.” The blond man takes the club and runs a white cloth over it, cleaning the rust and paint from it before sliding it into the bag with a sharp punctuation. He swings the bag up onto his shoulder and begins to walk down the street, following along behind the dark haired man to the next box.
The dark haired man comes to a stop beside a metal mailbox painted pink and shaped like a pig, a curly piece of spring stabled to the back serving as a tail. He eyes it up and down, looking under to see how its fastened to the post.
“The seven.” His voice is calm and the request is given as a command. The blonde man smiles and reaches into the bag, pulling out a seven iron and polishing it with the cloth before handing it over. He takes a step back and sets the bag down, then pulls out a small package from his waste pocket and begins to roll a cigarette.
The dark haired man grips the club, settling his weight in a slight squat that roots him to the ground and gives him plenty of traction. He hears his companion strike a match and soon smells the burning tobacco as the slight breeze pushes past. He takes a breathe and lets it out, his entire body relaxing. He takes in another breathe and the club swings up over his shoulder. He lets it out as his torso twists, a coiled spring releasing potential energy. The club swings around in a wide arc and the mailbox is ripped free from the post and soars over the street and into the lawn on the other side.
The blonde man gives a whistle and claps his hands softly at the spectacle.
“Good hit, you got it just under the lip. Very nice.” He takes a drag on the cigarette before passing it to the dark haired man. Trading the club for the cigarette, the dark haired man takes a drag and gently blows it out into the night sky. Over cast and a gray, a fog has rolled in, filling the quiet suburban neighborhood with an eerie atmosphere.
The blond man puts the club back in the bag and hoists it up on his shoulder, indicating to the dark haired man that he's ready for the cigarette again. The dark haired man passes it back glancing up and down the street before crossing to the other side.
“I still don't understand why you do that.” The blond man saunters across the road, his eyes casually sweeping over the abandoned two story house, its pastel coloring appearing as a stern gray in the dark fog.
“Its not as though there's any traffic.” He drops the bag and leans on it, the cigarette a beacon as he takes a pull.
“Old habits.” Is all the dark haired man says as he leans down and looks at the crumpled mailbox. The sound of glass breaking draws the attention of both men. A large window of the double front doors of the house is spider webbed with cracks and a gray fist is thrust through it. A figure falls into the remaining window and stumbles out into the night, sending a storm of glass shards over the walkway.
“Huh, well it LOOKED abandoned.” The blond man, now standing alert, takes the cigarette from his lips and exhales the smoke into the air. “So what do you think?”
“The seven.” The dark haired man stands up and hold his hand out. His fingers close over the grip as the club is placed into his palm. The blond man takes a step back and leans on the bag. The cigarette dangles between his index and ring finger.
The figure is covered in gray flakes that crumble and fall to the ground. It moves in a jerky, mechanical fashion, it's limbs stiff from long negligence. As it turns to the two men its jaws crack open revealing two rows of broken teeth. A coughing scream thunders across the grass as it shambles closer.
The dark haired man takes a deep breathe and lets it out slowly. He inhales again, lifting the club in a smooth motion. His body is coiled and tense, a spring ready to snap. As the figure steps up to him he brings the club around in a wicked arc. The edge catches the figure under the chin. Its head shatters into fragments of stone and crystallized flesh. The figure crumples to the ground, sand pouring from the open hole in its neck.
The dark haired man is turned the opposite direction, still twisted, but without the impression of intent. He relaxes, slowly coming back to a more casual posture.
“Yes, definitely the seven.”
The blonde man raises the cigarette to his lips. “I told you.”