Retirement
Created | Updated May 18, 2006
The ball bounded along the fairway, yards past the very ordinary efforts of the first two players.
'Good shot', wheezed Pestilence, and Famine added a nod of approval. It was always a ridiculously unequal contest, but nobody minded. Each of the three protagonists had once had a vengeful streak, but that was long ago. They were all mellow old gentlemen now.
The strapping figure of War picked up his two companions, one under each arm, and swung them onto the back of the immense horse that stood alongside the tee. Then he hefted all three bags and set off at a brisk march in pursuit of the drives.
'Very civilised, this, isn't it?' Famine lined up his next shot. You could even convince yourself that he was filling out a little as his cares receded. It was an idyllic life for the three friends, with nothing worse to worry about than Pestilence's rhododendron allergy.
War's mobile phone trilled its familiar 'Ride of the Valkyries' ringtone. Famine slumped to his knees and stared at the ground for the duration of the call. He didn't need to do this now, of course, but it was difficult to break the aeons-old habit. For the same reason, Pestilence paced to and fro, even though his footfalls didn't kill the grass any longer.
'That was God,' declared War in his characteristically matter-of-fact way. 'He says we'll be coming off the eighteenth at twenty-seven minutes past four, so he'll get the drinks in for half-past.' It surprised even the dull-witted War that God never played the occasional round Himself, now that He had nothing better to do. He'd probably be pretty good at it, after all.
The horse trotted obediently up to the green. It was War's steed, of course. The other two weren't up to much as beasts of burden. Now Famine was looking wistful. The others could guess what he was about to say.
'Shame about Death still having to work. We could really do with all the old crew being together again.'
Pestilence coughed. War thrashed distractedly in a greenside bunker. God materialised with an ethereal puff and a scent of honeysuckle.
'Now, now,' the Creator admonished. 'We've all always known that Death is the one habit that our charges can never grow out of. We should just be grateful that they finally learned to do without the rest of us.'
War looked slightly nonplussed, as usual. 'Don't you ever get a bit bored with minding a golf course, after all that Universal Governor stuff you used to be into?'
God smiled like only God can. 'Do you miss being mired in blood?' He asked. He turned to the other two. 'Or in corruption or deprivation?'
Nobody replied for a moment, but then Famine dared to speak. 'Yes, we get that bit. But why a golf course? Why not something more... meaningful?'
God grinned so much that the sun came out. 'Seems pretty meaningful to me,' He laughed. 'There's something in a golf course for everyone's later years. Some people still need the competition, like that big lug over there.' He jerked a thumb in the direction of War, who was still excavating his bunker. 'Some people need the fresh air.' The thumb's attention switched to Pestilence.
God looked straight at Famine. 'And some people hunger for something all their lives. In the end, it doesn't matter anymore and they're just glad of the companionship and the respect of their peers.'
There was really nothing to say to that. 'See you at half past four, then,' said God, and He vanished.
