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TERRY BOWDEN'S ARM IS A FOOTBALL

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He loved football. "You'll get back, but it will cost you," the Fates said. "Well, I'm ready to start payin', y'all." The Fates teed off, all hitting their balls into the rough and the bunkers, because they are just completely shitty at golf. They all play with orange range balls with huge smiley divots in them, too, because the Fates are all cheap bastards.

"You must be our caddy for all 18 holes today."

"Okay. What else?"

The Fates all used drivers out of the rough, and hit terrible, shitty shots bouncing all over the course. One sliced a ball directly into an old woman's skull. He responded by giving her the finger and calling her an unspeakable profanity, because the Fates are dicks.

"It's gonna be Akron."

Bowden gulped. "Okay. What else?"

The Fates each took seven putts to make a terrible, clanking series of octuple bogies. They cursed, spat, and dented the greens with their belly putters, and then marked the cards with birdies and eagles. The Fates just suck at everything, but especially golf.

"You must have your right arm amputated and replaced with a football."

"Uh...why?"

The Fates cackled.

"Okay, fine. Done. This ain't too bad."

The Fates cackled some more.

"One more thing."

"What? WHAT?"

The Fates cackled REALLY loudly this time.

"Dicks. Complete and utter dicks. All of you."

"GOOD TO HAVE YOU BACK, TERRY," the Fates chanted in unison before sexually harassing the high-school aged beverage cart girl, purchasing a shitload of Bud Light Lime to litter the course with, and leaving no tip.