fisherking

Chapter Seven

"Where have you been?" K-Ro said, half worried and half scolding. The same words spoken by any other would have resulted in at least a severe dressing down, but from K-Ro it was easy to recognize the true feeling of concern behind the inquiry.

"You had me worried to death," he continued, "You can't call? How can I know you aren't hurt, or being raped?"

"I had to do some thinking. This Vick story goes deeper than we ever imagined," I said.

"Always with the work!" K-Ro snapped, "You should eat something. I made muffins." So that was the heavenly aroma I had detected. K-Ro's abilities in the kitchen are rivalled only by his almost comically evil contempt for civil liberties.

"I almost forgot," he added, "Tiger Woods called while you were out. He's having trouble with his swing and wanted your advice."

"Was it Tiger or a representative of his?" I asked. My concern was that Tiger's wife, Elin, who had been sending me notes and emails seeking some sort of liason between us, might have been trying to use the pretense of a meeting with Tiger to meet with me.

"It was Tiger," he replied, "I spoke with him myself."

"Set it up," I ordered. The pressures of the day were starting to wear on me, and I knew I could use the diversion. I had heard that Tiger had was an exceptional athlete, and knew he had potential. An hour with me could transform that potential into championships.

"Bring my Louisville Slugger," I ordered.

"Your what, sir?" K-Ro asked.

"You know, my baseball bat," I said.

"Why, sir, if you don't mind me asking?" K-Ro said.

"How dare you question me!" I snapped, "But if you must know, how do you expect me to counsel Tiger Woods on his swing if I don't warm up my own swing first?" K-Ro looked perplexed.

"Begging your pardon sir, but Mr. Woods competes in golf, not baseball," K-Ro informed me. I looked at him for a long time without speaking. Suddenly I was furious with K-Ro. How could he embarrass me like this?

"Don't you think I realize that, you fool?" I screamed, slapping him across the round cheek. Poor K-Ro fell to the floor cowering, his arms raised to shield his face from further attacks. His pitiful sobs finally penetrated my fury.

"Oh my poor, poor K-Ro," I cried, "Forgive me my tiny round friend!" I enveloped my friend and servant with my thick arms, pulling his sobbing head into the comfort of my vast chest. There he remained for a few tender moments, his low, almost silent sobs only interrupted by intermittent uncontrollable shuddering. He finally looked up at me, his wide eyes still shiny with tears, and sniffled loudly.

"What is wrong, sir?" he asked, "Something is bothering you." I was genuinely touched. This pathetic creature, whom I had just attacked with the ferocity I usually reserve for immigrants and activists, was more concerned with my well-being than for his own. Abashed, I quickly stood, dropping his dear head from my arms heavily onto the floor.

"Oh poor K-Ro," I said, "Poor, pathetic, disgusting, fat, bald, poor K-Ro, how could I strike thee? It is my own confusion that has led to your undeserved punishment. I am unsure of what course to take in the pursuit of this story, which I am sure is to be the Greatest Story Ever Written!"

"You need to take a break, sir," K-Ro said, soothingly, "Visit with Tiger Woods, help him with his swing, and then revisit this dilemma. Maybe then you'll see the answers you're too close to see now." I knew my friend was right. Man, this guy was good. Not just good. K-Ro is brilliant. I extended a powerful arm toward his pathetic figure, and he smiled. I had a surprise for Tiger, something that would serve as the final piece in the puzzle of his own personal quest for the perfect golf swing.



Chapter Eight

"By the end of the third or fourth day all the meat had rotted, leaving the room awash in an aroma reminiscent of a Khmer Rouge killing field, and leaving us with only our own bodies with which to satiate our hungers. Oh, the energies we expelled. The sweat! Late that afternoon a pig, probably having escaped from the farm down the road, wandered into the yard. Ashley, half-crazed and hollow-eyed, managed to work her tiny frame through a window above the kitchen sink and ambushed the swine from above, smothering it with her vintage poncho that had hosted them in their deflowering."

"Who wants punch?" K-Ro asked as he walked into the study carrying a refreshment tray. Upon seeing K-Ro enter the room, Tiger Woods leapt to his feet and quickly moved to the restroom, without excusing himself.

"What did I say?" K-Ro asked, sounding hurt.

"Who knows," I said, "I was just regaling him with a recount of the retreat I took with the Olsen twins in celebration of their eighteenth birthday."

Tiger returned looking so pale that I mistook him at first for a very tall Jet Li.

"Tiger, are you okay bro?" I asked.

"Just, um, a bug or something," he said, sounding unsure. I turned to K-Ro and nodded. He nodded back and quickly exited the study, only to return a moment later carrying a dozen plaster recreations of cuddly, white baby seals, which he lined up neatly across the floor in front of us. Tiger looked on with a quizzical expression. Noticing his puzzled look, I patted him on the shoulder.

"When I was a young man at university," I explained, "I spent my summers with my Uncle Perciforth, who was not really my uncle, but whom I had met as a child when I worked part-time in his veterinary clinic, where I assisted in shaving various pet parts and cleaning bed pans. Uncle Perciforth left the veterinary business after a particularly nasty clawing from a yeast infected iguana. He set forth into the vast arctic wilderness where he made his living guiding Asian businessmen on baby seal clubbing safaris." I paused for a moment, studying Tiger, reading his reaction. He simply stared back silently. He appeared not to breathe.

"It was during these summers that I perfected my swing," I went on, "You cannot possibly imagine the technical perfection required to part a baby seal's head from it's cute, cuddly body. Those little guys are tougher than they look." I extended an arm to K-Ro, who handed me a driver, which I gave to Tiger.

"Go ahead," I said, motioning at the plaster baby seals, "Give it a go." Tiger shook his head vigorously, his eyes never leaving mine. I simply stared back sternly, and gestured toward the plaster baby seals again.

"Give it a go," I repeated.

Tiger, somewhat reluctantly, took the club from my hand and slowly moved in front of the first baby seal. There he stood for an eternity, concentrating, removing all distractions from his thoughts. Then he began his backswing, his eyes never leaving the baby seal, and he let her rip. As he swung through, the baby seal head flew against the wall and the strawberry jam that K-Ro had filled it with exploded throughout the room, covering the three of us with fake baby seal blood.

"Woohoo!" Tiger yelled, pumping his fist.

"Hole in one!" screamed K-Ro. Tiger beamed wildly, his smile lighting the room. He extended a gracious hand.

"Thank you, sir," He said, and he looked back at the remaining plaster baby seals.

"No problem, bro," I said, and then gestured at the remaining plaster baby seals, "Go ahead."

And with that Tiger turned back to the row of plaster baby seals, covering the room with more and more strawberry jam and filling us all with joy.