By Gregg Chamberlain

Me and the guys were out on the back nine. I was ready to chip my way out of a sand trap when a ball landed just off to the side. I looked behind me into the burning red eyes of War. Behind him, each seated in his own golf cart, were the other Riders of the Apocalypse.

War pointed his golf club ― a nine iron ― at the ball on the fairway. “Mind if we play through?”

I shrugged. “Go ahead.”

War slammed his ball down the fairway and they all puttered off.

Hey, sometimes good manners count in golf.


Gregg Chamberlain, a community newspaper reporter four decades in the trade, lives in rural Eastern Ontario with his missus, Anne, and a clowder of four cats who allow their humans the run of the house. Past fiction credits for sf, fantasy, weird fiction, and zombie filk include Daily Science Fiction, Apex, Weirdbook, NonBinary Review, Prose ‘n’ Cons Mystery, and various anthologies.

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