Truman Krup took his nine iron and slammed the back of Jackson Lee Mercer's head with such force that Jackson's glass eye popped out of its socket and came to rest on the rim of the 18th hole. Breathing hard, he repeatedly swung the club until Jackson's crumpled body lay still.

Striding to the golf cart, he grabbed the shovel and pick that Jackson had inquired about earlier—but he'd brushed it off by saying the caretaker must have left them. He threw the tools on the body and dragged it to the edge of a knoll alongside the green where he began chipping away at the earth. This was his golf course, he owned it, and he could damn well bury a body here if he wanted.

Truman planned it well in advance—right after he discovered his wife's betrayal. He had come home early and heard her upstairs pacing the floor, talking on the phone. A blinking cursor, a beacon, alerted him to the abandoned computer where he found a love letter in progress to jmercy@ether.net, addressed to "my darling." Realizing she hadn't heard him, he positioned everything back in place and quietly left.

He spent the next week driving past the house at different intervals until one afternoon, Mercer's SUV was parked outside. For fucks sake, his wife and best friend! He remembered reaching for the 9mm that lay on the passenger seat. He gripped the handle firmly and then just as quickly let go: Why ruin my life?

Instead, he invited Mercer to play one last game before he closed the course down for a year-long renovation. The club manager and caddy were already dismissed for the season so he could privately say good riddance to his wife's fuck buddy. And what an appropriate ending for a golf aficionado, this being the last hole of the game and the closure of a friendship.

Truman dug about three feet down and heard a moan. He looked up and saw the back of Mercer's bloody head trembling ever so slightly. He climbed out, pick in hand, and walked around the body to find Mercer staring at his own glass eye.

He tried to whisper but nothing came out. Truman knelt down. "Save your fucking breath. I know you're asking 'Why?' but shouldn't I be asking you why? I treated you like a brother and how did you thank me? By screwing my wife!"

Mercer's lower lip quivered and his one eye filled with tears that ran down his face and mixed with the dark blood around his mouth. He tried to speak but again, nothing came out.

Truman raised the pick and brought it down hard into his friend's temple. He wrestled the pick out of Mercer's head and went back to digging with the bloody tool dripping specks of brain.

Finally finished, he dragged the lifeless body to the grave's edge and pushed it into the hole with the heel of his foot. He was filling it in when he remembered the glass eye was still on the green.

Truman plucked the prosthetic orb from the grass and tossed it in the grave. It hit Mercer's upper lip and rolled onto his partially opened mouth and stayed there. An idea struck Truman as the eye looked up at him, unblinking. He jumped in, landed on the dead man's shoulder, but lost his footing. Knees buckling, he dropped onto the body, jarring it enough so that the eye fell into Mercer's mouth. Truman cursed and reached his dirty fingers in to scoop it out. He placed it in his shirt pocket, crawled out and continued with the burial.

The ground was packed firmly and neatly before Truman carried the tools to the golf cart. Going back to the green, he pulled out the cup and buried the glass eye several inches underneath. Replacing the cup, he drove away; planning to return the following day to cover the exposed ground with a fresh bed of flowers.

At the clubhouse, he went straight for the bar and poured himself a drink to unwind before going home. It had been a month to the day that he discovered the love letter. He'd spent weeks in preparation and now, he smiled to himself at a job well done. He drained his martini, smacked his lips, and left.

That night, Truman positioned his wife on all fours and enjoyed himself. Yanking her hair back, he sneered as she scrambled to her fingertips to ease the pain. He slapped her on the side of the head and held her face down into the pillow until her muffled cries grew tiresome. Hours later, he threw her aside.

She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and looked away toward the window. She was tired of this life but with the prenup she was trapped.

"Good fuck?" Truman asked.

"Oh, yeah," she lied. "A beautiful fuck."

"How was your game with Jackson Mercer today?" she asked running her free hand through her blond mane and unapologetically tapping cigarette ash onto the Persian rug. She was leaning over the edge of the bed and he admired her perfect form as he lit his own stogie.

"Ah, it was fine but he developed a splitting headache and cut out early."

Over the next several weeks, Truman reveled in dissecting her mannerisms whenever she dug for information; bringing up Jackson Lee as if it was an afterthought. Her mood grew somber as her lover failed to respond. She stayed at Mercer's house for several days consoling Mercer's wife, Johanna. Truman found the friendship with her lover's spouse unusual but chalked it up to Catholic schoolgirl guilt or an effort to glean some insight into where he may have gone.

Months passed, the police investigated and then lost interest in Jackson Lee Mercer. The golf course was renovated—except the 18th hole. Truman explained it was his father's favorite part of the course and wanted it to remain as it was when he was still alive. The developers attributed it to typical rich eccentricity.

First day of the grand re-opening, Truman, his wife and several other couples gathered to celebrate. A local news crew filmed the event as he cut the ribbon and was the first to tee off. He watched his wife in a dainty yellow sundress take a swing and curl her upper lip as the ball ended in the rough. There would be other lovers that would need to be taken care of, but for today, it was a wonderful afternoon and there were no signs of anything amiss. She played the part of the ever-loving wife and he the doting husband. Mercer's wife, Johanna, showed up as well. He wondered if she knew the truth of her husband's infidelity, would she thank him? Probably not. She seemed lonely and distant.

Truman Krup was in the lead as the group approached the 18th. He putted the hole for par and won the game. Reaching into the cup for the ball, he felt deep satisfaction knowing Mercer's decomposing body fertilized the beautiful flowers growing nearby while the glass eye buried under the cup was watching him win.

Smiling at the photographers, he saw, but could not comprehend, the look that passed between his wife and Johanna. A look and feeling that Truman and his wife would never share. A look that expressed unconditional love and sympathy. His wife softly kissed Johanna's cheek and took her hand. Their eyes met with a shared expression of regret. A whisper passed between them that no onlookers could hear...

"I am so sorry."

"Me too. We should have run off together when we had the chance."

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by David Cranmer