Remedy Oak Golf Club

Spirit Putting

By Luke Hall

In light of recent events that have linked the once White house hopeful Hillary Clinton with satanic cults and ‘spirit’ cooking, I decided to stay in keeping with secret society revelations and take a brief visit to ‘Remedy Oak’ Golf club. Locals tell me that this club is a hotbed for people with ties to the skull and bones society, and whose members include football managers and board members to corporate giants. For me unfortunately, the clubhouse was off limits as I’m not a member. In fact I was more forbidden to enter the Masonic stronghold than the rabbits, deer and any leftover strains of rabies. Even the green located on the 18th hole was out of bounds, due to my lack of knowledge on the correct freemason handshake to use on Sunday mornings.

This meant I had to take a page out of Andy McNab’s book and sneak in via the surrounding dense woodland when no one was looking. As I poked my head out from amidst the bushes, I was able to take in the vast landscape before me. I placed my feet on the green and saw a flag poking out of the putting hole. It was as if it were a symbol of my triumphant criminal misdeed. I was an investigative journalist turned up to eleven, Lukey Theroux on speed. I was primed, lighter in hand, ready to snap a picture.

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The course was meticulously groomed. Even the hungriest of deer could not bring themselves to nibble and upset the evenly balanced lawns, or take a steamy turd on the pine bridges crossing the pools of gin clear water. In the distance, you could see the Bentley Continentals and Black BMWs parked by the clubhouse. Their owners were presumably inside, performing a séance as they flagellate themselves with a cucumber that had been pickling inside the corpse a hairless goat. They chant in an attempt to invoke the spirit of Stalin and wish their great leader a nice trip to the Bohemian Grove for his annual reincarnation. Or perhaps they were just having tea and breakfast over the latest reports of the FTSE 100.

In the distance I see a staff member of the golf club in a buggy driving towards me in their green keeper uniforms. I darted like a hedgehog back into the forest and make haste my escape from Freemason HQ. I dared to look back to make sure it wasn’t Hillary in hot pursuit, planning to catch and turn me into the next hapless victim in her cultist rituals, only to be found having accidently shot myself three times in the back of the head.

Editor: Joel Emmons

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