Sure he was a Zombie, but paragliding was

Sure he was a Zombie, but paragliding was so much fun. He launched himself off a cliff in Big Sur (left his foot on the ground) and soared through the air.

Zeke dipped and ducked along the coast, then caught an updraft and landed at Pebble Beach. Zeke unhitched and climbed on his mower. Zombie apocalypse aside, the PGA Tour was start

Ing on schedule. The President always played golf and had once beaten the greatest golfer ever. He boasted of having a trophy. He was never available when he was needed. Playing

golf was something he was good at.He was a winner, a stroker, a swinger, and a sinner... Strike that.He was no sinner- just a locker room banterer. The President's golf diplomacy

had been browning in a metaphorical toaster-oven. It no longer carried any weight, as it seemed to be in a perpetual backswing. But with a rap, it would've stayed white as golf his

torians always claimed it would be. His intentions drew a dog leg that sliced right through a water obstacle. In the rough now, his rangefinder only hinted at the greens beyond the

leech fountains. This wasn't obstacle golf; this was what had replaced vehicles as transportation. At least the rough could hide him from the cougars as he chose his next club.

He yanked the lob wedge out of his golf bag and set to work pounding down the seven foot tall brush around the fourth hole as quietly as possible, so that the cougars would not

hear his grunts of exertion. He put his back into it, but not his grip strength, and the lob wedge went flying through the air. He heard a crunch and pathetic mewling. The cougar!

He parted some high-grown weeds in the direction of the mewling and saw the cougar, rubbing a growing lump on its forehead. ”Great!” it said. “Another ass hat who can’t play golf!"