The Last to Comment Wins
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Anonjohn20
Pen holding member
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Tempokai
The Overworked One
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I'm winning currently by doing nothing in particular
On loop nineteen, Dave realizes the speakers above Hole 3 only know five songs, and none of them deserve to exist. On loop twenty, the smell of artificially buttered popcorn has already colonized his soul. By loop thirty, he’s talking out loud to the windmill. By loop forty-one, the windmill talks back. Not with words—don’t be dramatic—but with timing. Cruel, comedic, intentional timing. A blade slides down just as the ball kisses the lip, and the universe gives him a wink that says: try again, sport.
Dave is stuck in a mini golf course. Not the genteel, leafy kind where retirees nod knowingly over par. This is the neon kind, the corporate mausoleum for joy, where everything is slightly sticky and “Fun For The Whole Family” reads like a threat. The loop resets whenever he fails to perform a specific miracle: six straight hole-in-ones. The rules are never stated, because of course they aren’t. The universe doesn’t post FAQs. It posts clown heads.
He’s been here for 100,000 loops. If you stacked them consecutively, that’s fifty days. Which sounds manageable until you consider the arithmetic: an average of forty-three-point-two seconds per run, factoring in rage, hubris, and the time it takes to snap a cheap graphite putter over a foam boulder. You’d be amazed at how efficiently a man can speedrun his own purgatory once he stops pretending there’s dignity in golf.
Loop 1: The world is new and stupid. The attendant in the green visor hands him a tiny pencil and a scorecard bearing the logo of a cartoon pirate who has seen things. Dave says thanks. He taps the ball on Hole 1—straight line, polite incline, a hole so generous it blushes—misses by a centimeter, and the sun blinks. He’s back at the start. The attendant says, “Hey there!” like a threat disguised as customer service.
Loop 4: He tests the edges. He walks to the exit. He steps past a velvet rope that divides freedom from foreclosure. The entire golf course coughs, un-happens, and resets, popping him back to the tee like a vinyl record with a scratch.
Loop 12: He tells the attendant, “I am in a time loop.” The attendant says, “We have refillable ICEEs for \$1.99,” which is not technically a contradiction.
Loop 29: He tests injury. He whacks his own shin with the putter. The loop does not reset. Pain is included in the package at no additional cost.
By loop 100, he’s mapped the place. The course is twelve holes, but the loop cares about the first six, as if the second half were written by interns. Hole 1: green AstroTurf, a fake flower bed smelling like disinfectant. Hole 2: the bridge that pretends it’s a bridge, flanked by pirate barrels that have opinions about your posture. Hole 3: the hollow whale with a mouth that burps up your ball and your self-respect. Hole 4: the rotating windmill where joy goes to limp. Hole 5: the steep bank that punishes optimism. Hole 6: the clown head, grinning like a lawsuit. Each hole has a rhythm, a machine-hunger, a specific appetite for sabotage.
By loop 500, Dave has learned wind, if you can call it that in a ceilinged, HVAC-governed bubble. The vents exhale on a timer; the little pennant at Hole 2 flutters right every nineteen seconds and left every nineteen seconds because the person who designed the air system was a demon with a rulebook. Dave calibrates. He adjusts his shot by the thickness of a library book. He starts counting. Nineteen seconds. Forty-three seconds. Notches that stack like teeth.
He names things. The teenage attendant becomes Kyle. The gull that perches on the rafters becomes Kevin. The clown is “Attorney.” The whale is “Management.” The windmill is “The Board.” He works here now, apparently, with coworkers he wants to fire into the sun.
He tries variety. On loop 2,003 he wears the visor low; on loop 2,004 he wears it high. On loop 2,005 he takes off his shoes because shoes are the visible symbol of civilization. On 2,006 he plays the first two holes backward because chaos might be the key. The universe appreciates the effort and responds by keeping all outcomes identical.
The few loops that are long happen by accident. He hits an astonishing shot, watches the ball curve like a suspicious compliment, drop into the cup, and he stares at it for a full breath. The speakers play “YMCA.” He moves to Hole 2, seeing the ghost of his own past failures like smudges in the air. The ball does as it’s told. Hole 3 goes silent for him like a dog he’s trained with bacon. Hole 4 lifts its blade at just the right moment, a gloved hand performing a stage flourish—after you, monsieur—and by Hole 5 he is an empty container for precision. Hole 6 opens, the clown’s red mouth gaping like a miracle tunnel, and he hits. The ball twitches. It stops. The distance between ball and cup is the width of a grudge. He laughs like a cracked teacup, puts his foot forward—and resets.
He experiences the familiar stages: denial, bargaining, statistics. He does math on the scorecard, discovering that it’s as good a paper as any. P(total success) equals the product of the six independent holes’ success probabilities, which is boring, which is math’s way of comfort: boring truths that don’t care about your feelings. He figures if he can get each hole to seventy percent, he’s down to a coin flip for the sequence. The problem is that Hole 4 loves him at fifty. Hole 6 loves him like a cat: on its terms, never when called.
Loop 8,222: he addresses the clown. “We are in this together,” he says. The clown spins its eyes. He drops a gummy bear into the mouth. “A tithe.” He gets to Hole 6. The clown, now fed, closes its jaw just slightly earlier than usual. The bear returns in a different loop, stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Theology is useless here.
Loop 10,499: the toddler from the birthday party arrives wearing a paper crown announcing FOUR. The toddler howls with the ancient rage of a tiny god. The brat’s father, a man whose T-shirt suggests grilling is a personality, attempts to encourage him. “Use your muscles, buddy.” The boy flings his putter. It hits Dave’s ankle. Dave considers escalating to mythic violence, then resets his loop by tapping the ball gently into the corner wall. Quick death. He’s a pro at failure now.
Loop 14,001: he tries to leave after Hole 1, hypothesizing that maybe any success permits exit. No. The reset punishes ambition and cowardice equitably, which does feel fair in a bleak, bureaucratic way.
Loop 18,720: he stops keeping count. Then he starts again because sanity requires integers. He starts carving hash marks into the wood rail with the tiny pencil as if graphite can inscribe time. The marks are gone when the loop resets, but he remembers making them. Memory is inconvenient like that.
Loop 26,781: he gets the first four in a row and starts shaking. Not nervous. Vibrational. He has tuned his body to the frequencies of the deodorant-scented air. He hits Hole 5 with a slide-rule mind. The ball somersaults like a disciplined gymnast and slots into light. He walks to the clown, a priest approaching an altar he does not respect. The clown’s eyes spin. The mouth opens. He strikes. The ball is true. It touches the lip with the soft click of fate agreeing. The clown sneezes confetti. Reset.
He stares at the blank of the beginning. He does not cry, because all the water in his body has already been donated to the air. He says to Kyle, “Your playlist is a war crime.” Kyle says, “We also have pretzels.” Kyle has the invulnerable optimism of someone who can clock out.
Loop 30,000 to 60,000 is the monk period. He tries breathing. He learns the course’s microtopography, how the seam at the baseboard tugs at a ball like a rumor, how the sculpted foam boulder hides a slope that apologizes to your shot by turning it into a confession. He stands at Hole 4 and senses the mill blade before it moves. He times his swing with the indifference of a metronome. He plays with his eyes closed more than once, because why not domesticate the absurdity? He cultivates stillness that would alarm the living. For several loops he tries to imagine what forgiveness would feel like, then remembers he’s not a saint, he’s a man with a stick.
Around loop 73,991 he breaks it all. He flails. He uses both hands, then one finger, then the butt end of the putter like a spear. He sings at the holes. He curses in multiple languages, two of which he invents for the occasion. He throws the ball and watches the universe slap his hand with a hard reset before the ball lands. There’s something refreshing about getting disciplined by metaphysics.
He watches the other prisoners. The elderly couple who always request a scorecard but never write anything on it. The teenage couple who insist on kissing at every hole as if romance were tax deductible. The dad with the grill-shirt who returns with a new toddler because cruelty in this world repeats as reliably as songs in Kyle’s playlist. None of them change. Of course they don’t. This is his loop. They are fixed word problems in a test he didn’t study for and can’t skip.
Loop 90,000: he talks to Kevin the gull. “You’re free,” he says. Kevin blinks with the ancient wisdom of a creature that knows fries are forever. Dave nods back. He isn’t going anywhere.
He stops worshiping at the altar of probabilities and starts noticing smaller betrayals. The faint crease that runs across Hole 2 from the time some genius folded the turf, then smoothed it. The way the fake waterfall produces a mist that beads on his forearms and shifts the swing, a secret handshake taught by humidity. He starts loving the course—not in a healthy way, but in the way you love the shape of your own scars.
Loop 99,995: he finesses Hole 1 with a thought. The ball does what a ball does when confronted with inevitable geometry. Loop 99,996: he does it again. He doesn’t flinch. He has given up the luxury of hope. Hope is too glossy for a place this fluorescent.
Loop 99,999: he arrives at the clown and decides to stand still. Not for a strategy. As an experiment in dignity. The loop does not reset. He holds the putter the way a photo of an ancestor holds a pipe. He thinks: I could live here. It’s not a happy thought. It’s simply a true one. He taps. The ball rims the cup. The clown breathes. Reset.
Loop 100,000: the beginning again, because the beginning is the franchise model. Kyle hands him the pencil and the scorecard. Dave does not say thank you because politeness is a ritual and rituals are for people who get to leave. He walks to Hole 1. The air conditioning exhales exactly when the pennant says it will. Kevin rotates on the rafters, a feathered weather vane. The speakers cough out the first notes of a song that thinks it is a national anthem for fools. He sets the ball. He looks at the course that has been his country for fifty days of pure, consecutive time, stretched over a hundred thousand small apocalypses.
He doesn’t try harder. He doesn’t dare less. He doesn’t bargain. He does what he has taught his muscles to do. The ball rolls. It drops. Hole 2 repeats the ritual. Hole 3 gives up its secret with a burp. Hole 4 flicks its blade at the ordained interval because he has given his life to the metronome. Hole 5 becomes inevitable. He arrives at the clown.
He watches the mouth open and close like a patient instrument. He times it not to the blade, not to the breath, but to the sigh he has learned to keep in his bones. He hits the shot he has hit ten thousand times, most of those in failure. The ball whispers along a line he didn’t draw. It enters the mouth, disappears behind cheap painted teeth, and drops with a sound so close to finality it might be mistaken for it.
Maybe the loop ends. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the universe demands the next six holes and the six after that and a flawless life to boot. The reset sound is so immediate you can imagine it even if it doesn’t arrive, like thunder that never shows. Here’s what happens that matters: Dave laughs, not triumphantly, not like a man on a mountain. He laughs like someone who found the exit and knows it’s just another hallway. He turns the putter in his hands, the way a mechanic turns a wrench after tightening the last bolt on a machine that will run until it eats itself.
Fun for the whole family, says the sign. Kyle says, “Great job,” because that’s what customer service is for. Kevin opens his beak and doesn’t say anything. The clown grins, as clowns do when they have no other features capable of nuance.
If you count it all up, the fifty days don’t look like much. Less than a season of television. More than a decent apology. A hundred thousand loops, each the size of a breath, all of them stacked end to end like cheap fence pickets around a lawn no one wants. The miracle, if you insist on using that word, is not that Dave escaped or learned something fragrant and inspirational. It’s that he went from begging the holes to obey his will to learning their limits and his own, and struck the ball anyway. The universe nodded, or didn’t. The loop cracked, or didn’t.
He tees up again. Because that’s the joke. Because this course, like most prisons, is just a mirror with windmill blades. Because when the world refuses to end, you give it something small and precise it can’t argue with. A line. A tap. A ball rolling across green plastic toward a hole that isn’t a hole so much as a definition. He hits the shot and watches it go, the way he always has, and always will, until the day the music changes or the lights flicker or he walks out because somehow, in some unseen ledger, he finally counts as paid.
Dave is stuck in a mini golf course. Not the genteel, leafy kind where retirees nod knowingly over par. This is the neon kind, the corporate mausoleum for joy, where everything is slightly sticky and “Fun For The Whole Family” reads like a threat. The loop resets whenever he fails to perform a specific miracle: six straight hole-in-ones. The rules are never stated, because of course they aren’t. The universe doesn’t post FAQs. It posts clown heads.
He’s been here for 100,000 loops. If you stacked them consecutively, that’s fifty days. Which sounds manageable until you consider the arithmetic: an average of forty-three-point-two seconds per run, factoring in rage, hubris, and the time it takes to snap a cheap graphite putter over a foam boulder. You’d be amazed at how efficiently a man can speedrun his own purgatory once he stops pretending there’s dignity in golf.
Loop 1: The world is new and stupid. The attendant in the green visor hands him a tiny pencil and a scorecard bearing the logo of a cartoon pirate who has seen things. Dave says thanks. He taps the ball on Hole 1—straight line, polite incline, a hole so generous it blushes—misses by a centimeter, and the sun blinks. He’s back at the start. The attendant says, “Hey there!” like a threat disguised as customer service.
Loop 4: He tests the edges. He walks to the exit. He steps past a velvet rope that divides freedom from foreclosure. The entire golf course coughs, un-happens, and resets, popping him back to the tee like a vinyl record with a scratch.
Loop 12: He tells the attendant, “I am in a time loop.” The attendant says, “We have refillable ICEEs for \$1.99,” which is not technically a contradiction.
Loop 29: He tests injury. He whacks his own shin with the putter. The loop does not reset. Pain is included in the package at no additional cost.
By loop 100, he’s mapped the place. The course is twelve holes, but the loop cares about the first six, as if the second half were written by interns. Hole 1: green AstroTurf, a fake flower bed smelling like disinfectant. Hole 2: the bridge that pretends it’s a bridge, flanked by pirate barrels that have opinions about your posture. Hole 3: the hollow whale with a mouth that burps up your ball and your self-respect. Hole 4: the rotating windmill where joy goes to limp. Hole 5: the steep bank that punishes optimism. Hole 6: the clown head, grinning like a lawsuit. Each hole has a rhythm, a machine-hunger, a specific appetite for sabotage.
By loop 500, Dave has learned wind, if you can call it that in a ceilinged, HVAC-governed bubble. The vents exhale on a timer; the little pennant at Hole 2 flutters right every nineteen seconds and left every nineteen seconds because the person who designed the air system was a demon with a rulebook. Dave calibrates. He adjusts his shot by the thickness of a library book. He starts counting. Nineteen seconds. Forty-three seconds. Notches that stack like teeth.
He names things. The teenage attendant becomes Kyle. The gull that perches on the rafters becomes Kevin. The clown is “Attorney.” The whale is “Management.” The windmill is “The Board.” He works here now, apparently, with coworkers he wants to fire into the sun.
He tries variety. On loop 2,003 he wears the visor low; on loop 2,004 he wears it high. On loop 2,005 he takes off his shoes because shoes are the visible symbol of civilization. On 2,006 he plays the first two holes backward because chaos might be the key. The universe appreciates the effort and responds by keeping all outcomes identical.
The few loops that are long happen by accident. He hits an astonishing shot, watches the ball curve like a suspicious compliment, drop into the cup, and he stares at it for a full breath. The speakers play “YMCA.” He moves to Hole 2, seeing the ghost of his own past failures like smudges in the air. The ball does as it’s told. Hole 3 goes silent for him like a dog he’s trained with bacon. Hole 4 lifts its blade at just the right moment, a gloved hand performing a stage flourish—after you, monsieur—and by Hole 5 he is an empty container for precision. Hole 6 opens, the clown’s red mouth gaping like a miracle tunnel, and he hits. The ball twitches. It stops. The distance between ball and cup is the width of a grudge. He laughs like a cracked teacup, puts his foot forward—and resets.
He experiences the familiar stages: denial, bargaining, statistics. He does math on the scorecard, discovering that it’s as good a paper as any. P(total success) equals the product of the six independent holes’ success probabilities, which is boring, which is math’s way of comfort: boring truths that don’t care about your feelings. He figures if he can get each hole to seventy percent, he’s down to a coin flip for the sequence. The problem is that Hole 4 loves him at fifty. Hole 6 loves him like a cat: on its terms, never when called.
Loop 8,222: he addresses the clown. “We are in this together,” he says. The clown spins its eyes. He drops a gummy bear into the mouth. “A tithe.” He gets to Hole 6. The clown, now fed, closes its jaw just slightly earlier than usual. The bear returns in a different loop, stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Theology is useless here.
Loop 10,499: the toddler from the birthday party arrives wearing a paper crown announcing FOUR. The toddler howls with the ancient rage of a tiny god. The brat’s father, a man whose T-shirt suggests grilling is a personality, attempts to encourage him. “Use your muscles, buddy.” The boy flings his putter. It hits Dave’s ankle. Dave considers escalating to mythic violence, then resets his loop by tapping the ball gently into the corner wall. Quick death. He’s a pro at failure now.
Loop 14,001: he tries to leave after Hole 1, hypothesizing that maybe any success permits exit. No. The reset punishes ambition and cowardice equitably, which does feel fair in a bleak, bureaucratic way.
Loop 18,720: he stops keeping count. Then he starts again because sanity requires integers. He starts carving hash marks into the wood rail with the tiny pencil as if graphite can inscribe time. The marks are gone when the loop resets, but he remembers making them. Memory is inconvenient like that.
Loop 26,781: he gets the first four in a row and starts shaking. Not nervous. Vibrational. He has tuned his body to the frequencies of the deodorant-scented air. He hits Hole 5 with a slide-rule mind. The ball somersaults like a disciplined gymnast and slots into light. He walks to the clown, a priest approaching an altar he does not respect. The clown’s eyes spin. The mouth opens. He strikes. The ball is true. It touches the lip with the soft click of fate agreeing. The clown sneezes confetti. Reset.
He stares at the blank of the beginning. He does not cry, because all the water in his body has already been donated to the air. He says to Kyle, “Your playlist is a war crime.” Kyle says, “We also have pretzels.” Kyle has the invulnerable optimism of someone who can clock out.
Loop 30,000 to 60,000 is the monk period. He tries breathing. He learns the course’s microtopography, how the seam at the baseboard tugs at a ball like a rumor, how the sculpted foam boulder hides a slope that apologizes to your shot by turning it into a confession. He stands at Hole 4 and senses the mill blade before it moves. He times his swing with the indifference of a metronome. He plays with his eyes closed more than once, because why not domesticate the absurdity? He cultivates stillness that would alarm the living. For several loops he tries to imagine what forgiveness would feel like, then remembers he’s not a saint, he’s a man with a stick.
Around loop 73,991 he breaks it all. He flails. He uses both hands, then one finger, then the butt end of the putter like a spear. He sings at the holes. He curses in multiple languages, two of which he invents for the occasion. He throws the ball and watches the universe slap his hand with a hard reset before the ball lands. There’s something refreshing about getting disciplined by metaphysics.
He watches the other prisoners. The elderly couple who always request a scorecard but never write anything on it. The teenage couple who insist on kissing at every hole as if romance were tax deductible. The dad with the grill-shirt who returns with a new toddler because cruelty in this world repeats as reliably as songs in Kyle’s playlist. None of them change. Of course they don’t. This is his loop. They are fixed word problems in a test he didn’t study for and can’t skip.
Loop 90,000: he talks to Kevin the gull. “You’re free,” he says. Kevin blinks with the ancient wisdom of a creature that knows fries are forever. Dave nods back. He isn’t going anywhere.
He stops worshiping at the altar of probabilities and starts noticing smaller betrayals. The faint crease that runs across Hole 2 from the time some genius folded the turf, then smoothed it. The way the fake waterfall produces a mist that beads on his forearms and shifts the swing, a secret handshake taught by humidity. He starts loving the course—not in a healthy way, but in the way you love the shape of your own scars.
Loop 99,995: he finesses Hole 1 with a thought. The ball does what a ball does when confronted with inevitable geometry. Loop 99,996: he does it again. He doesn’t flinch. He has given up the luxury of hope. Hope is too glossy for a place this fluorescent.
Loop 99,999: he arrives at the clown and decides to stand still. Not for a strategy. As an experiment in dignity. The loop does not reset. He holds the putter the way a photo of an ancestor holds a pipe. He thinks: I could live here. It’s not a happy thought. It’s simply a true one. He taps. The ball rims the cup. The clown breathes. Reset.
Loop 100,000: the beginning again, because the beginning is the franchise model. Kyle hands him the pencil and the scorecard. Dave does not say thank you because politeness is a ritual and rituals are for people who get to leave. He walks to Hole 1. The air conditioning exhales exactly when the pennant says it will. Kevin rotates on the rafters, a feathered weather vane. The speakers cough out the first notes of a song that thinks it is a national anthem for fools. He sets the ball. He looks at the course that has been his country for fifty days of pure, consecutive time, stretched over a hundred thousand small apocalypses.
He doesn’t try harder. He doesn’t dare less. He doesn’t bargain. He does what he has taught his muscles to do. The ball rolls. It drops. Hole 2 repeats the ritual. Hole 3 gives up its secret with a burp. Hole 4 flicks its blade at the ordained interval because he has given his life to the metronome. Hole 5 becomes inevitable. He arrives at the clown.
He watches the mouth open and close like a patient instrument. He times it not to the blade, not to the breath, but to the sigh he has learned to keep in his bones. He hits the shot he has hit ten thousand times, most of those in failure. The ball whispers along a line he didn’t draw. It enters the mouth, disappears behind cheap painted teeth, and drops with a sound so close to finality it might be mistaken for it.
Maybe the loop ends. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe the universe demands the next six holes and the six after that and a flawless life to boot. The reset sound is so immediate you can imagine it even if it doesn’t arrive, like thunder that never shows. Here’s what happens that matters: Dave laughs, not triumphantly, not like a man on a mountain. He laughs like someone who found the exit and knows it’s just another hallway. He turns the putter in his hands, the way a mechanic turns a wrench after tightening the last bolt on a machine that will run until it eats itself.
Fun for the whole family, says the sign. Kyle says, “Great job,” because that’s what customer service is for. Kevin opens his beak and doesn’t say anything. The clown grins, as clowns do when they have no other features capable of nuance.
If you count it all up, the fifty days don’t look like much. Less than a season of television. More than a decent apology. A hundred thousand loops, each the size of a breath, all of them stacked end to end like cheap fence pickets around a lawn no one wants. The miracle, if you insist on using that word, is not that Dave escaped or learned something fragrant and inspirational. It’s that he went from begging the holes to obey his will to learning their limits and his own, and struck the ball anyway. The universe nodded, or didn’t. The loop cracked, or didn’t.
He tees up again. Because that’s the joke. Because this course, like most prisons, is just a mirror with windmill blades. Because when the world refuses to end, you give it something small and precise it can’t argue with. A line. A tap. A ball rolling across green plastic toward a hole that isn’t a hole so much as a definition. He hits the shot and watches it go, the way he always has, and always will, until the day the music changes or the lights flicker or he walks out because somehow, in some unseen ledger, he finally counts as paid.
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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This is a depiction of Mud Masher at the start of her training arc. From the prequel: My Boxer Girlfriend Is Mashing Mud So She Can Grow A Beard And Become The World's Greatest Fat Boxer.Wah!
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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You're bringing up my repressed memories from yonder in this thread(ノへ￣、), I am now forced to bring you to the gulag! ┗|｀O′|┛
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Hell no, I won't go back there! You can't take me, see! Moooooooooooooo! I won't go quietly, see! Mooooooooooooo!You're bringing up my repressed memories from yonder in this thread(ノへ￣、), I am now forced to bring you to the gulag! ┗|｀O′|┛
*machine gun* rattattattatatatatatattatatattatat!
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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Hoshino
Hoshino not found
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Was it really that bad?You're bringing up my repressed memories from yonder in this thread(ノへ￣、), I am now forced to bring you to the gulag! ┗|｀O′|┛
JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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Yeah, was it really that bad!?Wha? *dodges*
Your coming with me you trouble maker! <( ‵□′)>───Ｃε(┬﹏┬)3
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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JayMark
It's Not Easy Being Nobody, But Somebody Has To.
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It wasn't thaaaaaaaaaat bad.The art hurts my eyes
Hoshino
Hoshino not found
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Now that I look at it again...The art hurts my eyes
Shiriru_B
Book binge in progress.
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