I.

Fore perched on the stool, leering at the ashtray of peanuts. The repurposed ashtray; a good detail to spot there. Yes, Holmes! The game’s afoot! Finally, the origin of the Peanut Killer would be uncovered. He hailed his own good fortune and cooed across to his friend:

-Hi, Chadwick! I see there’s trouble brewing. There she was, nestling against the bar across the way. Chadwick had noticed her, of that there was no doubt, but he broadcast his disdain for the whole affair like wartime propaganda. Patently false.

-Chaaaaadwiiiiick, Fore eulogized. You shall prevail. I must tell you, this is not the place. I say to you, he said, that you do have a wonderful ability to be of your own mind. This does not mean you cannot be wrong! Let her be. She is Unsuitable.

You, wrong… unsuitable. Chadwick considered this. He spoke: Fore, thank you. Yours is the wisdom of Croesus, Solomon, Wilde. I shall have to retire to the convenience and meditate upon this coxcomb.
Chadwick had a remarkable talent for speaking with his eyes, thought Fore.

II.

As when the mighty whirlpool churns the bronzed Ocean, so did he stir his drink, fold on fold. The goblet glistened amongst the treasures of the house as the champions celebrated with righteous temper. Like the snake of the garden, the beast Fore cried to him. But Chadwick son of Charles had no thoughts for his pleas. He knew well of the far-distant woman, promised to another. No lovelorn fool was he.

Fore approached to address him. He spoke words of kindness, but words of defeat. He spoke well, but Chadwick’s taste was for deed, not word, and he listened to Fore’s words as a strong-backed horse listens to the storm from his barn: with curiosity, but resolute and strong. He gave Fore a look of ice, but did not speak.

The woman was not his prize and he did not care. Chadwick strode towards the golden door. He had business to attend to.

III.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t… hey, not bad. Nice shoes, nice bum. Stirs his brink in a broody kind of way too – a guaranteed sign of a guy with something to hide. That or he’s trying to look like one, but that’d be fine too. Just don’t look, that’s when they come. Come on, Captain Broody, slink over here. Just leave it. Hmm, are those stools oak? Nice to see someone make an –

…Chadwick? Really? God, that’s nice. “and this is Chadwick,” I’d say. Unless he made me call him Chad. Ugh.

What are they talking about? Actually, only the fat one is talking, but he emotes enough for two. Arms flying about like… salmon. There’s a weak metaphor. No, simile? They wouldn’t know the difference. Sometimes it feels like there’s just talking and breathing, and then you shut up and die. So what’s little Chadwick’s game? Does his silence mean he’s got a lot saved up to say? Looks like he’s not going to say it yet, he’s getting up. He’s walking away. There’s goes another one.

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