The golf course reminded Rock of one he had played in several dreams over the past few years, except that someone had added a knee-deep creek, which he soon learned could not be bypassed.
After his round, and after he had wrung out his shirt and golf shorts, Rock walked onto the rock-lined veranda that overlooked the eighteenth green. It was crowded, every bench seat taken along the rim of the balcony, and a standing throng gathered around those lucky enough to have found chairs at the dozen tables.
It was also very loud, but Rock was nevertheless able to distinguish a recognizable voice ascend from the noise, which clearly belonged to John Finger, the loudest person he had ever known. Rock looked through the horde until he found Finger seated at one of the tables. One of Finger's many nieces was with him, a shy, demur teenager Rock had met at Finger's house the summer before, but her presence did not dampen Finger's typical shouts of profanity:"OH SHIT, HAS ANYONE TRIED THESE FUCKING WINGS? THEY'RE HOTTER THAN SHIT, AND WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T MIX THEM WITH THIS FUCKING WHISKEY. I'M FUCKING TELLING YOU, MY GUT FEELS LIKE IT'S ABOUT TO FUCKING EXPLODE."
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