I thought it might be fun to have a progressive story, something
with an unlimited number of contributing authors, you might say.
Feel free to add on as much or as little as you like, and we'll 
see see where it goes!


     Sherlock Smith stepped grudgingly onto the first tee, fully
aware that the next five hours of his life would be pure torture.
The day was unusually humid.  His jockey shorts were already
beginning to cling to the inside of his thighs.  The rubber handle
of the one iron was sticky and disgusting in his sweaty hands.
Looking across the massive fairway, which was a near desert of sand
traps, he thought to himself with wry humor that simply keeping his
body hydrated would be challenge enough.  But no, he would be required
to hit a little white ball into a hole less than four inches in 
diameter.  And once wouldn't be good enough.  No, he'd have to prove
himself eighteen dreadful times.
     "Go ahead and tee up, son."

(Take it away...)

17 responses total.

  Sherlock then bent down and pierced the black earth with the pristi white
tee, thinking to himself that he would be able to rise to the occaision. 
Assuming a stance he drew the driver back and...

he missed.  completely.

"keep your head up, son," said his father.

"i thought you said always keep your head down," protested sherlock.

"look at me when i'm talking to you, son," said his father, and then re-
peated, "keep your head up." sherlock saw that his father was extending
to him a small, metal flask. "now things are getting _interesting_," he
thought.

"made my first nine holes the best i every played, and i can't remember the
score, either," said his father.

sherlock swigged, and as he did so, his eyes wandered back towards the 
electric golf cart, where...

 he saw the right tool for the job. His new 1 wood. How could hhave beem
so stupid? 
 Stolling over to the cart he reached in his brown and red bag and withdrew
the massive driver. He recapped the flask and stuffed it into his back pocket.
He took his stance once more, gripped the club and drew back.

 THWACK!!! the sound was sharp as the the mighty struck the sweet
spot of the ball a

   ...good hard whack, shattering the small white globe into a million
pieces.  As the dust-like particles rained down all around him, Sherlock
noticed with great interest that there was still something sitting on
the tee.
   "Son, that was my lucky Titlest!," cried Sherlock's father.
   "Hold on a sec, pa," Sherlock said as he reached down to pick up the 
small orange object the shattered ball had left behind.  He held it up 
for close inspection.  It had the shape and appearance of a gumball, but
was increadibly heavy.  Heavier than the entire golf ball, Sherlock noted
with confusion.
   Sherlock looked at his father.  His father stared back, puzzled.
   "Dad...I don't think that was any ordinary golf ball."
   "No," his father replied, "...no, I don't suppose it was, now."
   Sherlock noticed suddenly that a strange aroma was filling the air.
It was familiar as his own face, yet he couldn't place it.  It was coming
from the little orange globe between his fingers.  The smell was as 
enticing as it was familiar.
   Not knowing what else to do, Sherlock popped the thing into his mouth.
   Within seconds...

he began to taste the most delicious tastes. "why, pa, it's roast beef,
with homemade gravy...and even thuh lumps!...wait, here comes the...whaddya
call that when you mix lima beans and corn?" before his father could answer,
sherlock broke in again: "the bread is so light, and so freshly-baked, pa,
and garlicky! mmm...the butter's melted jus' so! and the lemonade is chilly
and tart 'nuff to clear a cloudy sky. and here comes dessert, pa! pie topped
with homemade orange shee-bert."
 
sherlock's father began to back away...

Suddenly the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (tm) came flying over the hill.
In only a few seconds they devestated the entire course, the cubhouse 
could be seen burning from the hole in its large side.  And as quick
as they had come, they were gone, with only a "Cowabunga" drifting over
the shattered scene.  Realization of what had occured took a moment
(as lenscap procedes to strangle me for completely destroying a good idea).

Sherlock, sucking on the remains of the strange orange globe, the tastes
of the meal still dwelling in his mouth, surveyed the destruction.  His
father was inspecting a pair of daggers left by the mauraders.  Shaking,
he looked up at his son, searching desperately for meaning.
     "But why, son, why?  This was my favorite course...and now they've
turned it into...into...," he couldn't finish.
     "Into a vast wasteland," Sherlock said.
     And indeed it was.  All signs of life or vegitation were crumbling.  
Human screams of pain and agony could be heard in the distance.  Suddenly
Sherlock knew what he had to do.  Grabbing one of the daggers from his
father,...

he pulled the little orange globule from his mouth and split it open with
a clean, arching cut. inside was a powerful microtransmitter. taking the
dagger again, and cutting carefully, sherlock...

missed anyway, cutting off one of his fingers.
"Damn," said Sherlock.  "These things always happen to me."

The Microtransmitter began to glow.  A low humming noise could be heard and
Sherlocks' father began to back away.  Sherlock, like the proverbial cat,
could not pull himself away from the strange object.  Thoughts whirled
through his mind like an endless roller-coaster ride.  Was it alien
technology?  Could it be an ancient talisman left by the Gods?  Could it
be the Devils' gate waiting to release untold horrors onto earth?
Could it be Jason's crystal radio set from Radio Shack?

Without warning, the object produced a huge blue flash.  Sherlock was gone!
All that was left was a white golf tee, one pinky finger, and a scorecard
from Franklin Mills Country Club.  When Sherlock woke up, he was...

at the franklin mills country club. he began to suspect a grave and subtle
plot...this was no mere country club.

in fact, to his utter astonishment, the entire course had been rebuilt.
The bushes held tiny twinkling lights.

"What a waste of electricity", commented Sherlock.

"No shit, Sherlock", responds a voice from behind him.

Sherlock turned too quickly, falling forward right through a hologram
of a slightly balding man dressing a bad suit.  His delayed memory 
recognized the man as Al from the television show, "Quantum Leap".

Al appeared startled.

"Shit," was Al's greeting.  "Gushi, why didn't Ziggy mention this guy
was gonna be able to see me?"

Sherlock noticed Sam coming through some bushes wearing a short tennis
skirt.  He appeared very uncomfortable, and he was attempting to pull
at the short skirt.  He was an obvious believer in sympathetic magic.

(a spattering of applause...)

As Sherlock stood quizzically looking at Al, a barage of reporters rushed
over to question Sam.  Sherlock asked Al,
 "What's the deal with Sammy?"
 "Oh nothing much, he...oh should I say she...just became the first woman
  champion at Wimbleton."
 "Well ain't that special!", mocked Sherlock.
 "I wouldn't be too sure if I were you, Sam just beat YOU 6-Love, 6-Love!"
 "W-H-A-T!", Sherlock screamed and as he perused his attire, he realized
that he too was wearing a skirt and he too was missing more than just his
pinky finger.  Grabbing Al (or at least trying to), Sherlock sputtered...
 "Change ME Back, Change Me Back, There's no place like home, There's no
  place like home,..."
Sherlock collapsed.

  "...God, Sam, I don't know how we're gonna explain this to him.  He's
a m...wait, he's waking up.  Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, how was your
nap?"
  Sherlock looked around him.  He was very confused.  He was in a place
that wasn't.  A pure blue field of energy surrounded him, with only Al
and a railing.  Sherlock tenatively stood, his legs regaining a little
bit of their prior strength.
  "Where am I," queried Sherlock?
  "Well, Sherlock, this is something we like to call the Waiting Room,"
responded Al.  He seemed rather unsure of what to say, but he continued.
"This is where we hold people we aren't sure what to do with."
  "Let me guess...You're not sure what to do with me."
  "Uh, well..."  He obviously didn't want to agree with Sherlock on that
point.  "Let me be frank with you.  Right.  I'm not sure how to explain
what this is all about..."
  "Then let me explain," said Sherlock, catching Al off guard, "You are
Al, and this is another lame episode of Quantum Leap, right?"
  "What are you talking about," exclaimed Al, very confused.
  Something beeped in Al's pocket.  Al pulled out a little piece of 
plastic with a bunch of lights and buttons on it.  It looked like a 
circuit board decorated with neon stickers.  He pushed a couple buttons
and looked very concerned.
  "Uh...look, Sam needs me at the moment, and well, I gotta-go-bye."
  He hurriedly pushed a button on the board, and walked through a small
opening in the field.  The opening closed immediately behind him, not 
allowing Sherlock to escape.
  "Great," exclaimed Sherlock, to no one in particular.  He then noticed
a small circuit board like Al's laying on the ground, next to where the
opening had been.  "Hey, this must be Al's control gadget-thingy," was
Sherlock's inanely stupid response.
(hmm...what was that applause for, Mary?)

Sherlock's curiosity overcame him.  He picked up the gadget 
and pressed a pretty purple button.  Instantly he was overcome
with blackness, and felt a great shift in his position, although

he didn't really feel like he was moving.
Then he realized he was standing in an enclosed space.  He could
somehow feel it.  He took a step forward and ran into something hard.
He stopped and listened.  Someone was brushing their teeth nearby.
He felt around himself and discovered a doorknob, opening it slightly, he
peered into to the room beyond
the door.  It was a small hotel room, furnished as if out of the 
sixties.  A young man wandered out of the bathroom, brushing his teeth.
It was unmistakably Dustin Hoffman, excepet about twenty years younger.
Sherlock then suddenly realized that he was in the middle of a film

he had seen many times:"The Gradutate."
"Uh, oh," he mumbled to himself.  

"Uh uh.  No way. Forget that stuff!" he told the young Dustin Hoffman.
"I'm not gonna be stuck with a loser kid, I'm out of here."
Sherlock pressed one of the buttons on the devise and was then jerked 
out of the body, back into the holding pen.  He felt sick, so he wretched.
That made him feel much better.
     "That's really sick, kid," was the female response behind him,
"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink".

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