IC: Twisted Tales of the Shadows Options

[Digital Heroin]

It was the oddest of places for a meet, but when was a meet completely square at all, eh Chummers? Even so, of all the places to be called to by a Johnson, an all night driving range? Hell, the location's no more odd than the contact. It's not every day you're asked to an all night driving range through an anonymous drop in your e-mail. No, not that public messagebox you leave open on the 'trix for spammers just so you can hold a legitimate claim to having service; this was in your private box, the one only you and your fixers know. Your working box. So either someone's been in contact with one of your contacts, or they've been doing a little illicit legwork. Intriguing either way.

The 19th Hole, bar with a cliche golf name, but boasting an actual multi-story driving range. That's right folks, one of those deals where they pack flat upon flat of people in funny pants and hats in to take a whack at a small white ball with a metal club. Hell, it's a lost art in this day and age. Cybernetics, magic, that whole UGE thing; not exactly nice to a pure sport. I mean, pretty much every course on the planet became outmoded when guys came along that could make a Par 5 in and easy two. Nonetheless, there were some purists out there, some hobbyists, and some good old boys who clung to the sport. Thus the existance of The 19th Hole.

The bar itself is typical. Underneath it's vaneir of course side pro shop culture, the place was just like any other sprawl dive, right down to the reglars leaning drunkenly on the bar. The tender notices you of course, new people don't come by here much on their own.

`Second level, you can't miss him.` You get the feeling he's told someone this before, and will be telling someone else soon.

The driving ranges are in the back, just past the nastiest toilets in Tacoma, through a beaded curtain. There's only one flood light on in the big exapnse. The size of a warehouse it is, just a large lot with a tall fence on one end. Hell, seems to be a waste of space in a sprawl like this. What people won't do for their sport. Just when you think the place is empty, there's a sound like a shotgun blast, and a ball rockets from off of the second deck, easily clearing the 100, the 200, the 300 yard line. The ball actually rips right to the fence, and the 400 yard mark, and slams right into one of the holes. Someone's got a wicked swing. The stairs are precarious, but when you get to the top, there at the end of the second deck is a rather large trog, driver in hand, bent over the tee applying a ball gingerly. The troll's got the most heinous plaid pants on, and an honest to Ghost sweater vest. When you approach, he stands and looks up, nodding, and gesturing to a bench; you're early, or so it seems.