Reclaimed Lands

Team One keeps the golf course in order. Really good order. You don’t mess with Team One. Take a cart off the trails, refuse to let people play through, and they’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. They’re the first foursome off the tees in the morning, and the last one back in the evening. On the front nine they discuss policy, and on the back nine industry tittle tattle.

“Big changes on the Board,” said Mr. Eagle, on number 12 — a par 3 over a water trap.

“Oh?” said Falcon, leaning on his bag. Team One doesn’t believe in caddies — it’s not like they get tired. They take a different one out every day, though, and tip exceedingly well; it doesn’t pay to have your staff resent you. “I haven’t been following it much lately. What’s the news?”

“Fresh blood, isn’t it?” Blind Justice has the worst handicap of the four — almost twenty strokes! — but he’s held the top spot on the Board for years. “Seems I heard something about that.”

“The Biker’s taken a protege.” Mr. Eagle, true to his name, aces the hole. “Word’s going round that there might be a new team forming.”

Falcon snorted. “The Biker, phoo. No class. No style. Where’s the glitz?” Falcon’s a snob.

“Show some respect, Falcon.” The Ombudsman doesn’t play, but he likes the walk. “Team One’s a job, not a legacy. You could be replaced.”

“You can’t replace me,” screeched Falcon. “My legions of black magic zombies…!”

“Can and will,” said Mr. Eagle. “What have you done for the city lately?”